A Writer's Blog

L Kerr Reviews The Terrorist of Providence Street

1/10/2019

L KERR REVIEWS
THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

L Kerr Reviews

5.0 out of 5 stars matryoshka doll of a story inside a story

January 7, 2019 Verified Purchase

Stephen Moran’s writing style is casual current and probably not like any other author you’ve read! I turned each page because it was so drawing but also I really wanted to see where Moran was taking the story(stories). I love not figuring out the twists and turns!! At the end I couldn’t help wonder if Moran was just setting things up and there will be even more. Sequel? I hope so because there was one character in particular I’d love to see reappear. Or am I only dreaming? The Terrorist Of Providence Street was one hell of a cool read!

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Individual 438

1/8/2019

INDIVIDUAL 438

Sirens and horns wake me and I roll off the concrete slab bed onto the dusty cracked tile floor. Batons clang against the bars, creeping closer to my hole, shadows of faceless guards shrouding the feeble light. A monster with broad shoulders unlocks my gate and steps inside, dust and debris pluming into the small space, forcing a cough from my lungs.

"Strip." He doesn't have a voice of a man, the metallic echo of a robot or appliance emanates from underneath the hood covering his massive skull.

Shedding the crusty hospital gown to the floor, I shiver with cold while my brain presents a disjointed array of images of the myriad ways I'm about to die.

The monster grabs my upper arm and drags me out of my hole before thrusting me forward into the line of naked humanity forming in the hallway. I keep my head down and follow the herd of men, which trudges and sways with exhaustion and fear, the endless sirens ripping at sanity.

The faceless monsters force the line into a dark doorway, no light to reveal our collective fate, but screams echo along the walls and ceilings. Some resist and try to push the door closed, but the faceless men eliminate the rebellion with a cattle-prod type weapon, pressing it against the naked flesh of any fighting to administer an electric shock. Once shocked the men fall like the dead and the rest continue into the dark open door without a fight.

I'm at the front of the line, hands propel me forward into the darkness. Screams attack my ears and more hands pull me through another doorway. Suddenly, I'm bathed in light so intense it burns my skin. I'm in an auditorium of sorts, rows of seats surrounding a small stage.

Scattered throughout the auditorium are televisions enclosed in cages blaring the same address from the fearless leader of our land. He screams and gesticulates, the sound seeping into my pours. After each break in the speech a round of screams echos as if in response. Leader speaks, the citizens scream in agony.

The herd pushes me toward the stage, where a woman in a dress that was once white, but now mostly red with the blood of those screaming response at fearless leader holds court with a sword in her hands.

I'm third in line. Individual 438. My death approaches. The first man steps on the stage and knees before the woman. As fearless leader speaks and rages on the television screen, the man makes the sign of the cross. A bell rings and the woman raises the sword high in the air.

"He told another lie, I sentence you to death."

Swinging the sword, the blonde woman severs the man's head and kicks it from the stage as the body spurts blood. The man in front of me screams and attempts to run from the line. Nobody stops him.

The televisions go dark and fearless leader screams no more. The woman on the stage wipes blood from the sword and approaches me.

"You got lucky. He told 437 lies."

She smiles and taps at my naked parts with the sword. A monster appears by her side, this one with a face of scars and burnt features for all to see.

"What shall I do with the one that ran?"

"Feed him to the dogs," the blonde woman answers, wiping blood off her face with the back of her hand.

"And this one, the lucky one?" The monster asks, nodding in my direction.

"Give Mr. Lucky a new number. Individual number one. You've been promoted."

#FICTION - Morning Tender - A Ray Holden Story

12/22/2018

MORNING TENDER

Ray woke earlier than usual, refreshed as from eight hours sleep, which in reality had been four. His eyes snapped open, fear spreading in his stomach. Still there! Familiar blonde curls cascading over fluffy blue pillows, small shapely hands gripping the comforter. Smiling, he traced fingers over her skin, silk velvet under his rough touch.

