THE WRITINGS OF STEPHEN JOHN MORAN
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#FICTION - Morning Tender - A Ray Holden Story

12/22/2018

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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.
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Short Story Collections - Coming Soon

12/21/2018

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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

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CHARTS for Study - Is Market Ready for a Crash

12/17/2018

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

12/17/2018

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Excerpt from Ella - Routine

12/3/2018

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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

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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

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REVIEW OF ELLA
SHELBY KENT-STEWART

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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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Two Reviews - The Terrorist of Providence Street

12/3/2018

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TWO REVIEWS
THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET


G H Neale 

5.0 out of 5 stars Meta-fictional Genius

Who would know that such a short work as this novella would stretch, twist and break the confines of linear narrative? Who would know that this collection of short stories isn’t? For this work is not ordinary. This work is different. This work is exceptional in its imagination, structure and form and I cannot praise it highly enough. Rather like you may gaze upon a building site day after day as bricks are laid here, beams are placed across voids and workman come and go, you are totally unaware as to what is going until the end, the very end, and it is topped off. This book commingles stories, narrative levels and points of view and it is only as Mr Moran places his final full stop do you get it and his house reveals itself. That, my friend, is genius and I have no other diction that best describes it.

But Let me not dress up my review in too many artful reveries, although I would sorely wish too, as Mr Moran’s eloquence should be eulogised in such a way, let me simply say: if you like complex writing in a style that seems homely and redolent of the brilliance of ordinary life then you will love this.

O and it has a talking monkey called Karl Marx. Dearie me it’s funny but then all the best writing is isn’t it?

Who would know of these things?

Well you can. Get in the know and buy this book today. Period.



Roger Deblanck

5.0 out of 5 stars A Spellbinding Tale of Interconnected Stories

With a brilliant set of interconnected stories, Moran has produced a spellbinding tale in The Terrorist of Providence Street. The novella’s antihero, Scott Holden, aspires to write and have his books published. He works at a restaurant, but he suffers from social awkwardness, especially in expressing his feelings for a female colleague. His anxiety leaves him fantasizing about her. When a new employee, a “monkey” named Karl Marx, starts at the restaurant, Scott feels jealous and threatened by Karl’s banter and impropriety with the ladies and also by Karl’s great fortune with having his own novel published. Scott’s world becomes more bizarre when he encounters illusions at the restaurant, where he supposedly still works, but finds himself full of memory lapse and confusion. His hallucinations and delusions continue as he falls deeper into lonesomeness. Even as a writer, his past haunts him, which he brings to life with shocking consequences. In putting together this psychological thriller, Moran blurs the surreal world with reality and builds a plot of suspense that is revelatory and downright chilling in its finale. This is the type of book that will have you wanting to consider and examine its every detail.

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#FICTION - Karl Marx: A Refutation - Excerpt from SERVER

12/3/2018

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KARL MARX: A REFUTATION
EXCERPT FROM SERVER

The rumor that Paul, the general manager, hired a monkey to be a server persisted all week. Not one employee could verify the fact or had seen a monkey in the restaurant.
Paul deflected the questions and merely stated, “Karl starts on Friday.”

He refused to give further details, which led to much speculation. Some wondered if Paul hired a real-life monkey or was making some sort of statement about the general quality of new hires in recent months.

Scott arrived early for his shift that Friday night, not wanting to miss the arrival of the monkey, Karl. He placed his bag on the employee bench and went to make himself coffee. A few workers stood around the coffee station, chatting and enjoying the free time before the dinner rush. Kim rambled on as usual, with the others listening with less than perfect attention.

“I wonder if Karl has restaurant experience,” Kim said.

Scott remained silent and eyed her as she ran her fingers through her thick, blonde hair.

“A monkey in a restaurant?” Dave asked.

Scott smiled at Melissa. She smiled back at him, transfixing his attention with full lips and pretty brown eyes. He squeezed her arm, running his fingers over her smooth tan skin.

“I think it has something to do with quotas,” Scott joked. A few workers laughed, but sounded more nervous than amused.

“I don’t want to work with a monkey,” Kim said, shaking her hair back and forth in obvious displeasure.

The workers murmured their agreement.

“Why not?” a voice said.

“Huh?” Kim turned to answer.

A monkey stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He was a head taller than the counter-top, which was approximately three feet in height. Waiting for a response with one foot tapping on the tile floor, the monkey picked at his teeth with a thick nail. The blood red of the uniform stood out against his black fur and brown ears. He was ugliest monkey Scott ever laid eyes on. His eyes were set too deep into his skull, which gave him a sinister look when he smiled.

“I’ve never worked with a monkey,” Kim managed to say.

“Sure, you have,” Karl said, winking at her. The crowd around them laughed.

“I’m Kim.” She extended her hand toward the monkey.

“Call me Karl—Karl Marx.”

Scott blinked and looked around, but nobody seemed to think it was strange for a monkey to be named Karl Marx. He wondered if they knew while Karl Marx wrote The Communist Manifesto, his kids almost starved to death. He walked away with his coffee in hand as his co-workers questioned Karl. He heard laughter and turned in time to see the monkey pinch Kim on her backside. Scott shook his head and walked toward the side door.

