Steven Ramirez's Blog: Glass Highway, page 21

For me, reading this novel was like experiencing a dream. I alternated between curiosity, frustration, and elation. Curiosity, because I am unfamiliar with Korean culture; frustration, because as the reader, I could do nothing but witness Lloyd’s descent into madness without ever actually understanding his mind; elation, because despite her troubled childhood, Yoona has a chance to be happy.

This is what good writing does—it stretches you until you can hear your muscles tearing. I’ll be honest. At first, I was a little put off by the short passages that seemed more like journal entries than chapters. But as I followed Yoona in her attempt to come to terms with her current predicament—being held hostage by a former friend—I discovered a history I had little knowledge of. And I also learned of the pain immigrants can feel when trying to assimilate in this purported land of opportunity.

A Small Revolution is powerful. And, like a dream, every reader is bound to experience it differently.

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Book Blurb

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In this powerful, page-turning debut, Jimin Han deftly shows that revolutions—whether big or small, in the world or of the heart—can have an impact that lasts through time and spans the oceans.

On a beautiful Pennsylvania fall morning, a gunman holds college freshman Yoona Lee and three of her classmates hostage in the claustrophobic confines of their dorm room. The desperate man with his finger on the trigger—Yoona’s onetime friend, Lloyd Kang—is unraveling after a mysterious accident in Korea killed his closest friend, Jaesung, who was also the love of Yoona’s life.

As the tense standoff unfolds, Yoona is forced to revisit her past, from growing up in an abusive household to the upheaval in her ancestral homeland to unwittingly falling in love. She must also confront the truth about what happened to Jaesung on that tragic day, even as her own fate hangs in the balance.

Through scenes of political upheaval and protests in South Korea, spirited conversations in cramped dumpling houses, and the quiet moments that happen when two people fall in love, A Small Revolution is a moving narrative brimming with longing, love, fear, and—ultimately—hope.

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Hey, guys! Just a quick note to let you know that today I posted the final chapter from my new YA horror novella Come As You Are at Channillo, a subscription-based online magazine. The novella will be available for reading online through the end of May.

I plan to publish Come As You Are in the next few months both in digital and print. The Kindle edition will be available for preorder first. (More on that later.) Also, I’m very excited to tell you that the book includes nine additional short stories.

If you’d like to read the novella now, check out my Channillo series page. And happy reading!

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Synopsis

Ivan Stein isn’t sure he can survive seventh grade, let alone middle school. Living in a town known for its poverty and violence, he is regularly bullied along with his best friend, Ollie. But fortunes can change.

One day, Ivan finds an old notebook in an abandoned locker at school. Despite a nasty warning from the ill-tempered janitor, he takes the book home and soon learns that it once belonged to another kid named Craig and apparently possesses occult properties—powerful magic Ivan can use to punish his enemies.

The notebook describes five tasks Ivan must complete to unleash the full power of the book. But what he doesn’t know is demonic forces control the book’s pages—raw evil that will inflict suffering on the good as well as the bad and demand as payment Ivan’s very soul.

Read Come As You Are

Check out this offer. Enter the giveaway and win free eBooks! Offer ends Monday, April 17, 2017.

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I read the first two books in this series, and this one is my favorite. Mainly, I love the way the author has developed the relationship between Jimmy Holiday and his old-now-new girlfriend, Tabby who, as it happens is also his exorcism buddy. Yeah, you read that right. A former Catholic priest has teamed up with a witch to save the world from bad things. Quite a unique concept, if you ask me.

The central conflict in the series is within Jimmy himself. He has learned to his never-ending bewilderment that he is a “marker,” which means he possesses the power to save souls from eternal damnation by marking them. And if that isn’t bad enough, he’s learned there exists an Order of Markers. And these boys don’t really have much of a sense of humor. Though he continues to do the right thing by confronting demons as they possess people, he’s not too happy about it and, sometimes, wishes he could simply hide and eat chocolate. What, no rotgut whiskey?

Sorrow’s Turn is a very entertaining read. If you like paranormal stories with some pretty crazy twists, I suggest you start with the first book. I wouldn’t call Jimmy’s life a roller coaster exactly. It’s more like the funhouse in an abandoned amusement park. You really don’t want to continue forward, but you’re too scared to go back the way you came.

You can find this review at Amazon US.

Book Blurb

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Some Things are Worse Than Demons.

Jimmy Holiday, reluctant exorcist, is finally getting the help he needs from the higher-ups. The Order of Markers is sending him to the Vatican’s exorcism school. Now, he’ll receive the training he should have gotten at the beginning. One problem, someone wants to sabotage him.

When his time at the school is cut short, Jimmy receives an interesting new case. It is the assignment that no one wants—a corpse has come back to life. And it isn’t a zombie.

Too bad nothing goes as expected. Armed with his usual bag of tricks, Jimmy thinks everything will eventually be all right. Well, that is until his betrayer turns out to be the person he trusts most.

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[image error]In many ways, Before You Leap is a book I admire. I’ll mention two. The author has a way of describing things that, frankly, is bound to make me work harder as a writer. And indeed, he has taken to heart the notion that it’s better to start in the middle of things, leaving the reader in a dizzying confusion of places and events that—ever so slowly—become more apparent as you wend your way through a pulse-pounding maze of violent emotion. It’s a technique I’ve used myself, and it’s very effective in the mystery thriller genre. The other thing is, the characters ring true to me—especially Greg. Although after finishing this book, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that he is more than a little disturbed.

Regarding the plot, I felt the story was a little convoluted and could have benefited from some simplification. Don’t get me wrong—I have no problem dealing with characters whose motives are mysterious and who consistently act in ways that deceive. But there were a few times when I found myself wishing for more of a straight line as Greg is forced to confront his painful past.

Overall, I liked Before You Leap and recommend it to fans of the genre. It’s a solid piece of work and definitely worth exploring.