With effort he stood, slipped on his shoes and left the bedroom, remnants of sleep fading and the desires of a new day asserting their needs. He thought about breakfast and taking a shower, but instead he lit a cigarette as he walked into the morning sun, whose gentle heat erased the rain of the previous day. He smoked in silence, nature still and sleepy at that early hour, not a bird or car disturbing his reverie. He dragged his foot along the gravel in distraction. The world entire seemed to stop, thoughts pounding in his mind.

“What now?” he asked the clear blue sky. The question dissolved into the morning shine, silence embedded in the early heat. He flicked the cigarette into the street and went inside.

He paused in the doorway, watching her sleep. She shifted onto her stomach, her fingers arranging blankets knowingly and looked up at him.

“Why did you get up?” Her voice was thick with morning.

He sat on the bed, fingers finding hers, caresses and words exchanged through touch.

“I needed some air.”

“To smoke,” she said, smiling.

“Yes.”

“As always. The same every day, nothing changes.”

“Get off it,” he said, crawling back into bed. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away with her hand.

“Ray!”

“What?”

“You’re like a little boy, you never learn.” She sighed, but kept smiling.

“Sorry mother.”

“Please,” she said, turning away, pulling the comforter with her.


He scanned her body, back bare and tender, and pulled the blanket over her.

She sighed again and turned her head to look at him. “Go wash your mouth, you smell like an ashtray.”

“No,” he said, in mocking defiance.

“Fine, then go back to sleep.”

Sinking into the pillow, sleep descended once again.


Black clouds rush in from the west, covering the light, rain begins in torrents, scathing the roof tiles, threatening to wash it all away.

Her face in a cloud, frowning, next to wolves...

“Did you really think?” a voice whispers, exploding inside his mind. He hears laughter, mad cap shrieking laughter all around him.

‘No, no, no,” he whispers.

He woke with a start and jumped to his feet, the bed empty. He rushed into the living room: empty, empty and still, empty.

“No,” he muttered to himself, his teeth clenched together. Motionless and trapped in thought, he stared about the room.

Did you really think? He spun to the sound, but the room remained empty, stubborn hateful empty. Dropping to the floor with a thud, he covered his eyes, too scared to feel tears, trying to hear the voice again.
Memories of the day he lost her at the zoo flooded his mind. He searched franticly for her, retracing the paths, the animals seen, which growled at him, watched him, asking and begging strangers to remember her, but to nothing. He sat down at a cafe, exhausted and pulling at his hair. With tears in his eyes he saw her sitting at the bar, talking to a strange man, who wore a pair of jean shorts and a skin tight white tee-shirt. As he walked towards them, trying to calm himself, he heard the voice again.

“Ray.”

He lifted his eyes to her, vision a blur, an image of her holding a white paper bag, a cup of coffee, and a newspaper managed to imprint on his brain and cut through the fog of anxiety.

“Where did you go?” He managed to choke out in a scratched hiss.

“I got breakfast,” she said, placing the bag on the table. She hurried to him, quick and light steps, kneeling next to him.

“What did you get?” He pressed his face into her shoulder.

“Your favorite,” she said, holding him tight.

“Cinnamon raisin?”

“I got a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted, with extra cream cheese, a coffee, and your morning paper,” she said, stroking his hair. He clung to her, his hands linked behind her.

“What is it?” she asked.

He remained silent, pulling her closer.

“Ray.” Her voice sweet and soft in his ear, her breathe against his next warm and tender, her fingers massaging his temples.

“Don’t leave,” he said.

“Ray, what is it?” she asked, kissing his forehead.

“Just don’t leave me, Rose,” he whispered.

She rocked him slow in her arms, humming low and sweet.

“I won’t,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Tonight makes two years, Ray.”

“I know,” he answered. “I know.”

He kissed her as the sunlight broke through the blinds, bathing the room in yellow warmth.

Short Story Collections - Coming Soon

12/21/2018

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
COMING SOON

It's been a long time since I published a book and that's going to change in 2019. The short story collections are coming very soon. Here's a breakdown of what you can expect.

