By P.S. Gifford
As the rain swept night continued to batter against his apartment’s cracked window Evan could not help but chortle to himself at the chapter he had just written. Evan was forty-five years old, divorced, and by day he was an office clerk; one of about thirty anonymous faces that existed mundanely within the accounting department …Yet, in the evening he transformed from a mild mannered office rat to a man with an obsessed passion-he wrote.
Evan had always enjoyed writing ever since he was a young child. He had always found extraordinary comfort in the realities and alternate worlds that he fashioned within his mind. Any success he had achieved had been fleeting at best; a few short stories published by a few cruddy magazines and various internet websites. Whilst taking another mouthful from the dark murky liquid from his cracked coffee mug, he read the newly created words out loud seemingly relishing upon each scrumptious syllable.
“Rudy sat simply sat there cautiously examining the scene he now found himself in. As he pulled his long black mohair coat tighter about him he lit another Pall Mall cigarette and greedily breathed it in. He felt his hands finally stopping trembling as the nicotine began to reach his blood. He glanced at his watch it was almost midnight and time to get going. Walking methodically over to the body, he could still see the fear alive within the dead mans eyes. He reached down and slowly removed the ten inch butchers knife that he had deliciously slipped into the unfortunate mans heart. This was his twelfth murder and his skill at butchery had undoubtedly become quite refined. Suddenly an image of the first victim abruptly danced within his mind and he recalled how the man had squirmed and whimpered. That it wasn’t until he had clumsily stabbed him a dozen times, perhaps more, before the agonizing moans and writhing had ceased.”
‘Yes I have come a long way over the last six months,’ he thought. Yet he still realized that this wasn’t as easy as it would have first seemed. That some basic knowledge of anatomy was going to be of benefit to him. He had spent many a night at the library since; reading, learning and evaluating. Upon each lesson, he would set out into the night yet again. Of course all these murders had been merely rehearsals; simple dummy-runs. But next week, after months of planning, he was finally going to meet his objective. At long last he would have retribution to the man who had spawned so much hatred within him.”
Evan glowed, “perfect!” he exclaimed out loud rather victoriously.
“I don’t know where I get these ideas from!” he grinned to himself gleefully as if he had just been whispered some secret joke.
He examined the old faded tabloid he kept purposefully next to his desk as a continual inspiration. As he had done a hundred times previously he picked up the newspaper and read the words out loud, slowly and with purpose.
“The Revenge of a Madman by Evan McGregor-A book review by Justin Holloway.
What has the world of horror become over the last twenty years?
It seems that all originality has been replaced with variations upon the same few tired mundane themes. Case in point the newest book by the want to be author Evan McGregor; it was to my great horror that I was assigned to review it and I hasten to add that was the only horror that I felt during the whole experience. Evan writes using a formulated series of plastic clichés. You are fully aware when reading that Evan has not experienced anything remotely horrific in his life. In fact I would go as far to say that he has never as much even killed a rat. Evan if you are reading this. I strongly urge you to either give up on this style of writing or go out and experience life.”
The article continued…But Evan’s rage was at a boiling point. As he placed on his black mohair coat, remembering to put a new packet of Pall Mall cigarettes into the side pocket he looked at the address he had finally found. The address belonged to Justin Holloway…