If this is your first visit, this is a bad place to start. Start with Chapter 1 - Baby Bird. If you like it, get Chapters 1 - 7 from the preceding post, then come back here. This is the shortest chapter in a book of short chapters, and you will spoil some of the earlier story if you jump ahead. I'm writing chapter 12, but still editing 9. Nine is a good one plotwise. Ten is more character study, but we'll talk about that when we get there. Eleven is long and freshly typed, which means it has a bit more editing to firm it up.
This is also likely the only chapter I'll post this week. Since it's the end of the month, I've got projects due for paying clients, plus I'm playing Flute/Thisby in A Midsummer Night's Dream opening at Barrington Hall on Friday. Busy, Busy, Busy as Bokonon might say.
Chapter 8 – Ahead of the Game
There was no one left to turn off the lights in the data center at the end of the workday. The police hadn't bothered. The FBI had disabled the security keypad and taken a cursory glance up and down the aisles between the server cabinets, seen no signs of life or evidence that the chaos had spread to this rarefied room, and left. Automation would keep clients from realizing that there was no one at the helm, at least until they tuned in to the cable news shows that would be covering the story twenty four hours a day until the next sexy tragedy took its place. The media wouldn't be swarming the building until morning at earliest – most likely they were all camped out in Terry Owens' front yard tonight, hoping to interview neighbors who would helpfully point out what a quiet man Terry had been, how he had kept to himself most of the time, and what an exceptional child his sweet little girl had been. They would swear they never would have believed he could have done such horrible things, and yet believe it they would.
The systems had been designed to back themselves up in the middle of the night during the period of least activity. When Allen heard the tape drives start to spin he knew it was as quiet as it was likely to get. He cautiously wriggled out from under the cable harness and slowly pushed the floor panel above him out of the way, emerging like a poisonous butterfly from his substrata cocoon. He crept to the end of the row and peeked carefully around the last cabinet – seeing through the glass wall that the lights were out in the main offices, he stood up, relaxed, moved more quickly now.
He pulled up another floor panel and retrieved his supplies – a briefcase full of cash and an oversize laptop case. The MacBook was so thin it fit in an envelope in the outside zippered pocket, leaving plenty of room in the carrying case for spare clips of ammunition, a water bottle, a radio, a portable GPS and a few other sundries. Allen expected that his car would still be in the parking garage and that his knapsack would still be in the trunk but he wasn't taking chances. Things he could not do without stayed with him.
He stripped off his blood speckled clothes and wrapped them in his engineer's raincoat along with an empty water bottle and a few unused shells from the discarded shotgun, stuffed the bundle back under the floor and replaced the panels. By the time anyone found them, everyone would already know who he was.
There was a clean change of clothes in his office, and a shower in Jack's. By the time he stepped onto the street he was dressed in crisp dockers, a collared pullover and a casual jacket, a laptop slung over one shoulder and a briefcase in the other hand. Anyone seeing him walk to his Porsche and drive away would take him for just another successful businessman, burning the midnight oil to keep ahead of the game.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
From The Top - Chapters 1 - 7, PDF
This seems like a good time to let new folks joining start from the beginning. The last two central characters are introduced in Chapter 6, "Crime Scenes." Chapter 7, "Not Very Much Of Anything," is my favorite so far. It starts to move beyond the multiple plots and sets the stage for the main theme. Plus, I like Maya.
Here are Chapters 1 - 7 in PDF format.
Here are Chapters 1 - 7 in PDF format.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Chapters 4 & 5 - PDF
Chapter 5 introduces someone I hope you have been waiting to meet. But you have to suffer through the rest of 4 first.
Chapter 4 and 5 Here
Chapter 4 and 5 Here
Chapter 4 - Survival
(You might want to read Chapters 1 - 3 before continuing on. This picks up right where 3 left off. That's one of the disadvantages of posting this on a blog, you need to read it from the bottom up. This is only the first half of the chapter, next post is the PDF of 4 & 5.)