You can find this review at Amazon US.

Synopsis

Peace of mind is all Greg Cole has wanted since the murder of his twin sister, Scarlett.  

In his new sun-soaked Florida life, he thought he had found it. But when Scarlett’s killer is released early from prison with a cast-iron alibi, Greg realizes that his past is about to explode into his present, with terrifying consequences.

To expose the truth he must open up old wounds. As a talk therapist, Greg knows all about dark secrets, but when a childhood friendship comes to the fore and the police turn their spotlight on him, the thought of analyzing his own psyche is a disturbing prospect. How far can he trust his own memories?

With his life coming apart at the seams, and his grip on reality beginning to unravel, Greg must face the ghosts of his past if he hopes to prove his innocence and live to see another day.

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For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

Several long, hot days had passed. Dad and I had kept our distance, with me in my bedroom working on my machinima and Dad at the dealership all day. At night, he stayed in his home office editing his own personal, from-the-heart Gigli. Both Claire and Diego had advised me to give him time. I wasn’t sure an eternity could fix this.

“You insulted his movie,” Claire had said. “That was pretty harsh.”

Diego had disagreed. “He’s a guy. He’ll get over it. Move on.”

After walking the dog in the morning, I found Dad sitting in the breakfast nook, slurping coffee and reading the Sports section. Though he’d shaven, he looked like a dug-up corpse, wearing the suit he’d been buried in. I did my best to act nonchalant and started some raisin toast, but anyone with half a brain could have told you I was faking, because—unlike television actors who usually indicate nonchalance by whistling a non-existent tune—I hung my head and swung my arms like a caveman. Weird, right?

“Morning, baby,” he said.

Wait, was he being pleasant?

“Hey, Dad.”

Feeling like someone had rolled a huge boulder off me, I straightened his tie for him. He smiled and patted my head.

“Didn’t you get any sleep?” I said. Vague grunt. “Dad, I’ve been thinking. And I have a plan.”

I noticed he was back to ignoring me and pinched his arm. “Dad!”

“Ow! What?”

“You need to call Matt.”

“My brother? Why?”

“He can help you.”

He put down the paper, rinsed his cup in the sink, and mimed looking for his car keys, even though they were lying right in front of him on the counter. No matter, I was fired up.

“Dad, stop pretending you don’t know what I’m saying. It’s very annoying. You need to call Matt now. He’s a filmmaker. He can totally get your project back on track.”

“I’d rather swallow razor blades.”

I knew he and Matt were not on the best of terms, but I soldiered on.

“Come on, what better person to fix your movie?” Oops.

“Hey, I can fix my own movie, thank you very much. I have to go to work.”

He leaned down awkwardly, pecked me on the forehead, and walked out, pointing at my elbow.

“You might want to have that wart looked at.”

“It’s not a wart!” I said, covering my elbow self-consciously. “Anyways, you’ll think about it?”

When the door slammed, I turned back to my toast and noticed a shiny butcher knife lying on the counter.

“That reminds me…”

* * *

Stacey sat at her computer, updating a formula in an Excel pivot table, though her mind was elsewhere. Since launching the new campaign, Viper Leather Goods’ sales had shot up in a number of major markets, in spite of the soft economy. That should have made her happy, yet she felt empty and stared out the window at nothing. Her head hurt. She examined her left hand and noticed a faint depression where her wedding band had once been.

“I have a cure for that,” someone said.

She looked up and saw Warren smiling at her. Lately, he had been putting the pressure on, and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

“I can’t tell you how much I want to see my ring on your finger,” he said.

“Oh, Warren. I’m still trying to figure it out. Besides, I can’t wear it yet.”

“You could wear it on another finger,” he said, taking a seat on the corner of her desk and wiping a spot off his Bruno Magli tassel loafer with his thumb. “You’ve been alone too long, Stacey. It’s time to act. Oh, and I need that forecast by COB today.”

He left as quickly as he had come in. It always amazed her how easily he could glide between personal and business, as if he saw no distinction. Perhaps for him there was none.

She got out the diamond ring, as she had dozens of times over the last few days, and tried to see her future in the brilliant facets.

* * *

Rick Van Loon surveyed the lush landscape of his showroom floor. In addition to his injured eye and fingers, he was now wearing a cervical collar. He noticed an unusual number of beautiful women looking at cars. So many to choose from, he thought with pointed frustration. Why couldn’t I have been born with eight arms?

Alan trudged in and continued past Gina.

“Hey, good morning,” she said. “You look…great.”

“Yeah, I feel great.” He indicated Rick with a tilt of his head. “Another date?”

“Kickboxer.” She smiled bitterly and snatched the handset from her buzzing desk phone. “Lexus of Santa Monica. How may I direct your call?”

Alan recognized the jazz vocalist from Catalina’s across the room, checking out a convertible. She was wearing a pink suit and carrying a matching Michael Kors bag. She met his eyes and smiled. His first instinct was to run. The last thing he needed was some romantic entanglement. Scanning the showroom, he saw that the other salespeople were engaged. Manning up, he straightened his tie and walked deliberately toward her, his hand extended warmly.

“Hi, I’m Alan Navarro.”

“Laraine Moody.”

He noticed she had large hands, and there was something unusual about her speaking voice.

“This is a very nice vehicle,” he said. “Would you like to get in?”

“Sure.”

He opened the door for her and waited as she made herself comfortable behind the steering wheel. Then, he plopped in next to her as she fiddled with the stereo. When he saw her Adam’s apple, he realized she was transgender.

“You don’t want this sound system,” he said. “I know a guy. He’ll build you the sweetest little after-market setup.”

“Do you remember me?”

“Catalina’s, right? I love your voice. Thanks for the beer, by the way.”

Resting a hand on his knee, she turned the dial to the jazz station 88.1. Ella Fitzgerald’s “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” poured from the speakers.

“Please don’t,” he said.

