W.I.P.
Of all the various, random and sundry things I spend/waste my time doing—time that nets me exactly zero revenue, as it turns out—the one I keep returning to, not unlike a dog to its vomit is literature.
Obviously, literature is a sucker's game. Literature might win you a prize, but you know what they say: Prizes, plus a few well-timed futures trades (or lucky lottery ticket, or surprise inheritance) will make you a millionaire. So, I'm trying pulpy trash fiction instead. Romance is out, since I know nothing about women (also they frighten me), and the world is awash in smartalecky detectives, so I'm leaning towards Vengeance Pr0n.
I give you the first paragraphs of my new opus, working title: Je Suis Charlie Martel. Please (please!) do not hesitate (as you usually do), not even an instant, to chime in, in the comments. Don't be shy. Tell me all. Have I set the hook? Are you on the edge of your respective seats? And most importantly, would you BUY THE BOOK? (target price $2.99, Kindle version. Possibility of a graphic novel to follow [think: The Punisher on a European tour].)
That soldier, he took, I guess two, three bullets in the chest, which he could have bounced back from, I think, seeing as he was wearing Kevlar under his camouflage. Except for the one right through his forehead on the way down. Then he was dead before he hit the sidewalk. I saw it in his eyes. Empty eyes. His beret fell at my feet when he stumbled back into the brick wall of the elementary school and slumped sideways to the ground. Fresh-faced. Just a kid, 18 or 19 maybe, short cropped blond hair clippered just that morning it looked like, never even raised his rifle, his arms still crossed over the stock. My mind raced but my body hesitated: grab his gun, cock the bolt, flip the safety…where’s the safety on an FAMAS? I didn’t know, it didn’t matter, it was strapped to his corpse on a sling. I’d never get it free in time. It’s no use. The shooters dispatched the other guard with the same sang-froid.
Mothers screamed. A few were quick to snatch up their startled children and run and bump and trip in a mass of panic up the narrow sidewalk, away from there. Get away, I wished them. Away! Some, many, had babies and small children in strollers or loitering at their feet and had been waiting on the sidewalk in front of the school, leaning up against the hip-high barrier, chatting among themselves, unaware. They hunkered down on the sidewalk now, covering their kids with their bodies, wrapping their arms around them, tight, their heads tucked down.
I took it all in, but… I was… removed somehow; the smoke, the screams, the deafening sound of gunfire so close, yet it didn’t cover the grunts of those soldiers falling, the dust and window glass and chips of brick, brass cartridges tinkling in the street…
I never take that route. The Métro was stalled again, traffic stopped in both directions. The inevitable announcement came over the speaker system: a passenger was "ill" at Place d'Italie. That meant a suicide; we would be there a while. I got out of the train and left the station in the hope of finding a bus stop, down that street. I didn't even know the name. But I do now. Everyone does.
Then they turned to fire into the crowd.
In retrospect, sitting here thinking about it, I gasp with a sense of wonder at the beauty of it—and I’m sorry, really, to call it beauty— but there was something so perfectly… I dunno, choreographed about how I did precisely the right thing. The right things, one after another, and believe me, I’m not bragging. I never move with that kind of grace. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t think about it; not beyond those first seconds when it seemed I had not one single move to make, good or bad, see? I was dead. We all were. I guess that’s the key. When you’re a dead man you are free.
Here’s the funny thing. The night before? I couldn’t sleep. Kept waking up. I get out of bed, go into the kitchen, get a yogurt out of the fridge, eat it. The digital clock on the microwave reads 1:11. Go back to bed and lay there for a while thinking I should go brush my teeth again, but I finally nod off. Then I wake again, go in the kitchen, the clock says 2:22. I drink a glass of water and go brush my teeth, linger a while in the dark then climb back in bed. I awake again because I have to pee—that glass of water was a bad idea. Curious, I peek into the kitchen: 3:33. This is all true. I don’t know what it means, but, all things considered, it has to mean something, don't you think? In my discomfort and confusion, something bigger, something beyond me had aligned with supernatural precision. And there I was.
