Finally reached the halfway point in my novel, though the story has meandered a bit. Took a week or so off so I could approach it with a fresh set of eyes. Banged out over 4,000 words yesterday and still going strong.
So the writing of my novel has stalled a bit, though that’s not uncommon when writer’s reach the midway point. I’m actually just shy of the middle (I’m at 32,000, up from 26,000 words two weeks ago), and to be honest and quite frank with myself, as a first novel it most likely won’t see the light of day. If that’s the case I’ll simply chalk it up to necessary practice, proving to myself that I have the stamina to compete a full-length manuscript.
To that end I’ve started a second project, something to work on while I plug away at the novel. It’s my first novella, a horror story about a young woman who experiences devastating trauma and as a result begins experiencing unsettling visions and hallucinations. But are they only in her head or are they real, tangible proofs of an insidious force with evil designs on her and her family? The novella should be around 20 to 40,000 words, or about 160 pages, substantial enough for a good read but not as taxing as a full-length novel.
I was initially worried I wouldn’t be able to write more than 500 words a day while completing my first draft of my novel but here I am at approximately 26,000 words & I’ve been averaging about 1500 words per day with a high one day of over 3,000 words. I typically used to edit as I wrote; now I’m just trying to get the story down & will start revisions once the first draft is complete.
So after having written nothing but short stories (horror, fable) and position papers I’ve finally started working on my first novel. It’s not horror; it’s a young adult story. The character came to me and I wrote out a prologue immediately, something that seemed to set the tone of the story that is to come. I’m about 14,000 words in and am now averaging about 1500 words a day. Really excited to see what comes of this.
We lie atop the dusty outcrop jutting from the wall of blasted stone and dirt
Like a malformed phallus, razor-tipped edges crusted with the earnest release
Of those whose flesh has long since gone the way of ash and dust.
The gods have chosen us, stolen us from among the rest
To take part in this cosmic coupling, this Dionysian debauchery
Designed to echo the divine folly.
Arms and legs entangled, the sweat from our naked bodies mixes with the dust of the earth
To form parenthetical patterns, syncopating rhythms that will eventually
Rend both meat and marrow, blood and bone.
We exhale as one and breathe the final breath of a thousand dying souls,
Forsaking forgiveness, denying ourselves a redemption that would never come.
Our coupling reaches frenzied heights and we are torn, skin and bones ripped and rent,
Strewn as fodder into the succulent soil, an incorrupt yet decomposing composite of
Sin and life and death.
The gods sigh from on high, a preternatural, pregnant pause as
Countless blackened hearts rise through the darkened earth to
Feast on the flesh of their progenitors and we…
We…
We are born.
Sid Miller was an obnoxious little prick who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.
Right now he was in the men’s room at Buvette’s, an over-priced French restaurant in downtown Manhattan that his wife, Sheila, had dragged him to for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. His black designer dress pants and silk underwear were down below his ankles, bare ass pushed up tight against the inside of a locked stall door while a cute little French waitress knelt on the floor in front of him.
“Damn, you are good,” he muttered as wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure rippled from his balls on up through his belly.
He leaned his head back against the stall door and closed his eyes.
A loud rap on the other side of the door, a whispered fuck! and he was pushing the waitress out of the way and pulling up his pants.
“This stall is occupied!” he yelled, watching as the waitress wiped her mouth on some toilet paper and rose up off the floor.
“Payez-moi mon argent!” She whispered, smoothing out her skirt. Then, in broken English, “Pay me my money!”
Another loud rap on the door. Then silence.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!”
Sid unlocked the door and the waitress breezed past him. She stopped, turned and stood in front of him, right hand extended, palm up. He pulled a large wad of money from his pants pocket and peeled off two $100 dollar bills, laying them neatly in her hand. Stuffing the money into her black apron she strode through the men’s room and then back out into the restaurant proper, the door slamming shut behind her.
Sid poked his head out and looked around.
The men’s room was empty.
“Hello? he said, his voice rising just a bit. “Anyone there?”
He knew he hadn’t imagined the knocking.
“Hello!” He repeated, louder this time. He left the stall and checked the remaining three stalls in the room but all were empty.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“That, my friend, is a very good question,” came a voice from the stall he had just been occupying.
Sid stopped in his tracks, a look of confusion on his face.
“Who the fuck said that?”
Sid stiffened as the stall door he’d recently had his ass stuck to swung open, revealing a well-dressed middle-aged man in a black suit and tie.
“So who the fuck are you?”
The man smiled, stepped out from the stall and extended a very polished and manicured right hand.
“Not much of a vocabulary, hm?” he said, his hand still extended.
Sid glowered, reached into the inner lining of his sport coat and pulled out his Glock 9mm. He chambered a round, pointed the gun at the stranger’s head and in a quiet voice he repeated his question. “I said, who the fuck are you?”
The stranger’s smile broadened. The hand remained where it was.
“You may call me M.”
Sid snickered and lowered his gun. “Seriously? M? You want me to call you by a fucking letter?”
M nodded his head in agreement but did not offer an explanation. Retrieving his hand he tipped his hat (as gentlemen must) and then left the stall to stand in front of the men’s room door.
“I’ve had my eye on you for some time now, Mr. Miller. I have a proposition for you.”
Sid chuckled. “Sorry buddy, but I actually like women.”
“It’s not that kind of proposition, I assure you.”
“So what kind is it? And how the fuck do you know my name?”
M tilted his head sideways. It was a sign of inquisitiveness one would expect to see on a precocious six year old. On M it just looked creepy.
“There is much that I know about you, Mr. Miller. I know your strengths: perseverance, dogged determination, to name just two. I also know your weaknesses.”
Sid pointed the Glock back at the stranger’s head.
“What do you know about me? Is this some kind a shakedown? And just how the fuck do you know so much about me?”
M leaned forward, around the gun, bringing his face to within inches of Sid’s till their noses almost touched. This close Sid could smell something vile on M’s breath, like a rotted, decomposing corpse. Sid made a face and turned his head.
M smiled.
“I am a Collector, Mr. Miller.”
It wasn’t so much the cold, or even the open windows. I had long given up any hope of ever being warm again. It wasn’t the god-awful smell or even the blood pooling on the floor in the corner, dripping from the partially-consumed body lying in a heap on the other side of the room.
It was the waiting.
Not knowing who was next. Not knowing how much time any of us had left.
We’d started the evening with seven: Sean, Phil, and Steve were already at my house when Cheryl, her friend Stephanie, and Stephanie’s boyfriend Chuck had shown up.
Seven friends, a little bored, a little high, looking for some laughs.
Seven friends.
And now we were down to five.
Look for HOLLOW MEN on Amazon soon!
Tim Ouellette 
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