The words got under his skin and clawed at his veins. They reached around his heart and ripped it out whole, still beating. Alan was weeping uncontrollably now, mouthing the words to the song. Laraine snapped the radio off, her mouth falling open.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“They say they can’t, but they can!” he said, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “They can take it away!”

“I know what you mean.”

“I never wanted her to go. I thought we were happy.”

“You give and give.”

“She wanted to stay at home with a baby. But everyone has to work, right?”

“Why should you bear the whole burden?”

“It’s not fair!”

By this time, a crowd of salespeople and customers had gathered. Gina watched from her desk, dumbstruck, as Alan poured his heart out to a customer. The next thing Alan knew, Rick was standing outside the passenger door, his hands on his waist. Alan looked up at him miserably. He and Laraine exited the vehicle, and Alan allowed himself to be led away by Rick and Gina.

“I hope everything works out,” Laraine said.

Another salesman took charge and deftly directed her toward a pricey SUV she wasn’t interested in.

Rick poured a cup of coffee from his ultra-expensive machine that heated the water to one hundred eighty degrees, the same as Starbucks extra-hot. He felt exhilarated, and wished he could chicken-walk across the showroom floor. Alan Navarro—the man who could make him feel like a schmuck with a single, off-handed remark—had messed up big. He smiled with phony sympathy that dripped like 30W motor oil as he handed the cup to his star salesman, who was now sitting in Rick’s office, a broken man.

“What the hell happened out there?” he said. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know. Take some time off, get therapy, whatever. Forget about the sales contest. There’ll be other contests.”

“Lots of contests,” Alan said, unable to feel his legs.

As he wobbled to his feet and dragged himself to the door, he watched Gina and the other sales people pretending to be busy. They’ll be talking about this for weeks, he thought.

Rick was practically salivating as he stood to deliver the coup de grâce.

“Alan, before you go,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you think you might give me Stacey’s cell number? I’d like to call her up for a cup of coffee. You know, just a casual thing.”

His cheeks burning, Alan confronted the evil that was Rick. For a second, he thought he had heard wrong. Yet there Rick was, standing in front of him and smiling, holding a pen and a notepad.

“I’ll get your coffee, Rick.”

Alan marched stiffly to the credenza and, grabbing the steaming pot of fresh-brewed java, poured it down Rick’s pants as his boss screamed in ear-splitting agony.

“Aieeeeee! You crazy— You’re fired! Do you hear me? Fired! Oh, and I’ll press charges, buddy! You bet I will! Gina!”

Gina dropped her poppy seed bagel and ran into Rick’s office. Everyone in the showroom—including Laraine—watched as Alan stormed out. Seeing him this way made the bruises on her own body hurt again, and she realized today wasn’t a good day to buy a car.

* * *

A Sammy Day messenger, who was ripped and wore tight red shorts, knocked on Alan’s door, which set off a yapping dog alarm. Sammy Day Courier Service’s motto was “What’re You Worried? You’ll get it.” When he didn’t get an answer, he tried his special knock. Still nothing. As he grabbed a white plastic envelope and leaned it against the door, a tall man holding a Shih Tzu answered, looking about as presentable as Evil Ash in Army of Darkness.

“Mr. Navarro?” the messenger said, a little afraid.

“Hey.”

Alan hadn’t been expecting a package. Freeing up a hand, he took it. It was from the law offices of O’Brien, O’Brien & Wang. He didn’t like the look of it. After signing, he was about to close the door when he thought of something.

“Hey,” he said. “Got a few minutes?”

“Um, I have other deliveries.”

“No-no-no, this isn’t anything… I want to show you something I’m working on. I could use an outside opinion.”

“I dunno, man…”

“It’s a movie.”

The messenger’s eyes brightened. “A movie? Interesting.”

“I made brownies.”

“Ooh, I love brownies!”

Sitting at Alan’s computer, the Sammy Day driver, whose nametag read Carl, picked at a hangnail as Alan’s hot mess of a home movie finished. He pounded down another brownie and drained his glass of milk. Then, he rubbed at the imaginary pain at the back of his neck. Being a successful salesman, Alan was very good at body language and sensed what was coming. Ed was sitting at attention next to him, and he gave the dog a quick pat.

“I would never pay to see this,” Carl said, picking the last chocolate crumbs off his plate with a wet pinky.

“Why not?”

“Boy, where do I start? There’s no arc. Where’s your three-act structure? And who am I supposed to be following?”

Alan was getting steamed. Clearly, this rube was missing the point.

“Are you an idiot? There’s no arc. These are my home movies!”

Never one to take crap off his three older brothers or anybody else, Carl pinned Alan against the wall with a furry forearm. The dog ran around in circles, barking.

“Who are you calling an idiot?” he said. “I’ve got a year of film school.”

“Sorry,” Alan said. “I’m a little tense. How about another brownie?”

Carl released him. “You got any real movies?”

* * *

Ruby here. I’d been hanging out with Claire and Diego at the Beverly Center. I know, I know! Old and cheesy, right? Well, I still liked it. When I walked into the apartment with my bags, I found Dad and some messenger dude sitting on the living room sofa with Ed on his lap, immersed in Casablanca. And of course, it had to be the scene where Rick puts Ilsa on the plane. I never cared much for romantic movies, but Dad loved them and used to always make me watch them with him when I was little. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat through The End of the Affair.

Anyways, I didn’t know what was happening, but these two doofs were crying like little girls and hadn’t seen me come in. Dad offered his new movie buddy a tissue. By the time Rick said, “Here’s looking at you kid,” they were holding each other and bawling like babies. Well, I couldn’t take it anymore and broke up the party.

“What’s going on?” I said.

Both of them turned crimson and got to their feet in a hurry. Dad fumbled for the remote and switched to ESPN while the other dude looked for the exit.

“I gotta go,” he said, handing me his used tissue.