So I moved.
To Be Continued?...
Obviously, literature is a sucker's game. Literature might win you a prize, but you know what they say: Prizes, plus a few well-timed futures trades (or lucky lottery ticket, or surprise inheritance) will make you a millionaire. So, I'm trying pulpy trash fiction instead. Romance is out, since I know nothing about women (also they frighten me), and the world is awash in smartalecky detectives, so I'm leaning towards Vengeance Pr0n.
I give you the first paragraphs of my new opus, working title: Je Suis Charlie Martel. Please (please!) do not hesitate (as you usually do), not even an instant, to chime in, in the comments. Don't be shy. Tell me all. Have I set the hook? Are you on the edge of your respective seats? And most importantly, would you BUY THE BOOK? (target price $2.99, Kindle version. Possibility of a graphic novel to follow [think: The Punisher on a European tour].)
That soldier, he took, I guess two, three bullets in the chest, which he could have bounced back from, I think, seeing as he was wearing Kevlar under his camouflage. Except for the one right through his forehead on the way down. Then he was dead before he hit the sidewalk. I saw it in his eyes. Empty eyes. His beret fell at my feet when he stumbled back into the brick wall of the elementary school and slumped sideways to the ground. Fresh-faced. Just a kid, 18 or 19 maybe, short cropped blond hair clippered just that morning it looked like, never even raised his rifle, his arms still crossed over the stock. My mind raced but my body hesitated: grab his gun, cock the bolt, flip the safety…where’s the safety on an FAMAS? I didn’t know, it didn’t matter, it was strapped to his corpse on a sling. I’d never get it free in time. It’s no use. The shooters dispatched the other guard with the same sang-froid.
Mothers screamed. A few were quick to snatch up their startled children and run and bump and trip in a mass of panic up the narrow sidewalk, away from there. Get away, I wished them. Away! Some, many, had babies and small children in strollers or loitering at their feet and had been waiting on the sidewalk in front of the school, leaning up against the hip-high barrier, chatting among themselves, unaware. They hunkered down on the sidewalk now, covering their kids with their bodies, wrapping their arms around them, tight, their heads tucked down.
I took it all in, but… I was… removed somehow; the smoke, the screams, the deafening sound of gunfire so close, yet it didn’t cover the grunts of those soldiers falling, the dust and window glass and chips of brick, brass cartridges tinkling in the street…
I never take that route. The Métro was stalled again, traffic stopped in both directions. The inevitable announcement came over the speaker system: a passenger was "ill" at Place d'Italie. That meant a suicide; we would be there a while. I got out of the train and left the station in the hope of finding a bus stop, down that street. I didn't even know the name. But I do now. Everyone does.
Then they turned to fire into the crowd.
In retrospect, sitting here thinking about it, I gasp with a sense of wonder at the beauty of it—and I’m sorry, really, to call it beauty— but there was something so perfectly… I dunno, choreographed about how I did precisely the right thing. The right things, one after another, and believe me, I’m not bragging. I never move with that kind of grace. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t think about it; not beyond those first seconds when it seemed I had not one single move to make, good or bad, see? I was dead. We all were. I guess that’s the key. When you’re a dead man you are free.
Here’s the funny thing. The night before? I couldn’t sleep. Kept waking up. I get out of bed, go into the kitchen, get a yogurt out of the fridge, eat it. The digital clock on the microwave reads 1:11. Go back to bed and lay there for a while thinking I should go brush my teeth again, but I finally nod off. Then I wake again, go in the kitchen, the clock says 2:22. I drink a glass of water and go brush my teeth, linger a while in the dark then climb back in bed. I awake again because I have to pee—that glass of water was a bad idea. Curious, I peek into the kitchen: 3:33. This is all true. I don’t know what it means, but, all things considered, it has to mean something, don't you think? In my discomfort and confusion, something bigger, something beyond me had aligned with supernatural precision. And there I was.
So I moved.
To Be Continued?...
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