It’s been an agonizingly slow process, but I’ve just about wrapped up the complete manuscript. Will post cover image etc. as soon as all that is finished. Sorry for the lack of content thus far, but I doubt anyone really wants to read me pissing and moaning about writer’s block.
Too many people in the house already, but they kept on arriving. Huge numbers of them all quiet and somber, gathered as if for some funeral potluck, though who may have died he couldn’t say. He didn’t know if he was remembering or imagining or some of both, only that he was outside all this yet a part of it too. He tried to locate himself in space, and found he was standing on both sides of the front door, watching the guests enter, at the same time watching the proceedings within. So many present, they meant nothing as individuals, dissolving into a great murmuring shadow as if they all wore black cloaks, black veils. The deceased may have been his mother. He wasn’t sure but he knew she was dead either way, had always been dead. And so his own existence was a contradiction.
In the middle of the wake he picked out a single face, drained of its complexion but recognizable still. She nodded at him, reached out, and he saw she was holding something.
Take this. She seemed to catch herself about to smile, then looked neutral again.
Who do I point it at?
You know who.
She disappeared into the crowd again. He felt the thing solidify in his hand, hefted its weight. Without thinking, without needing to think, he aimed it and fired.