“Hi, Terry,” Allen said. “Come with me. I need your help.” The .45 was back in its holster under Allen's arm; in its place he held a small .22 pistol that looked, to Terry, like a cannon. Terry's mouth moved, but there were no words in it. The gun swung to his left, over his shoulder, and barked once. The bullet ripped through his wife's throat, shattering the plexiglas picture frame. Before the pieces even hit the floor, the gun barrel was aimed back at Terry's chest.
There was nothing else to do; Terry Owens left the cubicle and walked at gunpoint down the corridor. He kept his eyes straight ahead, avoiding glimpses at the carnage on either side, barely registering the growing pools of blood he somehow managed not to step in. Fabric open cube walls ended and solid plaster broken by glass doors took their place. Past the four sales offices, phones eerily silent, then Bill's office on the left, Amy's on the right. Finally the two executive's opaque doors – Jack, the president had occupied the larger office on the right. On the left, Allen's door was ajar. A trail of blood led there from the hallway. Terry felt cold round metal behind his ear and heard Allen's calm voice say “in here.” They stepped inside, and Bill knew that he had waited too long.
“You might as well come on out, Bill. It's all over now. Unless you want to see Terry hit the floor.”
Bill stood slowly up behind the desk. One white sleeve was soaked crimson and that arm hung lifeless at his side, but his eyes were sharp and his head clear. It wasn't his first bullet; Marine training lasted a lifetime. He took in the situation in an instant and it didn't look good. Allen was standing in the only exit, his left hand holding a pistol to his hostage's ear. It was a small caliber and Bill might be able to move quickly enough to avoid a fatal shot even if he couldn't save Terry. It was the sawed-off shotgun nestled in Allen's crooked right arm that worried him – the pressboard desk would be no protection. That, plus the fact that Allen didn't look nervous at all. He wouldn't be caught off guard. Allen motioned with the shotgun barrels and said “sit over there, in one of the visitor's chairs.”
Bill complied.
“Face the desk. You're in a meeting.”
Bill straightened himself in the chair. His only chance was to talk his way out, or to stall until help arrived. A small hope, but he grasped it.
“Why, Allen?” he asked in his steady deep voice.
“Why not?” Allen replied. The shotgun blast was deafening, echoing in the small space; the back of Bill's head dissolved then splattered grey, white and red against the desk, chairs and back wall of the office. Terry finally found his voice and screamed “oh, shit!” as his bladder emptied itself unnoticed on the floor. Unnoticed by Terry, at least – Allen looked in disgust at the small clear puddle and said “Christ, look at the mess you made. Go sit at my desk.” After a beat, he added “Now.”
“Hi, Terry,” Allen said. “Come with me. I need your help.” The .45 was back in its holster under Allen's arm; in its place he held a small .22 pistol that looked, to Terry, like a cannon. Terry's mouth moved, but there were no words in it. The gun swung to his left, over his shoulder, and barked once. The bullet ripped through his wife's throat, shattering the plexiglas picture frame. Before the pieces even hit the floor, the gun barrel was aimed back at Terry's chest.
There was nothing else to do; Terry Owens left the cubicle and walked at gunpoint down the corridor. He kept his eyes straight ahead, avoiding glimpses at the carnage on either side, barely registering the growing pools of blood he somehow managed not to step in. Fabric open cube walls ended and solid plaster broken by glass doors took their place. Past the four sales offices, phones eerily silent, then Bill's office on the left, Amy's on the right. Finally the two executive's opaque doors – Jack, the president had occupied the larger office on the right. On the left, Allen's door was ajar. A trail of blood led there from the hallway. Terry felt cold round metal behind his ear and heard Allen's calm voice say “in here.” They stepped inside, and Bill knew that he had waited too long.
“You might as well come on out, Bill. It's all over now. Unless you want to see Terry hit the floor.”
Bill stood slowly up behind the desk. One white sleeve was soaked crimson and that arm hung lifeless at his side, but his eyes were sharp and his head clear. It wasn't his first bullet; Marine training lasted a lifetime. He took in the situation in an instant and it didn't look good. Allen was standing in the only exit, his left hand holding a pistol to his hostage's ear. It was a small caliber and Bill might be able to move quickly enough to avoid a fatal shot even if he couldn't save Terry. It was the sawed-off shotgun nestled in Allen's crooked right arm that worried him – the pressboard desk would be no protection. That, plus the fact that Allen didn't look nervous at all. He wouldn't be caught off guard. Allen motioned with the shotgun barrels and said “sit over there, in one of the visitor's chairs.”