Clumsily grabbing his bag, he gave me the guy nod and headed out the door. When I looked at my father, my mouth hanging open like it had come off its hinges, he smiled awkwardly.

“I’m, uh, I’m just going to call Matt,” he said.

* * *

At Starbucks, Matt Navarro, a twenty-two-year-old film student from the Pink School, sat at a table next to the windows, staring into space. He was slightly built, with straight shoulder-length hair he had dyed jet black, like some emo late-bloomer. He tended to wear it in a man-bun, which today was tucked under a gray slouchy beanie. Though he had an imposing unibrow, his brown eyes were warm. Gently, he laid his phone on the table and sighed deeply, marveling at how one phone call could change your life.

Carrying two macchiatos, Phoebe Conklin came over and, sitting next to him, got her laptop out of her backpack. She was twenty-one, smart and pretty, with natural black hair, blue eyes, and creamy, pale skin. She was taller than Matt and, from the looks of her, definitely could have done better.

“Matt, here’s the latest budget,” she said, facing her laptop toward him. “I don’t think I can cut any more—”

“This movie’s gonna happen, Phoebe,” he said, ignoring the screen.

“Well, yeah, eventually. We’ll find the additional funds.”

“No. I mean it’s happening now.”

He stared at her with a kind of crazed excitement that made her uncomfortable. Then, his eyes got huge, and he took her hand.

“I’m so friggin’ happy!” he said.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

An annoying tapping noise woke me from an epic snore-a-thon, so no need for The Beggar’s Sideshow today. Why was I dressed? I didn’t remember falling asleep. And had Dad gone out? Vague flashes danced in my head. One of them was of the old Jewish lady from next door sticking her head in and whispering something in Yiddish. Yawning, I sat up and noticed a song sparrow pecking at my window. Well, that explained the tapping.

“Shoo!” I said, flinging a blue decorative pillow at the bird. “I hope Dad remembered the Froot Loops,” I said to Mr. Shivers.

After walking Ed, I checked the kitchen. Dad was nowhere in sight. I looked at the time on my phone. It was past eight. The dealership didn’t open until nine. Shouldn’t he be in the kitchen, making us breakfast? I checked his bedroom. Huh. The bed was made up. Could he have left already?

I checked the home office and discovered my father with his head on the computer keyboard, wheezing like a walrus who’d swallowed another walrus. On the monitor, I saw a freeze-frame of Mom and him standing on a beach in Dana Point. They looked incredibly happy. Oh boy, he was at it again. Those stupid home movies.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I said.

“Wha?”

“Don’t you have to go to work?”

Mom had once told me men needed constant supervision, or they tended to go off the reservation. She compared them to bowling balls and said women were the bumper rails. Seeing him like this proved she was right.

He stretched and yawned. “What time is it? Hey, I want to show you something.”

Grabbing my hand, he sat me down at the computer and, leaning over my shoulder, moved to the beginning of the video he’d been assembling all night. As I watched in disbelief, a strange, disjointed flood of images appeared—a wedding, a honeymoon, family gatherings, and assorted vacations. They were chronological and mind-numbingly prosaic. The whole thing looked like a documentary on the narwhal. When it was over, I sat there, stunned and unable to speak.

“So, what do you think?” he said.

“Um…”

“When I show this to your mom, she’ll see what a great family we had—have—and she won’t marry—”

“Mom’s getting married?”

I felt like someone wearing golf shoes had kicked me in the stomach. Dad got a panicked look on his face.

“Oh, boy,” he said.

“Is it Warren? I’ll bet it’s Warren.”

“Look, I’m sure I got it wrong. They’re probably just friends.” He tried taking my hands. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“When is all this supposed to happen?” I said, pulling away.

I felt feverish and suddenly had trouble swallowing. And what was that wart doing on my elbow? I never had a wart before!

“Never. Forget I said anything. Come on, let’s eat.”

“I mean, I knew she was moving on and all, but… And anyways, how can she marry that French-cuffed, monogrammed, Brooks Brothers-wearing poser who thinks he can fly?”

“Rube, come on. It’s a long time from now—in the future. I mean, you know your mother. This is a phase. She’ll come around. You’ll see.”

He was beginning to sound delusional, like the time he tried convincing Mom and me that “It’s a Small World” was the greatest ride ever invented.

“This can’t be happening!”

Great, I was hysterical. I never get hysterical. Dad looked at me with the helplessness of an adult trying to remove a child safety cap. Then, he put on one of his famous smiles.

“Rube, once your mother sees this video, she’ll—”

“She’ll what, Dad? Do you honestly think this…experimental film is going to save our family?”

“Wait till I add the music.”

“Oh!”

I felt disgusted. A seething rage I’d never known before consumed me. I headed straight for my room.

“It just needs some fine-tuning,” he said.

It took me a while to calm down. After I had showered and dressed, I went to the kitchen to grab something before heading out to meet Claire and Diego. Dad was talking into his phone, which was lying on the counter on speaker, as he spooned an enormous dollop of Welch’s grape jelly into a mixing bowl full of instant oatmeal. He hadn’t even shaved yet.

“Gina? Alan.”

He was doing his best to make his voice sound hoarse and painful. Actually, he was pretty convincing. Gina fell for it.

“Alan, I hardly recognized you,” she said. “Are you sick?”

“I woke up with this throat thing. Probably caught it from Ruby. Can you tell Rick?”

“Yes, I’ll tell him. Alan, I am so sorry. I hope you feel better. Are you taking Airborne?”

“I have to go, Gina. Bye.”

“Grabbing a juice box,” I said, heading for the refrigerator. “Thanks for blaming me for your fake illness, by the way.”

He pointed at my backpack. “Going out? I made you breakfast.”

He offered me the oatmeal. It looked grotesque in the way that fried mealworms look grotesque.

“Thanks. But Diego’s mom is waiting downstairs. We’ll be at the beach all day, okay?”

“Santa Monica?”

