Like Glass: First Chapter
Just for kicks, I thought I’d post the first chapter to Like Glass for your reading pleasure. There’s been sample chapters available as a PDF download (which you can get here), but I know some people don’t really care too much for PDF’s or downloading files. So, here’s a sample of the novel, and I hope you enjoy it.
Like Glass
Chapter 1
It’s generally inappropriate to call a woman in tears a bastard or a son of a
bitch, and ordering them to die and rot is fairly tasteless most of the time as
well. At least before you know what she’s crying about. Rob Jackson might
be forgiven for having those words on his tongue when he answered the
phone, as it was his brother he expected on the other end and not the
quavering, feminine sobs he heard as he put the receiver to his ear.
Five years had passed since he’d last seen Bill’s number on the caller id and
he’d waited by the phone until it quit ringing then. Five years still wasn’t long
enough. He still wished his brother were dead.
Of the eight years since Rob had called it quits with his brother, it had taken
three for Bill to get it through his head that Rob wanted nothing more to do
with him. Now it appeared he was calling again.
He almost ignored this call like the last one, but didn’t. It’d been a bad
Wednesday already—he’d lost the Grey’s Industrial Services account, a new
website that would’ve been great for the company’s portfolio as well as its
books. The LAPD finally decided that parking in front of the fire hydrant
outside the office door was worthy of a two-hundred-fifty dollar fine. To top
it all off, Cindy finally admitted to her affair with her trainer. That wasn’t that
big of a deal; he’d harbored stronger attachments to lawn furniture than any
woman in a long time. It just served as icing on top of an already shitty cake
of a day. Seeing Bill’s number on the caller id had proved that the day really
and truly could get worse.
Any other day he would’ve ignored it without a second thought. Not
tonight though. Tonight he wanted a catharsis. It’d been a long time since
he’d cussed out Bill for what he’d done to him, and it put him in a bit of a
better mood at least. A phrase somewhere along the lines of “You bastard
sonofabitch, die and rot in hell,” had been what sprang to mind, and he
marked it as either a good opening line or perfect for the moment before he
hung up the receiver on his brother’s pleading voice. Either would work, he’d
just wait and see how it played out.
When he picked up the phone, he hesitated—an act he was later at least
somewhat thankful for, although he could never figure out why he didn’t just
lay into Bill right off the bat. A rather feminine sniffle greeted his silence, soft,
almost pleading. At the very least it wasn’t Bill, and he quickly changed his
game plan. His pause apparently confused the tearful woman on the other end
as well.
“Hello?” Definitely a woman, speaking in that pathetic, shaky voice of
someone who’s trying to be strong and failing miserably at it.
“Hi, this is Rob.” Confused, he reverted to the office, speaking as he would
with a customer before he even realized it.
“Hi, Rob. It’s Janet.”
“Hi Janet. Long time.”
“Yeah. Um, I’m sorry to call you Rob. I know things were never that great
with us and everything, but…” That’s a lie, he thought, but didn’t say. It didn’t
seem appropriate to antagonize her at the moment. Maybe in a few minutes,
but at least he’d let her have her say.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Bill…he’s, um, Bill’s dead Rob. There was an accident at the factory
today and…” Her voice trailed off; she was still trying to be strong, but the
façade was crumbling fast.
“You’re kidding me. Is he—” He stopped himself; of course Bill wasn’t
okay, but that was the first thing that came to mind. “Are you guys okay?” In
hindsight, this was almost as stupid of a question, but he couldn’t think of
anything else.
“I don’t know. Lisa’s handling the um, the arrangements I think. She’s
watching Jake and Caitlain right now.” She was almost at a full sob again. “I
just wanted to let you know. I know you guys weren’t very close, but…” She
couldn’t continue, her words drowned out by the deep crying only newborn
widows are capable of.
“Janet, it’s okay. Look, I’ll be out there tomorrow and help out as best as I
can, okay?” Something that resembled an “okay, thank you” found its way
through her sobs. He told her to take care and that he’d see her soon.