Bill complied.
“Face the desk. You're in a meeting.”
Bill straightened himself in the chair. His only chance was to talk his way out, or to stall until help arrived. A small hope, but he grasped it.
“Why, Allen?” he asked in his steady deep voice.
“Why not?” Allen replied. The shotgun blast was deafening, echoing in the small space; the back of Bill's head dissolved then splattered grey, white and red against the desk, chairs and back wall of the office. Terry finally found his voice and screamed “oh, shit!” as his bladder emptied itself unnoticed on the floor. Unnoticed by Terry, at least – Allen looked in disgust at the small clear puddle and said “Christ, look at the mess you made. Go sit at my desk.” After a beat, he added “Now.”
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Chapters 1 - 3 in PDF format
These chapters are all pretty short.
I should probably warn people that this is not a children's book. I'm not sure what category to put it in - psychological thriller seems almost right - but it definitely is not for small children. It has stuff in it.
Chapters 1 - 3 in PDF
I should probably warn people that this is not a children's book. I'm not sure what category to put it in - psychological thriller seems almost right - but it definitely is not for small children. It has stuff in it.
Chapters 1 - 3 in PDF
Chapter 1 - Baby Bird
It was exactly 5:51 am. A loud and intentionally jarring buzz echoed briefly in the small apartment, silenced by a heavy hand dropped on the snooze button. In nine minutes the second alarm would sound. Six o'clock would come at the same time as it did every morning and Jim Parish would once again drag himself out of bed to start another in an unending series of pointless days. He rolled over and into a fetal position, almost enjoying the extra few minutes in spite of the hollow melancholy of the day ahead. He lay perfectly still until the alarm rang a second time.
This time he hit the off button.
Five days a week Parish followed the same routine. He sat on the side of his thin mattress, bare feet on the equally bare wood floor, head bowed and shoulders rounded until the cold spread up through his soles and defeated the last bit of sleep fogging his mind. Then he stood and padded naked to the even colder tile floor in the bathroom.
By 6:25, Jim was showered, dressed and in the kitchen fixing his breakfast. He added a tablespoon of water to two eggs sizzling in a non-stick pan, covered them so the steam would lightly cook the tops. On the rare occasions when he ate breakfast out he always ordered his eggs over light, but at home he didn't want to chance breaking the yolks when the eggs were flipped.
Five minutes later he was seated in what the rental agent had called a breakfast nook but was really just the end of the kitchen that had no counters or cupboards. The chair across from him was naturally empty, so he could see the local news on the television in the next room. A young woman he did not know had somewhere been murdered. Cameras captured her family’s grief and poured it out for the viewers. Jim had long ago stopped pretending to care, he knew that his days would be the same with our without this particular stranger in the world. By the time the next story began, this one was forgotten. Traffic, weather, some local politics floated about with the steam from his meal and, no more substantial, dissipated into nothingness. He picked up the remote and turned the TV off. News continued to be broadcast, but no longer wafted through his kitchen.
Plate, fork, spoon, knife, juice glass and coffee cup were all washed and dried by hand and put in their proper places. The dishwasher was rarely used, as Jim hated to have dirty dishes waiting until he had a full load. He washed and dried the pan and cooking utensils, put away the coffee and milk. Eight eggs gone, four remaining, it must be Thursday. On Sunday he would make oatmeal and go shopping again. At seven o'clock exactly he looked around to be sure that the apartment was as neat and sterile as always, grabbed his keys and locked the door behind him as he left for work. It was a block and a half to the bus stop, and Jim always gave himself plenty of time to walk leisurely there. The weather on this morning was pleasant, although it had rained the night before.
A few doors from his apartment, a car came too fast down the narrow city street, too close to the curb, and before he knew what was happening Jim Parish was splashed and soaked from just above the knees to his shoes with cold, dirty water. He stopped dead in momentary shock and was angrily glaring at the retreating rear bumper when he heard the screaming above him and looked up.