Story collections currently released

THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET
SERVER
THREE STORIES

STORY COLLECTIONS TO BE RELEASED IN 2019

The Three Suicides of Ray Holden
Ryan Holden: An Introduction
Origin of a Serial Killer
The Killers and other stories

Once these four story collections are released, I'll add the stories from Server and collect all into a complete edition. I'll add some bonus material to this collection as well (including a map of my fictional world).

I will be offering custom editions of my story collections for long time readers. Thanks for all the support and I look forward to sharing my fiction with you.

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Anomie from Generic White Male

12/21/2018

CHARTS for Study - Is Market Ready for a Crash

12/17/2018

$SPY CHART - 12/17/18 - On the Brink of a Bear Market

12/17/2018

Excerpt from Ella - Routine

12/3/2018

ROUTINE
EXCERPT FROM ELLA
*warning for graphic material

Late night is my favorite time of day. When he is sleeping and the TV is off, I can breathe. All is silent. I am left to myself. Not even he can bother me. He fell asleep on the couch hours ago, giving me time. There are those moments before he passes out in front of the tube. I wonder if I’ll go insane. I can’t even watch television without a hassle. I wish he’d leave me alone.

What I wouldn’t give for a good book right now. I wish I had a book to read, so I wouldn’t have to think so much. Some days, all I do is think of all that is happening and wonder. I wonder why my life is like this and why Mother went away. I wish my favorite writers would write faster. I read all they write and read them again and again, but my eyes get tired. And I end up sitting and thinking, thinking and sitting, and waiting, waiting, waiting for sleep.

Every night, I go through the same routine with few exceptions. After dinner, I do my homework for two hours. My father has this idea that I should study for two hours. I don’t know where he got the idea that 7th graders were supposed to study for two hours, probably from some paper sent home from the school, but he thinks it is an unwritten law. He makes me sit at my desk for two hours even if I finish early.

“Read something,” he’ll yell up the stairs if I ask if I can watch television. “At least, use all that damned shit I bought you. That computer wasn’t fucking cheap you little, ungrateful witch.”

It usually goes something like that for two hours. It is the same every night, except Friday and Saturday nights. I get to do the weekend homework on Sundays. And yes, he was nice enough to buy me a computer to do my writing. He says it cost him fifteen hundred dollars, but I know he stole the damn thing. On the nights I finish my homework early, I type in my computer journal like tonight. I like to rant and rave about school, but usually, I bitch about my dad. I never run out of things to say about him.

Well, back to the routine. I told you about the homework part. After I finish my homework, which he of course checks, I am allowed to watch exactly one hour of television. When he is in a good mood, I’m allowed to choose the shows. Those nights are rare, but when they occur, I take advantage. I turn it to MTV. He hates this channel. He sits next to me on the couch and grunts his disapproval.

He will even goes so far as to bash a song or two, but when he lets me control the set, he doesn’t change the channel. He just sits there and watches right beside me. Sometimes, to show my gratitude, I’ll lean my head on his shoulders. And on nights that he is really pleasant, I’ll let him hold my hand. I may not get along with him, but since my mother died two years ago, he is all I have.

After I watch my hour of television, he tells me it’s time to get ready for bed. Bedtime around this house for me is nine o’clock. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent arguing and pleading with him for a later bedtime, but he is stuck on his routines. Bedtime is nine o’clock. Sharp.

So, up the stairs to get ready for bed, which isn’t a simple thing for me. I have to look my best. Imagine going to bed for the night with snarled hair! I won’t have it. No. Not at all. I must groom with care. The routine will probably bore you, but here it is anyway.

First, I put on my pajamas. There is no sense in brushing your hair when you have to pull a shirt over your head! I brush my hair for ten minutes. I love the way the brush feels in my hair. I run the brush through from front to back again and again. One hundred times. After I brush my hair, I tend to my nails. I clip them, file them, and wonder how they would look with those fancy nail polishes I see advertised on television. My dad won’t let me wear nail polish, or makeup for that matter. He says it would make me look like a tramp. I don’t want to look like a tramp like that girl Jessie at school, but I do want to paint my nails. It might make me feel more grown-up.