“Orange County somewhere.”

“Claire going?”

“Of course.”

“Make sure you stay with Diego’s mom.”

“I will.” He was looking at me strangely. “What?”

“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” he said. “You’re fourteen and in high school, and you have your own life. There’s Claire. And Diego. I have no idea where he fits in. Sorry, bad choice of words.”

“I have to go.”

“Sure. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Hey, Dad. We were going to try and find a dog beach, but since you’re not going in today, can Ed stay with you? Thanks.”

He tried the oatmeal, made a face, and added more grape jelly. I imagined my father thought the women in his life were abandoning him left and right. Okay, probably my guilt talking. I felt like I had to say something, though.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, Rube.”

“Bye. Bye, Ed.”

The dog followed me to the door. At least Dad would have some company. You know, misery and all that.

* * *

We had an awesome time at Huntington Beach. It wasn’t too crowded, and even though the waves were choppy, we had fun. After riding boogie boards, we rented bikes and cruised along the bike path singing “The Time Warp.” Diego’s mom treated us to Ruby’s Diner on the pier, where I ate the biggest burger of my life. It was late afternoon, and we were parked at the curb in front of my dad’s building. We’d already dropped Claire at her house.

“Gracias, Sra. Rivera,” I said.

“De nada, Reina,” she said. She always called me that; I didn’t know why.

I tried slipping her twenty bucks for gas, but she refused it and gave me a kiss. As Diego and I exited the Honda Civic and headed for the front entrance, I tucked the twenty in his shirt pocket. He had insisted on carrying my backpack. So not cool, but very gentlemanly.

“I had fun, Diego. Thanks.”

“Me, too. Hey, it’s not so bad. Look at me. My mom and I are doing good.”

I appreciated what he was doing. Earlier, I had told Claire and him the whole sordid tale about Mom possibly getting remarried. When the words came out, I wanted to cry. But I laughed instead and tried to make the whole thing sound absurd, in the French sense.

“Yeah,” I said. “Guess I need to get used to living in Bizarro World.” As I listened to my own voice, I felt like I could have been talking about amputating a limb.

“You’ll be okay, Ruby. You’re strong.”

“That’s me. ‘Ruby the Rock.’ See you, Diego.”

“Hasta luego.”

He hesitated, as if waiting for something. I looked down at my shoes, then at him. This was becoming awkward. Finally, he shrugged and headed back to the car. Weird. Whatev’. I waved and, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, ran inside toward the elevator. As I got out my key to the apartment, the door flew open. Dad was standing there proudly, barefoot, unshaven, and wearing a chocolate-stained T-shirt and sweatpants. He looked gross. Even Ed was avoiding him.

“Prepare to be amazed!” he said.

This couldn’t be good. Deliberately, I squeezed past him, set down the backpack, and went into the kitchen for a glass of milk. As I poured it, he hovered over me like a coffee-swilling Dementor.

“It’s incredible what happens when you go back. You see everything you did wrong.”

“Dad, I’m really not in the mood. And, no offense, but you stink.”

“Yeah, well. Who needs a shower when you’re creating a masterpiece? Right, Ed? Come on, Rube, please? I made brownies!”

Groaning, I allowed myself to be dragged into the home office.

Chomping on a brownie, Dad paced as I tried getting comfortable in his office chair. I didn’t want to be there and wondered how convincing I would be faking appendicitis. I tried the brownie, tasted butt, and spit it back onto the plate. Then, I gargled with milk and moved the mouse around.

“It’s that button there,” he said, reaching for the mouse.

“I know which button it is.”

I started the video, and what followed was like a magic mushroom-fueled hallucination. It was Tim Burton meets the Lumière brothers. It was what happens when Oompa Loompas smoke all the Easter grass.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Pretty compelling, huh?”

Dad was like a toddler who’d made his first potty, innocent and proud. Never mind that he did it in the fish tank. Though I didn’t love the idea, I knew what I had to do. When you see a cancer, you have to cut it out, or the patient will die. Dr. Ruby to the rescue! I cleared my throat, picked Ed up, and set him on my lap. I think the dog was starting to sense a pattern.

“Dad, listen,” I said. “This is even worse than the last version. I can’t tell you how bad it is. It’s almost unreal. I mean, did you ever see Norbit?”

“Okay,” he said.

“It’s the worst thing ever. Right up there with That’s My Boy.”

“I get it. Thanks for the feedback.”

I got up and, avoiding eye contact, went to the door. Then, I stopped and faced my father, my stomach churning from the combination of the toxic brownie and the look of hopeless disappointment on his face. I was the worst kid ever.

“It’s just that, I don’t ever want to lie to you,” I said.

Only, in this case, it would have been better to lie like a rug.

“No, I know. It’s fine. Really.”

He tried hugging me, but I had to back away. I found myself using the “Mom finger.”

“Okay, first, that project won’t bring Mom back. And second, you really need a shower.”

Later in my room, I Skyped with Claire and Diego. They were mostly sympathetic.

“You should have seen him. It was pathetic.”

“Ruby, he loves your mom,” Claire said. “What’s wrong with you?”

I shook my head. “Seriously, I think he’s losing it. Ever since he found out Mom is going to legit divorce him.”

Diego tried consoling me. “I know it seems bad, but it will get better.”

“Guys, I don’t know what to do.”

“Try having a little faith,” Claire said.

Diego made a face. “It’s not your job to fix this, Ruby.”

“But I want to. I need to. I just don’t know how.”

That night I was so upset, I couldn’t work on my machinima project. As I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling. The stain had become a menacing creature in a hat. I thought I heard Mr. Shivers whispering. “Nuts to you, Wes,” he said, like an assassin.

For the first time in my young life, I was scared.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

Alan sat at his computer, poring over videos of his wedding: Stacey getting ready with the help of her mother and her friends, the wedding party posing outside the Catholic church in Brentwood, and Alan’s mother sitting alone at the reception while his father, stepmother, and half-brother, Matt, sat uncomfortably at a different table. Matt had worn a black Homburg for the occasion.

