Book #8-The Waking Man

So, here we are, my little spiders. Book 8. It's sort of like Motel 8, but no one leaves a light on for ya! HHAHAHAHAHA.

Whoa. I think this blogging quest has driven me crazy. Crazi-er. Today is the release date for The Suicide Collectors. I can do what I want!

I am about three days from finishing the rough draft of The Waking Man. It's about a vampire who doesn't want to bite his girlfriend so he goes away to magic school in England, where he investigates the Mona Lisa and discovers mysterious codes inside the painting that lead him to Oprah Winfrey, and when he meets her he lies and says the whole book's non-fiction.

From The Waking Man:

He broke through already on his feet his skull on fire. Outside the hospital room window, the gray city went about its business. He couldn’t recall every morsel, but the waking man knew he’d done something bad, something unforgivable, and now he was damned. They would kill him for what he’d done and the light coming in through the window was too bright. He closed the curtains and dropped to the floor and lay there for several minutes, praying for death. When death failed to arrive, he forced himself off the waxy linoleum and dragged himself across the room, hospital gown splayed open, cold air drifting up his backside. The IV, which must have recently been lodged inside his forearm, now laid dripping on the floor, all those good liquefied nutrients gone to waste. Someone could have used that mess. Someone with a future.
The machines beeped in an alarming way, so he unplugged them. He felt weak. It was hard to squeeze his hands shut, and the process reminded him of replacing the brake fluid in your car. You had to pump the spongy brake pedal several times until the new dark fluid pushed through and asserted itself and then, and only then, did your brakes return.
That’s what he needed: brakes.
Too much, too fast.
He was awake.


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