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Following the dream

I've finally found a company to publish my book. Not only will they help me design it from cover to cover, they'll also publish it, put it on, handle advertising and send it to reviewers. They'll even give me ten free copies for the fuck of it. I've looked them up online and they have a high rating with the better business bureau. The drawback? They're not going to do it for free.

Welcome to the world of self publishing. Where, for a mere $999 you can put out any book you want, because you're doing it on your own dime. You can make it big this way, but you'll be forever scorned, because you didn't have to sell your soul in order to do it. You also get to take risks others don't, because you're spending your own money. This gives you complete control. Suddenly, 999 doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

Out of all the extravagant "make it big" schemes I've had over the past year, this one makes the most sense. I'm sick of talking about being a writer. I'm ready to fucking do it already. I'm ready to fail or succeed based on nothing more than the strength of my talent.

So now, I'm going to finish the book and get the money. There are simply no other options if I want to become a successful writer. If there even is really such a thing.

To all my fans and other people I don't know:

I'm serious about this. You can send me your prayers if you'd like, but donations would be nice, too!

No, panhandling online is not beneath me.


I've been keeping a low profile.

Because here's the thing. A year ago I talked a big game. I had a comic book that was going to be the biggest thing since since Preacher. I was about to pitch my first novel to a real agent who would buy my book, fly me out to L.A. and I would never have to see her again.

Almost a year later...I'm still here.

My artist kinda jumped ship on me a few months in. The agent told me to pull out the tampon and quit crying because no one on earth would ever voluntarily read my bitchy little emo book. Only, you know, in fancy big boy college words. And as for the girl who taught me the art of letting go? I still see her every fucking day at work. And you know what?

I'm ok with all of it.

For a few weeks there I thought I was slipping, but I took a look back at everything that has happened since then. First, there was the girl who couldn't handle knowing my secret and the one who finally embraced me in spite of it. Then, was me getting on stage for my first open mic night where I began to find my voice, but was set into a series of events that led to the loss of my dearest friend. I also recently exorcised the old (in)significances of April.

And I'm almost ready to tell you everything.

Harbinger Ch. 10: We interrupt this broadcast (Jerry)

Do you want to know the secret of a long lasting, happy marriage? The answer is really quite simple; it’s finding perfection in the banality of the day to day. Take tonight for instance. When I got off of my shift my wife and I cooked dinner together, talking of our days and ate at the table in relative silence. Afterwards, we cuddled up on the couch and watched hours of bad TV before retiring to bed.

Now, you may say that doesn’t seem like much, but it’s having this to come home to that gets me through the day. It’s what I live for. She’s sleeping soundly next to me and I smile. I lay on my back and take it all in. Her scent still hangs heavy in the air from when we made love hours ago. It intoxicates me. I lay on my back and listen to the rhythmic sounds of her breathing. This is the closest to heaven I ever want to be.

Despite that, however, there’s this nagging sense of dread that I can’t seem to shake. Something in the back of my mind is screaming for acknowledgement, but it’s impossible to define. It’s like chasing a white rabbit through a blizzard; I can only get a glimpse of it before it disappears again. Something bad has happened, but why can’t I remember it? My wife shifts at my side, her breathing becoming erratic.

Then the TV at the foot of our bed kicks on. On its screen rhere's an old, white man in a suit behind a news desk. There's absolutely nothing remarkable about him save for his hands. They are crimson and oozing all over the table. He smiles at me. Not to the camera. He smiles at me.

"Good Evening Jerry." The man in the TV says to me. He then looks to my right.

"Mrs. Delange, you look absolutely radiant."

At my side, my wife lets out a giggle I've never heard before. I turn to look at her and I can only process what I see in fragments.

First, she's laying on her side with her back to me. The long auburn hair that should be resting past her shoulderblades is absent. This is because her head is turned 180 degrees and facing me. Her eyes are opened wide, painfully so because tears are flowing down her face. This a stark contrast to the smile stretching from one ear to the other. From the TV's glow I can see teeth wet with blood behind the cheshire grin.

"Hey, Jerry. Can I have your attention?" The TV man beckons my gaze back to him. His hands are stretched out, reaching for me and dripping gore. My wife begins laughing hysterically at my side.

"Now," the TV Man says. "Lady and gentleman..."

My wifes laughing becomes so loud I feel like my eardrums are about to burst.

"...I proudly present to you..."

I glance over at her, still facing me and still laughing. Blood begins to seep from her every pore. I look back at the TV.

"...The end of the world." The TV cuts off. I look outside and the sky erupts into flames.

I sit up lean to my left and throw my guts up into the trashcan by the bed. I'm back in the hotel room. Not at home. Rain beats down on the windows. No fire. I look to my right at the empty space next to me. I'm all alone.

It was just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream.

The angels are gone. I don't need to check my surroundings for them, I can simply feel their absence. The security and complacency I felt at their side is gone now. More urgent things suddenly come to mind. Like my wife.

I reach for the phone on the nightstand and punch in my wife's cell phone number. Straight to voicemail. I try the home phone. No luck. This isn't right. My partner's dead and I'm missing. There's no way she wouldn't answer. Something's wrong and I need to go home.

I get dressed and drink two glasses of water. I grab my gun and tuck it in the waistband of my pants and my last clip into the front pocket of my jeans. I place the knife Gabe gave me into my boot and I call a cab. I leave the angels a note that says "Fuck it" before I walk outside to wait for my ride in the rain.