Like the rest of his apartment, Alan’s office was a clutter of moving boxes, old magazines, and video cassettes. Though he had bought new furniture and accessories for every room, he had never had the energy to clean up the mess. As he slumped in his chair, his head throbbed and he thought he tasted blood. No wonder. He had bitten the inside of his cheek again.

This routine had become a habit, spending his nights sifting through old movies. At first, he had simply wanted to relive the happiness of his marriage to Stacey, followed by an idyllic life with their daughter. But as he dug deeper and realized how much footage he had accumulated over the years, a vague idea began to take form—that he could somehow pull together years of memories into a single, cohesive narrative that would prove to Stacey how much they had meant to each other and what a tragedy it would be if they divorced.

But that was as far as he had gotten.

From a practical perspective, he was talking hundreds of hours of video. No one—not even Stacey—would sit through that. He needed to find the best parts and string them together—a “highlights” reel. And he needed music. It was all so confusing. Usually, he would become depressed, crack open a beer, and put on An Affair to Remember or Roman Holiday, depending on how many tissue boxes he planned to go through.

Alan stared at the monitor grimly, images of Stacey in her wedding dress dancing in front of him. She was radiant. His eyes moist, he watched her longingly and wondered again, as he had so many other nights, what on God’s green earth had happened to them. Getting up and stretching, he rubbed his red eyes and went to check on Ruby.

She was asleep at her laptop, still wearing her earbuds. The small flat screen TV was on—Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers. How could she watch that stuff? Why not Jersey Girl or 13 Going on 30? He leaned over to close Ruby’s laptop. The screen was frozen on a scene from her machinima project. Alan cringed.

The image was striking. A man who looked very much like him was on his knees, his head and arms raised in supplication to a dark, boiling sky. A chill went through him. Not healthy, he thought as he snapped the laptop cover shut.

The dog was asleep on the bed. As quietly as possible, he picked Ed up and transferred him to the floor. Gently, he removed Ruby’s earbuds and thought he heard the tail end of “New Slang.” He carried her to the bed and turned off the TV. He was surprised at how light she was. She groaned softly as he lay her head on the pillow. He stood gazing at her slender wrists and long, delicate fingers. Then, he drew the duvet over her. No matter what happened, she would always be his little girl.

Lying in his own bed, Alan tried to sleep, but it was useless. He wanted to get out of the apartment for a while, and checked his watch. He hoped Mrs. Tessenbaum was awake.

* * *

Catalina’s wasn’t crowded. The small jazz club on Sunset was a favorite hangout of Alan’s. He liked it because it was more intimate than places like Vibrato Grill, though the décor wasn’t much to speak of. A jazz quartet was playing onstage when he walked in. He headed straight for the bar and ordered an IPA.

“I had this dream,” he said.

He liked telling his dreams to the pretty bartender because she was married, and that meant she was safe, at least to his way of thinking.

“I’m in this very ornate room. I think it’s French Baroque. And in the center is a Louis XIV table with a big pink donut box sitting on top. I can almost smell the donuts. But when I open the box, I find stacks of rare books containing some of the greatest knowledge of the universe.”

The bartender played along. “And do you open the books?”

“No. Right when I’m about to, I wake up.” He took another swallow of beer. “The thing is, I was really craving a donut after that.”

“Huh,” she said as she placed a fresh beer next to the one on the bar.

“You have to tell me what it means.”

“Maybe you think you want these rare, beautiful things that most people never even think about. But in the end, what you want is what everyone wants.”

“A donut?”

She gave him the high sign. He turned around to find a tall, attractive redhead wearing a red cocktail dress. It was Laraine Moody. Her hair and lips were full, and her jewelry glinted in the lights from the stage. Raising the new beer to her, he smiled weakly. She winked.

“You’re not gonna try your line out on her?” the bartender said.

“What line is that?”

“‘You remind me of Corpse Bride. Only prettier.’”

“You know me too well, kid.”

Eventually, Laraine stepped up to the microphone as the band broke into “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To.” Her voice was low and smoky, which Alan found interesting. She sang directly to him, and he pretended he didn’t notice. With the exception of President Kennedy with Marilyn Monroe, men didn’t like to be sung to.

He buried his face in his hands. Others were looking at him now, wondering what the connection was. His heart started to race, and he wished there was a fire alarm he could set off. When she wouldn’t stop, he dug out some cash, tossed it on the bar, and walked out as the music swelled.

* * *

Alan handed a twenty to Mrs. Tessenbaum, his elderly next-door neighbor. As a young girl, she had been rescued by the Americans from Dachau in the spring of 1945, along with her older brother and an uncle. Though she had lived through that hell, she had grown up to be a cheerful woman with a German accent who loved her dog and always referred to her late husband as “Mr. Tessenbaum.”

“Thanks again for watching her, Mrs. T.,” he said, opening the front door for her.

“It’s no trouble, you know that.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “You’re too young to be sad, Alan.”

“I know. Have you ever dreamt about donuts?”

“Ruby is such a cute girl. And your wife, Stacey. Oy! Such a beauty, that one.”

“Who’s about to marry Rumpelstiltskin. She doesn’t love me.”

He was surprised he had said that out loud. But it needed to be said. It was what he’d been feeling since that disastrous lunch the other day. The truth was, Stacey no longer loved him and was moving on. Soon, he would be utterly alone.

“So much you don’t understand,” the old woman said as they stood in the hallway. She smiled at his confused expression. “Women don’t fall out of love, Alan. It’s taken from us.”

She kissed him tenderly on the cheek and headed back to her apartment. “Good night, boychik,” she said over her shoulder.

“Good night, Mrs. T.”

