Sample from THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET, NEW Story Collection from @MoranPublishing6/29/2016 SAMPLE FROM THE NEW STORY COLLECTION FROM MORAN PUBLISHING |
 | Introducing - THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET, a story collection from Moran Publishing. In his first collection of short stories, Stephen Moran (Author of Ella) pushes the boundaries between reality and fiction. Not an ordinary collection of stories, these narratives will leave you asking questions long after you close the pages. Mystery with a mix of horror, this character profile of Scott Holden will keep you guessing. Inside one writer's mind exists a hall of mirrors. Is he the creator-or a character? Is his work fiction-or a manifesto? And who set off the bomb in the middle of the city? Click the cover photo to visit the Amazon page for this latest release from Moran Publishing and please enjoy the sample attached to this post. |
A MOMENT AND FOREVER
Scott arrived home late, but not so late it was unusual. Michael, the floor supervisor at the factory, delayed him a few minutes to offer him an extra shift on Saturday. Scott answered that he had plans with Diana. Offering an empty apology, Scott rushed home, hoping to catch her before bed.
Scott entered a dark, quiet apartment and paused for a moment in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. Usually when Diana went to bed before he got home, she left a light on in the kitchen and a plate of food on the counter. He flicked on the light and found an empty counter. He continued to the bedroom, opening the door slowly. The bed was empty, left as he made it that morning. He returned to the kitchen, looking for a note or some sign explaining the empty, dark apartment. The light blinked on the answering machine, so he pressed the button.
It was Diana. She needed to attend a retirement party for one of her bosses. She promised not to be late, but gave no definitive time frame. The machine stamped the time of the call at a few minutes before nine o’clock. The microwave clock showed midnight; he expected her return quite soon.
“I’ll wait on dinner,” he muttered, getting a beer out of the refrigerator and heading into the living room. He took a seat in the armchair, turned on the television, and put his feet up on the stool.
An hour passed without a call or arrival. Scott drank through the better part of a six-pack of beer, pulling the tabs off as he pushed each empty can aside. Constant glances at the clock failed to calm his nerves and he began chewing at his fingernails. Anxiety formed a physical presence in the bottom of his stomach, a knot hardening by the minute. He wiped sweat from his brow and checked the clock again.
The phone rang at 1:45, breaking the silent tension in the room. As his arm snatched the phone with an energy fueled by jealousy, he muttered a curse about acting like a schoolgirl.
“Hello?” He heard a roar of voices and music on the other end. The volume hurt his ears.
“Scott,” Diana said, her voice slurred thick with alcohol. Close to the phone, he heard a male voice urging Diana to hurry.
“Diana?’
“Yes, Scott. I’m going to party for a little while, okay? Don’t wait up. I’ll get a ride,” she said in a blinded rush of words.
“Okay. I love you,” he said, but she had already ended the call.
He opened the last beer, ripping the tab away and throwing it onto the floor. Shaking his head, he tried to understand her call and ward off the creeping thoughts of morbid jealousy. A question echoed in his mind: Where was she? Images of debauchery and treachery fluttered inside his brain.
Turning up the volume on the television, he attempted to drown the thoughts, the concerns, and the growing jealousy. He dug through memory, searching for a similar incident to quell his fears and enable him to sleep. However, no such memory came to his aid; Diana had always been punctual, habitual, there—always and forever there for him when he arrived home from work each night.
He sipped whiskey until his body drifted towards sleep. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the neon green numbers on the alarm clock: 3:15.
Scott arrived home late, but not so late it was unusual. Michael, the floor supervisor at the factory, delayed him a few minutes to offer him an extra shift on Saturday. Scott answered that he had plans with Diana. Offering an empty apology, Scott rushed home, hoping to catch her before bed.
Scott entered a dark, quiet apartment and paused for a moment in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. Usually when Diana went to bed before he got home, she left a light on in the kitchen and a plate of food on the counter. He flicked on the light and found an empty counter. He continued to the bedroom, opening the door slowly. The bed was empty, left as he made it that morning. He returned to the kitchen, looking for a note or some sign explaining the empty, dark apartment. The light blinked on the answering machine, so he pressed the button.
It was Diana. She needed to attend a retirement party for one of her bosses. She promised not to be late, but gave no definitive time frame. The machine stamped the time of the call at a few minutes before nine o’clock. The microwave clock showed midnight; he expected her return quite soon.
“I’ll wait on dinner,” he muttered, getting a beer out of the refrigerator and heading into the living room. He took a seat in the armchair, turned on the television, and put his feet up on the stool.
An hour passed without a call or arrival. Scott drank through the better part of a six-pack of beer, pulling the tabs off as he pushed each empty can aside. Constant glances at the clock failed to calm his nerves and he began chewing at his fingernails. Anxiety formed a physical presence in the bottom of his stomach, a knot hardening by the minute. He wiped sweat from his brow and checked the clock again.
The phone rang at 1:45, breaking the silent tension in the room. As his arm snatched the phone with an energy fueled by jealousy, he muttered a curse about acting like a schoolgirl.
“Hello?” He heard a roar of voices and music on the other end. The volume hurt his ears.
“Scott,” Diana said, her voice slurred thick with alcohol. Close to the phone, he heard a male voice urging Diana to hurry.
“Diana?’
“Yes, Scott. I’m going to party for a little while, okay? Don’t wait up. I’ll get a ride,” she said in a blinded rush of words.
“Okay. I love you,” he said, but she had already ended the call.
He opened the last beer, ripping the tab away and throwing it onto the floor. Shaking his head, he tried to understand her call and ward off the creeping thoughts of morbid jealousy. A question echoed in his mind: Where was she? Images of debauchery and treachery fluttered inside his brain.
Turning up the volume on the television, he attempted to drown the thoughts, the concerns, and the growing jealousy. He dug through memory, searching for a similar incident to quell his fears and enable him to sleep. However, no such memory came to his aid; Diana had always been punctual, habitual, there—always and forever there for him when he arrived home from work each night.
He sipped whiskey until his body drifted towards sleep. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the neon green numbers on the alarm clock: 3:15.
Get the rest of the story in the NEW Collection from Stephen Moran - THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET
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