Hanging up the receiver, he sat in anticipation for the sick joy he knew
should be coming along. Any minute now, he’d burst into a wide grin,
perhaps run to the store and get a bottle of champagne (or some cheap wine
from the gas station if the grocery store had already closed). It didn’t come
though, and he sat in his office, going over various bills and invoices as a light
rain blurred the city through the window before him.
After an hour he gave up trying to make sense of work and went online to
order a plane ticket to Portland for the next day. He called the office and left a
voice mail, telling whoever would get to it first in the morning that he’d be
gone for a while and to have Jim run the shop while he was gone.
He walked to the gas station at the corner, and instead of looking for the
cheap wine he grabbed a cheap six pack and returned home. Per his custom
when he could hear the sleepy grumbling of the past waking up to rear its
brutish head, he set one bottle aside and studied it as he drank the remaining
five. Still waiting for the malicious ecstasy he’d been expecting to join him at
this long awaited news, he turned his computer off and went to bed.
* * *
The next morning he woke early and packed for roughly a week away. If it
were longer, he could always buy more shirts and slacks; if it were less, then he
lost nothing but about fifteen minutes. He smoked a cigarette on the sidewalk
in front of his apartment, waiting for his cab to arrive, doing his part to
contribute to the late spring smog.
He hated flying, and was not particularly looking forward to the short
voyage up the coast. A “good” flight bores you to tears; an exciting flight is
what keeps the airlines in bed with the liquor companies. Turbulence is God’s
way of gently reminding you (and sometimes not so gently) that you’re His
whenever He wants you. He hoped the Almighty wasn’t in a reminding kind
of mood today as the cab pulled up. By the time he arrived at LAX, he relaxed
slightly, knowing the flight would be fine; whatever Gods there may be had
tried pretty damned hard to remind him of his mortality with the cab ride. If
they felt he still needed an extra push they obviously weren’t as all-knowing as
they claimed to be.
After checking in, he found himself an area near the main entrance where
he could enjoy a few cigarettes in peace while he waited the two hours before
boarding. Of course, it seemed these days “in peace” meant only two or three
non-smokers an hour harassed him, and only five others gave him dirty looks.
He didn’t really care one way or another about someone preaching at him right
now though; he was still waiting for the glee he had been positive would
follow the news of his brother’s untimely death. He was slightly disheartened
that it hadn’t made its appearance yet and confused that neither grief nor
remorse had taken the absent joy’s place.
* * *
Almost as much as flying, he hated kids. They could be cute, he supposed,
but mostly they were annoying. Too loud, too messy, too much of a nuisance.
Cindy didn’t want kids; that had been one point in her favor, but she was some
other poor sap’s problem now anyways. He was sure that the kid who smiled
at him as he smoked outside the terminal was no exception to the loud, messy
stereotypical child, and he doubted Cindy would’ve been terribly impressed
with her.
She looked like she might be cute at times. Probably most of the time, if
one were inclined to think runny noses and poor speech were endearing
charms. She was maybe eight, holding onto her mother’s hand as the woman
dragged her along. She waved at him and he tried hard to look annoyed at the
interruption in the thoughts he wasn’t having. Nevertheless, he found himself
smiling back at her diplomatically as she walked past, her blond hair bouncing
playfully along behind her as her mother tugged at one of her arms, a purple
stuffed dinosaur in the other.
He finished his last cigarette with about fifteen minutes to spare before his
flight boarded and hurried across the terminal. After a quick bathroom stop,
he found his gate and was just in time to stand in line as the attendants
boarded the plane. Luckily for him, Blondy was in line right ahead of him.
She noticed him, and turned and smiled again.
“We’re going to see my gramma.” She stated this with such an air of
importance that for an instant he thought she was referring to a foreign
dignitary. He smiled again at her.
“Really? Well, that’s good.” The girl’s mother turned at him, with stern
embarrassment.
“Krissy, how many times do I have to tell you: don’t talk to strangers. Sorry
about that,” she added to Rob. “She’s a bit too friendly sometimes.”
“It’s alright.” The lady turned back towards the front of the line, while
Krissy kept staring at him and smiling a smile that he could now see was shy a
few teeth.