After I do my nails, I go to the bathroom. I brush my teeth. I can hear him now saying five minutes, floss, and use the mouthwash. He likes me to use spearmint kind. He is very particular about my breath. Then I wash my face. I go back to my room, check myself in the mirror, and hop into bed with the light on. Dad always shuts it off for me. I count the minutes until he raps on the door.

One, two, three quick, light knocks.

“Are you sleeping?” he asks every night.

“No, Daddy.”

He opens the door, shuts off the light, and gets into bed with me.

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Excerpt from ELLA - The Interrogation

12/3/2018

EXCERPT FROM ELLA
THE INTERROGATION

I hop out of the car and walk inside. There’s no need to turn around to know he will follow. The engine goes silent. His boots squish and squeak in the snow, coming closer until I feel him press against my back.

“Just open the door. It doesn’t matter anymore,” he grumbles.

I walk to the bedroom to change, not bothering to close the door. The wet winter clothes peel off my body. Putting on sweat pants, I enter the living room. His eyes lock onto my bare flesh and a smile changes to a frown as I pull a t-shirt over my head.

“Are you staying for dinner again?”

I know what the answer will be, so I grab the pots and pans for pasta and meatballs. Men will eat anything as long as they don’t have to cook. I notice him arranging my books in alphabetical order. Sighing, I turn my attention back to cooking.

“You look very pretty.”

I turn my head and stick my tongue out at him. “I’m wearing sweatpants, wise guy.”

“You’re barefoot and cooking me dinner.” He winks.

Men. “Forget that. You still haven’t told me what you think of my novel. You read it, right?”

“I read a few pages but couldn’t go on. How can I read a book that doesn’t have a title?”

“I don’t need a title yet. It’s a work in progress.”

“Make the title reflect the story.” He walks over and leans against the counter, watching me stir the pasta. “In other words, what’s this novel about?”

“The rise of women.”

Chuckling, he opens a bottle of wine and avoids looking at me. “Nobody wants to read about that. People want to escape reality.”

“What should I write about, fucking vampires that sparkle?” I accentuate each word by slamming the spatula on the end of the skillet.

“I don’t know. Sex and violence usually do the trick. That’s all I can say. After all, I’m a cop, not a writer.”

“That, I know.”

Despite my anger, I put an extra helping of meatballs on his plate. We sit and begin to eat, watching each other and drinking wine. He finishes and I get up to make him another plate when he breaks the silence.

“I must ask you one more question about that night.”

I slam my palm on the table, spilling wine on the tablecloth. Neither of us moves, and for a span of minutes, the ticking of my wall clock serves as the only sound in the room. I’m not going to talk about this with him. No. Not again.

“Why can’t you let this go? It’s been six months. You have asked me the same questions a hundred different ways. Why must you obsess over it?”

“Because a man died!”

“A man that three witnesses testified to seeing assault and rape me…”

He cuts me off. “Yes, but…”

I cut him off, too. “Roger, there are no ifs or buts. A man assaulted me. I killed him. The end.”

“There are…inconsistencies in your statements,” he says, measuring his words.

“I spent five years locked in a nut house, and you’re surprised there are inconsistencies in my statement? And they say I’m crazy.” My body trembles and my heart races.

He laughs, but his eyes probe me with unsaid questions and commentary. He pours another glass of wine, returning to his plate of pasta. His chewing slows and I feel his eyes on me. I can almost detect the sparks inside his mind—ideas churning in that cop orb that won’t let me out. My hand grips the bread knife, and the powerful urge to ram it into his neck comes over me.

“The part I don’t understand…” He stops to finish chewing.

I’m freaking out as I wait for doom, but I just listen.

“Where did all the money go?”

Money? What money is he talking about? He knows I have no money. Gulping the wine, I watch him for any clue. “What?” The word cracks in my throat.