It all happened in an instant that he would re-live in excruciatingly slow motion again and again. A jumble of white and blue with flying black hair came toppling out of a third floor window. A horrified wail mixed with the higher pitched shriek as a woman lunged out and just missed brushing her fingers against the falling bundle, desperately clutching empty air and leaning so far out she nearly fell herself. Jim watched with his mouth open and before he could assess the situation instinctively put his arms out and, to his amazement, caught the child and pulled her to his chest.
Time, for the moment, stopped frittering itself away. The woman in the window was a mannequin, unable to gulp a breath of air. Other pedestrians, who had turned toward the commotion, simply stared at the middle-aged statue of a man, holding a toddler as though she were a baby bird that he wanted to put back in its nest. Cars must have passed, drivers unaware, but if so they were part of another unfrozen dimension. Only a few seconds, perhaps even less, and then the little bird looked up at her rescuer with bright eyes and smiled an impossible smile.
If there was the director of this sequence, he must have shouted 'Action!' just then. One bystander swooned and dropped to the sidewalk. The woman in the window disappeared momentarily, descending three flights inside the building nearly as quickly as her child had outside, burst through the door and ran barefoot and sobbing to where a man she did not know was holding fast to a tiny life in his arms. She stopped an arms length from him, tears streaming down her face, unable to make words come. Jim Parish was similarly at a loss for conversation, although his eyes were dry.
"Here," he said, handing the girl to her mother as though she were a package to be delivered. "I have to get to work," he added rather stupidly, then turned and walked unsteadily past the few gaping onlookers toward his bus stop on the next block. She watched him go in stunned silence. The little girl waved her fingers at his back and mouthed 'Bye-bye.'
This time he hit the off button.
Five days a week Parish followed the same routine. He sat on the side of his thin mattress, bare feet on the equally bare wood floor, head bowed and shoulders rounded until the cold spread up through his soles and defeated the last bit of sleep fogging his mind. Then he stood and padded naked to the even colder tile floor in the bathroom.
By 6:25, Jim was showered, dressed and in the kitchen fixing his breakfast. He added a tablespoon of water to two eggs sizzling in a non-stick pan, covered them so the steam would lightly cook the tops. On the rare occasions when he ate breakfast out he always ordered his eggs over light, but at home he didn't want to chance breaking the yolks when the eggs were flipped.
Five minutes later he was seated in what the rental agent had called a breakfast nook but was really just the end of the kitchen that had no counters or cupboards. The chair across from him was naturally empty, so he could see the local news on the television in the next room. A young woman he did not know had somewhere been murdered. Cameras captured her family’s grief and poured it out for the viewers. Jim had long ago stopped pretending to care, he knew that his days would be the same with our without this particular stranger in the world. By the time the next story began, this one was forgotten. Traffic, weather, some local politics floated about with the steam from his meal and, no more substantial, dissipated into nothingness. He picked up the remote and turned the TV off. News continued to be broadcast, but no longer wafted through his kitchen.
Plate, fork, spoon, knife, juice glass and coffee cup were all washed and dried by hand and put in their proper places. The dishwasher was rarely used, as Jim hated to have dirty dishes waiting until he had a full load. He washed and dried the pan and cooking utensils, put away the coffee and milk. Eight eggs gone, four remaining, it must be Thursday. On Sunday he would make oatmeal and go shopping again. At seven o'clock exactly he looked around to be sure that the apartment was as neat and sterile as always, grabbed his keys and locked the door behind him as he left for work. It was a block and a half to the bus stop, and Jim always gave himself plenty of time to walk leisurely there. The weather on this morning was pleasant, although it had rained the night before.
A few doors from his apartment, a car came too fast down the narrow city street, too close to the curb, and before he knew what was happening Jim Parish was splashed and soaked from just above the knees to his shoes with cold, dirty water. He stopped dead in momentary shock and was angrily glaring at the retreating rear bumper when he heard the screaming above him and looked up.
