Viewing Category: Fiction

Okay, gang. I promised a cover reveal for my first novel, THE FOURTH CHANNEL, and I’m going to deliver. The novel is very close to being finished. All that’s really left to do is wrap up the edits and let you read it.

I’m nervous and excited. I mean, you all know how nervous I get just posting “Ridiculous Fan Fiction” on my site, and that isn’t serious. The novel’s a whole different ball of wax. So, yeah. I’m nervous. Over the last year, I’ve worked hard at creating a “platform” with blogging and social media. I’ve met so many of you who enjoy my goofy articles. It’s because of you and your amazing feedback that I keep writing and thinking of more ways that I can entertain, not just you, but me, too.

But the book release is the moment of truth: are you going to like my book?

God, I hope so.

Snake bursts through a heavy metal door onto the roof of Barnes and Noble. The night air is cool, but not as cool as Snake’s black leather wife beater which dully reflects the moonlight. It’s hip, yet breezy. It’s a look that says “I’ll beat your ass and look great doing it, too.”

The former Duke of Starbucks is right behind Snake. He dashes to the corner of the roof where a lone black hang glider is chained to a bike rack. A dog tag hangs from the handlebar. It reads “A-Number One”.

Snake’s eye narrows. “Who the hell is going to steal a hang glider?”

With only 16 minutes left, Snake has no time to be choosy. He heads for the nearest of the three Starbucks, the smallest building on the left corner. He bursts through the entrance and sends a display of environmentally-friendly, made-from-recycled-plastic travel mugs flying across the store. They ricochet off of walls, customers, and Police Commissioner Bob Hauk’s shiny bald head.

Snake does a double-take at Hauk.

“Hauk,” he hisses.

“Hello, Snake. I’ve been waiting for you.”

It’s 2:00am. The streets of Seattle are pitch black and lonely, save for the occasional, near-burned-out street lamp casting pools of dim, yellowed light on the asphalt, and a 24-hour Starbucks on every corner and squeezed into the spare square footage of every bank, gas station, and grocery store. A lone man stalks the sidewalk, his black leather pants and matching wife-beater blending with the dark, and his long, feathered hair rustling gently in the breeze. His one eye squints dubiously at the Starbucks. The other is hidden behind a black eyepatch.

The man marches straight through the Starbucks parking lot and jerks the door open. Inside, a long customer line trails from the register back to the door and doesn’t seem to be moving. The man charges forward, shoving college students and hipsters aside. Their screams and protests fill the air as they are tossed either to the ground or into large displays of organically grown, free-trade coffee beans. He charges toward the front, his mission urgent: Snake Plissken needs a latte.

I scared you in THE RELIC, intrigued you in SITE 27, and punished you in THE MARK. But can I write a novel?

You’re about to find out.