Later, sipping a steaming cup of coffee at his computer, Alan resumed editing his home movies because he wasn’t going down without a fight. Warren Mudge was a troll, and trolls could be defeated. Yawning, he glanced at his watch. One-thirty. Plenty of time. They would see.

He was creating a masterpiece.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

[image error]I am jaded. Having read great American horror such as Hell House, I always expect the worst when I pick up a new book about the paranormal—“the worst” being a good thing as it pertains to sheer, violent, depraved mayhem. Not that The Woman in Black is new. I saw the movie last year and finally decided to read the source material. And to be honest, the film’s director, James Watkins, did ratchet up the horror angle, doing some things that went beyond the book.

At the heart of it, this novel is a ghost story in the best sense—a good, old-fashioned fireside tale meant to chill rather than repulse. And the writing is splendid—something lacking in a lot of the horror fiction I’ve read by less-skilled writers. The author, Susan Hill, has a way of describing dark things that leaves the very walls dripping with dread. And her depiction of an older Arthur Kipps reflecting on his haughtier younger self is first-rate and absolutely rings true.

Don’t expect to be terrified by The Woman in Black. That’s just not how it’s done when you’re writing exceptional literary fiction. But if you enjoy a really well-written book that perfectly captures a time and place as dense and cloying as the fog surrounding Eel Marsh House, then you will enjoy this story immensely.

You can find this review at Amazon US.

Synopsis

The classic ghost story from the author of The Mist in the Mirror: a chilling tale about a menacing spectre haunting a small English town. Now a major motion picture starring Daniel Radcliffe.

Arthur Kipps is an up-and-coming London solicitor who is sent to Crythin Gifford—a faraway town in the windswept salt marshes beyond Nine Lives Causeway—to attend the funeral and settle the affairs of a client, Mrs. Alice Drablow of Eel Marsh House. Mrs. Drablow’s house stands at the end of the causeway, wreathed in fog and mystery, but Kipps is unaware of the tragic secrets that lie hidden behind its sheltered windows. The routine business trip he anticipated quickly takes a horrifying turn when he finds himself haunted by a series of mysterious sounds and images—a rocking chair in a deserted nursery, the eerie sound of a pony and trap, a child’s scream in the fog, and, most terrifying of all, a ghostly woman dressed all in black. Psychologically terrifying and deliciously eerie, The Woman in Black is a remarkable thriller of the first rate.

Buy Links

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon Canada

More Reviews

Did you enjoy this review? Check out my other Amazon reviews here.

For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

It was hot in downtown LA—ghost peppers in a grease fire hot. In the distance, lines of cars clogged the swollen arteries of the Harbor Freeway. A solitary paletero with one leg shorter than the other was crossing the bridge at 3rd Street, the little bell on his cart tinkling merrily with the promise of delicious Mexican ice cream.

Eventually, he passed a tall, pretty redhead in a black cocktail dress, walking in the opposite direction. Her name was Laraine Moody, and the ice cream vendor could tell she’d been crying. When he saw the bruises on her pale, freckled arms, he knew what Ana Gabriel was talking about when she sang “Y Aquí Estoy.”

Through his large office window in the tallest building in LA, Warren Mudge peered through Nikon ProStaff binoculars and caught sight of the paletero as he vanished around a corner. Wiping a hungered droplet of drool from his lip, he realized he would have to hunt the little Mexican dude down later. The Chief Marketing Officer of Viper Leather Goods, Warren was in his mid-fifties and had a weakness for paletas—especially the pepino con chile y limón.

Though he was short, he did not suffer from achondroplasia. On the contrary, his body was proportional and muscled. He kept himself in shape by running, swimming, and climbing, and he adhered to a strict paleo diet—except for the paletas—while eschewing cigarettes and alcohol. Also, Warren was a skydiving freak and liked to escape to Elsinore Valley whenever he could.

As he leaned back comfortably at his luxurious antique walnut desk, Stacey Navarro knocked and came in, taking a seat opposite her boss. She noticed the newly framed photos of Warren’s most recent skydiving exploits hanging on the wall. She’d been meaning to tell him she had never been skydiving in her life and had no intention of starting, but now was not the time.

“Stacey, the marketing campaign is fantastic,” he said, waving his arms like he was giving a TED Talk. “So far, the UK, Benelux, and Saudi Arabia are seeing results.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” Stacey was nothing if not modest.

“Hmm… A man would’ve taken credit.”

“I know, Warren, but—”

“Close the door.”

She knew what was coming. And she wanted it, but at the same time, she didn’t. In the eighteen months she’d worked at Viper, Warren had promoted her twice and given her generous bonuses. He had always treated her with respect and courtesy. But somehow things had progressed to a new, almost uncomfortable level. Was she ready for this?

“Stacey, have you thought any more about the offer?”

The offer. He made it sound like he was buying an investment property in Montana. She looked at him, her eyes distant. In her mind, she pictured the wedding photo of Alan and her, which used to sit on the mantle, going up in flames. Please stop, she thought as he slid a handcrafted rosewood ring box across the desk toward her. Please, can you go back to being my boss?

For a long time, she stared at the box with the tasteful scrollwork. Somewhere far off, a lunatic had fired up a chainsaw, its angry whine echoing just outside the window, even though they were on a high floor. She reached for the present with trembling fingers. Opening it, she beheld a huge diamond engagement ring.

“Oh my,” she said.

Everything changed. Warren was no longer wearing a suit. He had on casual clothes, the kind you’d find at Barneys New York. The skydiving photos were gone, replaced by family portraits. Stacey saw herself holding a newborn baby and posing next to Warren. Ruby was standing on her other side, and everyone was smiling. Outside, it was raining, even though it hadn’t rained in LA for eons.

“I don’t want us to wait any longer,” he said from somewhere far away. “How soon can you make the divorce final?”

But Stacey could only sit there, as frozen as the precious gem in front of her.