“And why do you have men following you?”

“You should be able to answer that better than I can,” I murmur, sliding the knife off the table and into my lap. Can I reach him before he can react?

“One man seems to be a professional, though not a cop. The other one is…”

I try to speak, but my voice fails me.

“The FBI.” A wide smile rises on his fat cheeks.

“I haven’t noticed anyone following me.” I try to slow my breathing, the pace of my heart clouding my thoughts.

“You’d be the last to know.”

I wince. This cop logic seems sound, but what does he really know? What does he want me to say? After gathering my courage, I blurt out the only thing on my mind. “Tell me about the money.”

He taps his fingers on the table in drum roll imitation as I squirm in my seat, ready to leap at him. My phone vibrates with a new text message from an unknown number. As I grab the phone, Roger puts down his fork.

“Millions left to you have gone missing.” He shoots a sharp glance toward me.

“What? I don’t have millions of anything, let alone dollars.” I shake my head.

When I try to read the message on my phone, Roger’s eyes follow.

“All accounts are dated on the day of your eighteenth birthday.”

This can’t be true. Am I rich? But Roger has nothing to gain from lying. Why would he make this up?

“Tell me what’s in the FBI file.”

A wide grin spreads over his face when he opens the file. He appears proud to have this power over me.

“5’ 5”, eyes pale blue, hair blonde, skin like porcelain. Very attractive, could be a model, and uses her sexual attraction as a weapon. Quite intelligent. Prone to lying and manipulation to achieve goals. No moral or societal boundaries apply in her mind. Abused by father for years, guilty of patricide. Molested by the--”

Bolting out of my seat, I grab his arm and put my hand over his mouth. I clench my teeth. “Do. Not. Finish. That. Sentence.” If you do, it will be your last mistake.

Although he appears shocked, he remains still.

Shaking my head, I take my hand off of his mouth and finally read the text message on my phone.

Get out of the house. Do not tell him anything. Walk to the end of your street. Run through the woods to lose him. There will be a blue ‘74 Firebird waiting in the abandoned parking lot next to the car dealership. Keys are in the ignition. Drive to 555 Holden Avenue in Newtown, Connecticut.

I fall back into my seat and freeze. There are people watching. I feel my face flush, but before I can let the information settle in my head, the phone buzzes with another text.

DO NOT KILL HIM. HE IS WIRED. GET OUT NOW!

I slam the chair back against the refrigerator and bolt up. Walking straight to the entryway, I throw on wool socks, boots, and a winter jacket. His expression switches from shock to curiosity. I suppose this isn’t how he thought I’d react to his secrets.

Ignoring the advice of the text, I take the time to pack my writing materials, a computer tablet, and an extra phone charger. Roger continues drinking at the table. Maybe he doesn’t notice or care that I’m getting ready to leave. Pulling a knit cap over my hair, I exit the apartment without a word.

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Review of ELLA

12/3/2018

REVIEW OF ELLA
SHELBY KENT-STEWART

REVIEW OF ELLA
Shelby Kent-Stewart

5.0 out of 5 stars Totally Enthralling!

August 23, 2015

Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

I can't recall if it was the exquisite cover art or the cheeky character of Ella that first captured my attention on Twitter, perhaps both. What was it about this enigmatic beauty that delighted and intrigued me? And then I purchased and read the book by Stephen Moran and understood my fascination.

Let's be clear. Ella Thomas is not your typical heroine, no cardboard cut-out she. What the author has created is a fabulously-flawed and deviously-delicious flesh and blood persona, a woman on a mission of discovery and destruction. In the hands of a lesser writer, this book might fall into the category of 'just another book about a serial killer' but this could not be further from the truth. Beautifully-crafted, the book's locales are detailed for texture but never ponderous, the flashbacks both terrifying and poignant, a remarkable feat given the subject matter.

This book is mesmerizing mayhem from beginning to end, one I shall read again and highly recommend. More please, Mr. Moran.

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