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YOROPPA - SAMPLE
"Yôroppa is a lovely place..." so it says on the leaflets and flyers that decorate the streets.
Right beside the sea so black and inviting. I spend hours on my crude-oil-engraved favourite rock, sitting and waiting. Waiting, you ask impertinently? You idiot, who do you think you are? I am waiting for her, the shapeshifter. The black thing protected by the sea. Waiting for her transformative prowess to spill its grease all over my burning cock, what else is worth waiting for?
I am waiting for the one significant twitch in the black shapes of its unreal surface tossing and flowing into and out of existence. The way it moves in mesmerising circles of violence reminds me of the strokes of the blade through staring eyeballs; an ice pick torn from a shoulder blade. The blackness of guilt buried in the loins of all those virgins nobody will ever miss - they will never miss them. It's that simple. The black mass of the sea moves like oil on skin pre-ignition - the black charcoal corpses of redemption a light-up royalty of desire.
But always the elusive sign, that one black sigil, that one hieroglyph of insane ignition.
I have kept my mostly nocturnal activity a secret from my family. They will never really be able to understand the blackness in me, so what's the point in burdening them with my story?
You think I am the only twisted bastard insane bitter night-raping evil executable maniac around here, yes? You should listen to the things I have had to sit and listen to in my confessional role as the padre of Yôroppa. The horror stories from the blasted black life of waves. Then you would easily understand my fascination with the ever-stormy sea and the promise it threatens to share. It has bored me to within an inch of sanity; yet my term is not yet ended and this is a life sentence in oh, so many ways. Don't stay near me, it whispers and hisses. The sea is a real black, angry, ugly place to be - a correct and proper statement of intent for a serial killer of a nutjob like me.
The clouds, those ancient forbearers of malevolence shallows shades of emasculated grey, pale in comparison to the creative fury of such a mass of death and anger. They are beyond mentioning other than to say, "one day the sky will run red with the blood of all narrative consequence."
Let me take you on quick tour of my favourite haunts in this soon to be God-forsaken hole. God bless my successor.
My Christian name is Geoffrey.
You will not hear the locals use that name though, certainly not until I make them say it with teeth broken and vision affected by a broken eye socket, blood tearing down their foreheads. I will then see them smile when they say my real name. Geoffrey. A fighting name. A tagging name. A territorial name. A moniker of fact and misfortune. I have this book of witness. It is a thick book and its pages are mostly stuck together with age and abuse. It is a black book, of course, in line with my clichéd role in this tight-knit community of fate. I am a talentless scribe but I do my best, trying to document the blackness above and beyond the call of chronicling duty. In it's rank pages that smell of cockcheese and cuntjuice are the limits of my insipid nostalgia for the way things might be run, my domain, if you will. And, yes, your name is in it. There, on one of the pages. But more of you later, you worthless fucker...
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Hellbound Books, Spring 2006
Plus six other short novels (approx 40,000 words each) that I'm looking to publish in a special 6-pack.