It all happened in an instant that he would re-live in excruciatingly slow motion again and again. A jumble of white and blue with flying black hair came toppling out of a third floor window. A horrified wail mixed with the higher pitched shriek as a woman lunged out and just missed brushing her fingers against the falling bundle, desperately clutching empty air and leaning so far out she nearly fell herself. Jim watched with his mouth open and before he could assess the situation instinctively put his arms out and, to his amazement, caught the child and pulled her to his chest.
Time, for the moment, stopped frittering itself away. The woman in the window was a mannequin, unable to gulp a breath of air. Other pedestrians, who had turned toward the commotion, simply stared at the middle-aged statue of a man, holding a toddler as though she were a baby bird that he wanted to put back in its nest. Cars must have passed, drivers unaware, but if so they were part of another unfrozen dimension. Only a few seconds, perhaps even less, and then the little bird looked up at her rescuer with bright eyes and smiled an impossible smile.
If there was the director of this sequence, he must have shouted 'Action!' just then. One bystander swooned and dropped to the sidewalk. The woman in the window disappeared momentarily, descending three flights inside the building nearly as quickly as her child had outside, burst through the door and ran barefoot and sobbing to where a man she did not know was holding fast to a tiny life in his arms. She stopped an arms length from him, tears streaming down her face, unable to make words come. Jim Parish was similarly at a loss for conversation, although his eyes were dry.
"Here," he said, handing the girl to her mother as though she were a package to be delivered. "I have to get to work," he added rather stupidly, then turned and walked unsteadily past the few gaping onlookers toward his bus stop on the next block. She watched him go in stunned silence. The little girl waved her fingers at his back and mouthed 'Bye-bye.'
Welcome To My World
Chaos Theories is my first novel - a work in progress, actually. At the time of this posting, I've finished ten chapters and edited eight of them. I figure that's a good time to introduce my baby to the world for words of encouragement, criticism, or what have you. I'm personally very pleased with the way the book is coming, and I hope readers will agree enough to be suckered into coming back for the next posted chapters.
The Internet makes publishing easy - too easy, perhaps. Anyone with enough time on his or her hands can write whatever he or she likes - the question is whether she or he should. If there is an advantage to publishers and editors, it is that they provide some filter against a flood of swill. Not that your works are swill - I'm referring to other people.
If there is a second advantage, it is (not to be too blunt) remuneration. Good writing is hard work and should be rewarded. I hope that some people will find Chaos Theories to be that type of writing and voluntarily throw some small rewards my way. I hope even more to benefit from the exposure and reader comments to the point of selling this work into the mainstream literary world. But in the meanwhile, it's all yours. The first few chapters will come quickly, and then I will keep up as well as I can. The more people shout at me that they need to know what happens next, the more quickly I'll be motivated to let them know.
I'll post the first chapter (which is fairly short) as text, and make the complete work available in PDF as I go along. And now, without further ado ... Chaos Theories
update: 6/9/08 - We're up to chapter 21 now. The easiest way to get the most current recent chapters is by the labels. Full PDF to date will get the most recent version from chapter 1 forward. Download PDF will get individual chapters since then.
The Internet makes publishing easy - too easy, perhaps. Anyone with enough time on his or her hands can write whatever he or she likes - the question is whether she or he should. If there is an advantage to publishers and editors, it is that they provide some filter against a flood of swill. Not that your works are swill - I'm referring to other people.
If there is a second advantage, it is (not to be too blunt) remuneration. Good writing is hard work and should be rewarded. I hope that some people will find Chaos Theories to be that type of writing and voluntarily throw some small rewards my way. I hope even more to benefit from the exposure and reader comments to the point of selling this work into the mainstream literary world. But in the meanwhile, it's all yours. The first few chapters will come quickly, and then I will keep up as well as I can. The more people shout at me that they need to know what happens next, the more quickly I'll be motivated to let them know.
I'll post the first chapter (which is fairly short) as text, and make the complete work available in PDF as I go along. And now, without further ado ... Chaos Theories
update: 6/9/08 - We're up to chapter 21 now. The easiest way to get the most current recent chapters is by the labels. Full PDF to date will get the most recent version from chapter 1 forward. Download PDF will get individual chapters since then.