* * *

It was the dwarf’s fault. Alan knew it in his soul. The homunculus in question was, of course, Warren Nathaniel Mudge. Mudge. It sounded like something that would clog your pipes, if you weren’t careful. Also, it rhymed with grudge. Which was perfect because now that Alan thought about it, he did have one nasty grudge against that evil mastermind. In fact, he would like to rip Mudge’s ears off and feed them to one of Rick Van Loon’s feral dates. It was because of that smirking, hunchbacked miscreant that Alan would lose the one great love of his life. That hirsute, grinning, piston-headed—

“Alan, are you even listening?”

He looked up from his half-eaten marinated skirt steak frites and stared cloudily into Stacey’s eyes. Those eyes. Perfectly blue with flecks of green. He adored those eyes. In fact, he had fallen in love with Stacey because of those eyes. That and so many other things.

When his hearing returned, he noticed that the BOA Steakhouse was unusually loud, as if each table were in a cheerleading competition at a Toastmasters convention. It was lunch time, and the place was packed, both at the tables and the bar. Runners with trays of food scurried past in a dizzy dance. Somewhere a glass shattered.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I—”

“I said, Warren asked me to marry him.”

“But we’re not even divorced!” The color had left his face. “And since when is he in the picture?”

“Keep your voice down.” Stacey, sounding as if she were addressing a misbehaving child, caught herself and softened her tone. “Obviously, this is going to take some time to figure out.”

Alan tasted vomit as he tried reasoning with her. “Hey, come on,” he said, trying on the million-dollar smile. “The guy’s been married—”

“Twice. I know. But he’s older, more mature. He’s a decent man.”

“Decent?”

“He wants a family.”

“So did Charles Manson. And look how that turned out. Besides, you have a family.”

“He wants me to quit my job and stay home.”

“I see what this is about. You think our marriage was a mistake.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And I’m a schmuck because I believe everyone needs to work.”

“Alan…”

As a dessert tray flew by, he snatched a slice of mascarpone cheesecake, scraped off a glob of vanilla Chantilly cream with his forefinger, and dumped it on Stacey’s steak.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What’s this for?”

“It’s the icing on the steak.”

Immediately regretting what he’d done, he got up and threw down some cash on the table.

“You’re being unfair,” she said, her voice like shards of ice.

“I’m being unfair?” Straightening his tie, he glanced around the room, then leaned in toward his wife. “I thought we had a shot. I guess I’m having a harder time ‘moving on.’”

“What? Alan, this isn’t a contest.”

He recognized the weariness in her voice. It was the same weariness he had picked up on when they were first having their difficulties a year ago. Had it been a year already? Ruby was fourteen! He took a last look at his soon-to-be ex-wife and walked out, muttering. Then, he remembered he didn’t have any cash for the valet.

Staring at the sugary white topping melting on her steak, Stacey felt frustrated and alone. She wanted to scream and suddenly hated the hairpiece of the man sitting across from her. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Why couldn’t people be civilized?

A memory came flooding back to her of a night eleven years earlier when she and Alan were lying in bed. Long before iPads had been invented, they’d settled the problem of what to watch by setting up two televisions side-by-side at the foot of the bed. She remembered he was watching The Apartment. She was multitasking, reading a book on infertility and half-watching the original A Nightmare on Elm Street—one of her favorites because it featured Johnny Depp in his pre-Jack Sparrow days.

“I heard something,” she said, yanking off her headphones.

Still wearing his, Alan sat in bed, engrossed in the scene where Jack Lemon finds Shirley MacClaine lying on his bed, unconscious from an overdose of sleeping pills. With mother determination, she got out of bed and rushed to Ruby’s bedroom. When she didn’t see her daughter, her heart skipped a beat. As she made her way down the stairs, she heard giggling coming from the home office. Rushing in, she found Ruby, three at the time, playing a computer game.

“Ruby, why aren’t you in bed?”

As Alan walked in, he yawned loudly. “What’s going on?”

Stacey glared at him, angry at his seeming lack of concern. “Your daughter is playing Warcraft: Orcs & Humans again.”

“Look, Daddy!” Ruby said, pointing proudly at the monitor.

“Are you kidding me?” He came over and squinted at the screen. “How did you manage to kill all those Orcs?”

Stacey rolled her eyes. “Alan, that’s not really the point.”

“I know, but—”

“Back to bed, Ruby. Now!” Stacey was pointing at the door.

“Come on, short stack,” Alan said, picking up his daughter and depositing her on his shoulders.

“Whee!”

Back in bed, Alan reached over to turn out the light, but Stacey set her book down and grabbed his arm.

“Ow! Look, it’s not my fault she keeps guessing my password,” he said.

“I want another baby.”

“Now? What about the schedule?”

Smiling, she climbed onto him and, switching off the light, kissed him. “Schedule, shmedule.”

Sitting glumly at her table at the BOA Steakhouse, Stacey could still feel that kiss, as well as a profound sadness. She would marry Warren, and Alan would find someone. They would have joint custody of Ruby. She and Warren would have children of their own, and so would Alan and whoever he wound up with—probably someone younger who attended barre classes. Everyone would get together on holidays, and Ruby would be well adjusted.

Why was she having so much trouble picturing Alan with someone else? Come on, Stacey, think. All those women who came into the dealership every day? She was perfectly aware they found him attractive. As she had. Short blondes with big breasts, tall brunettes with legs up to their eyeballs. Oddly, no redheads. Everything will be fine, she told herself. Alan would eventually meet someone. The important thing for him was to get back out there.

Still, was that the future she wanted? This wasn’t one of her promotions. Warren had proposed, for God’s sake. And another thing. Why had she been in such a hurry to tell Alan? To hurt him? Yes—no! The truth was, she had hurt him. Deeply. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been that hard to do. In fact, it had felt…good.

As Stacey looked down at her cold plate, she watched in silent dread as fresh blood oozed from beneath the meat, as if something had been sacrificed.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.