“Gramma’s old. Older than dirt, daddy says.” The lady gave a sharp tug on
her child’s arm as Rob tried to hold back a chuckle in spite of himself.
“Krissy, be quiet!”
“‘Kay.”
The child finally listened to her mother as the line started to move. Within
minutes, they were boarding the plane, and Rob was relived to find himself
seated alone in the aisle (and noticeably many rows away from Krissy and her
mother, which he assumed was the mother’s way of showing appreciation for a
lack of assigned seats on this flight).
The flight attendants came along briefly to help people stow away their
carry-on bags, and as people took their seats another attendant walked down
the aisle taking drink orders. He satisfied himself with ordering a Crown Royal
on the rocks in spite of the relatively early hour, and within minutes they were
in the air. Not long after take off, when the plane had reached a stable
altitude, a different attendant returned with his drink and he sat alone with an
$8.00 double shot and his thoughts of the past.
He tried to think of Bill, to try and feel something one way or another as he
drank the whiskey, but it was hard—how could you remember anything about
someone you hadn’t known for eight years? There was before of course, all the
great times they’d had growing up together, the parties and the ribbing and the
long, late night talks about nothing and everything.
And there was then. The “then” that he’d used to alienate his brother, when
his brother finally grabbed the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial
camel’s back.
He could barely remember the before, and it was only in thinking of then—
the eight-years-ago then—that he started to feel anything. Nothing new there;
he’d thought of it plenty of times since it happened, and it always gave enough
fuel to the fire that kept him from picking up the phone himself. Part of him
didn’t want to think of then, it wanted to try and grieve over his brother,
because that’s what you do when family dies, right? He wanted to try and
force himself to respect the dead, but he couldn’t. As an airy ding signaled the
captain turning off the remain-in-your-seats notice, he gave up his battle with
himself and let his mind wander to then. To the eight-years-ago then.
Paperback on Amazon
Just a quick note: Like Glass is now officially available, in paper back, on Amazon.com — you can get it here. Granted, it’s the exact same thing you’d find at the book’s CreateSpace store, but still…it’s Amazon….
Short Story vs. Novel
(Originally posted on http://mcory.wordpress.com/ on 4/28/2007)
I’m trying to come up with something to write, plotting, etc. Ain’t happening very well. I do have a “set of scenes” in mind that could play out well for a novel, but it’s not gelling together very well just yet–it’s hiding quite effectively amid the forests of the rest of my life.
Last year, when I started trying to write seriously, I churned out 4 short stories in a relatively short amount of time. I don’t know what’s happening on that front; I’ve gotten more focused on wanting to write a novel, and I’m finding it much harder to find something that’s worth saying and possible to say in a handful of pages.
That’s crap.
I’m too closely tying “short story” with “horror story”. That was the genre I was trying to get into last year when I wrote those. A short story is great for those, in my opinion: you set the scene, give a slight amount of back story if necessary, and then bring in the ghost/monster/psycho. Quick, simple, marginally effective.
Now I’m wanting to write “fake biographies” (for lack of a better term), or quasi-romance, whatever exactly this stuff is. It’s much harder to generate an emotional attachment to a character in four pages than in four chapters, and, quite frankly, I’m not exactly looking for a challenge at the moment.
At the same time, I don’t have the time (without really moving things around) to get another novel out in short time span here. A short story would be great; perfect. Get up one morning, sketch it out. Next morning (maybe couple of mornings), draft it. Edit. Revise. Rinse and repeat. Start on Monday, by the weekend you have another story ready for the limelight. (in theory, at least.)
With a novel, well… Working on it just a couple of hours each morning it’d take me a couple of months at least to get it knocked out, and that’s assuming the story just falls into place and I don’t have to waste a morning or three staring at a blank piece of note paper counting the lines and then the spaces and then the lines and then….
But, you get what you pay for I guess; it feels pretty cool to tell people “yeah, after I finished my book, I…”
Oh well. I’m going to the rez for smokes now that Patti’s home. We’ll see what’s going on later; maybe we’ll do some music stuff or something. Who knows?
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