He looked out, watching the cars passing on the highway, honking, and entering the parking lot. He sipped his coffee in silence as the sounds of laughter from his co-workers mixed with the sounds of traffic coming through the open windows. Feeling someone next to him, he turned and found Melissa close to him.

“It’s odd,” she said.

“What’s that?” Scott put his arms around her and pulled her against him.

“Karl is a writer.”

Scott thought for a moment. He rested his cheek against her forehead and sighed. His stomach felt tight and full of nerves. “What does he write?”

“He wrote a fantasy novel.”

Scott kissed her cheek. “What can you expect from a monkey?” he laughed, feeling better.

Scott didn’t see much of Karl during the monkey’s first week of employment. During the first two shifts they worked together, Karl was surrounded by the female workers, who showered him with attention. Karl basked in the glow of his popularity; the fact that he liked to party after his evening shifts made him an instant success. Kim reported she spent a rather entertaining evening with him outside work.

“What do you mean, ‘entertaining’?” Scott asked her.

“He’s just a funny monkey, that’s all.” Secrets were hidden in her smile as she played with her hair.

Scott wanted to talk with Karl himself, but didn’t get a chance until Monday afternoon. He sat at a table near the kitchen, eating a hamburger before his evening shift, when Karl walked in the front door. None of the other servers had arrived yet, and as there was nobody else to talk with, Karl made his way over to Scott. He hopped into the booth across from him and took a french fry off of Scott’s plate. Scott stared at him, not amused. Karl smiled as he chewed and took yet another one.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t eating those,” Scott said, not attempting to hide the contempt in his voice. Any desire to talk to this monkey about writing vanished.

“You don’t like me, do you?” Karl asked him.

Scott didn’t answer and grabbed the newspaper off the seat. He began to read, hoping Karl might leave him in peace to eat his meal.

“I hear you’re a writer,” Karl said.

Scott put down the paper and folded his hands across his lap. “Yes, I am.”

“I wrote a novel myself.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Karl either didn’t notice the sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it. “I want to be a best-seller one day like Stephen King, although I don’t write horror. I write fantasy.”

“Same difference.”

“Really? What type of books do you write?” Karl asked, smiling once again.

Scott sighed and did not answer. Do I have to get into this discussion with yet another writer?

“Well?”

“I write literary fiction.”

Karl whistled and clapped his hands together in excitement. “You’re an elitist,” he laughed.

“I write for myself without worrying about the issue of selling books,” Scott said, feeling annoyed.

“An elitist,” Karl insisted.

“As you wish.”

“Don’t you want to make money?” Karl asked him.

“I want to write what I feel in my heart. If that sells, so be it, but money isn’t why I write.”

“Liar!” Karl exclaimed, pointing his finger.

“It isn’t always about the money.”

“Yes, it is always about the money. All writers want to be on the best-sellers list and make loads of money. Some are just honest and admit it.”

“I don’t care about money.”

“Liar!” Karl repeated.

Scott sighed again. He gripped his fingers together tightly. His fingertips changed from white to red from the pressure. “You’re a capitalist pig.”

“No, I’m a monkey,” Karl laughed as he jumped down and walked into the kitchen.

Scott kept to himself that night, watching Karl flirt, joke, and clown his way through the shift. Karl was popular with the ladies and took liberties, groping nearly every female worker. Far from being reprimanded for such behavior, his popularity increased.

“This monkey does not work,” Scott said to Tim, the shift manager.

Tim shrugged and pointed at Karl, who was chasing ladies around the kitchen with a towel in hand. He caught Kim and whacked her on the backside. Great fits of laughter broke out from the workers.

“He doesn’t have time!” Tim walked away, shutting himself in the office.

Scott approached the food window. Food orders were stacked three plates deep, but Kris, whose job it was to place plates on trays, was preoccupied with Karl was rubbing her back. The monkey’s hands moved down and rested on her ass.

“I have to set my own trays now, so you two can have more time to grope each other, is that it?” Scott said.

“You’re just jealous.” Karl stuck out his tongue.

Scott carried his food out into the dining room, kicking the door open with enough force to leave a scuff mark. When he returned, he saw Karl pushing himself against Melissa. Karl looked at him and laughed as his hands came to a rest on her shirt. He squeezed Melissa’s breasts and jumped back, howling with laughter. His eyes remained on Scott.

“Hey!” Melissa laughed and shrugged.

Scott gnashed his teeth and took a step toward Karl. “You’re disgusting.”

“I don’t see her complaining,” the monkey responded.

Scott threw up his hands and went toward the back for a smoke. He lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag to settle his nerves. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and took another drag. He leaned his head on his hand and sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

“Don’t let Karl bother you,” he heard a voice say.

He looked up to see one of the cooks. “Hey, Dave.”

Dave rubbed his hand on his shirt, which was soiled with food and grease, before he patted Scott on the shoulder. “The ones that count know.”

“Thanks.”

Dave lit a cigarette and sat down beside him.

“Karl is taunting me,” Scott said.

“When?” Dave asked.

“Just now. With Melissa. I’m sure someone told him I have it bad for that girl.”

Dave nodded and patted his shoulder again. “Don’t worry. Melissa likes you.”

Scott sighed and took a drag. He pushed his cigarette around, making patterns in the refuse of the ashtray.

“You should ask her out on a date,” Dave said.

“Maybe …” He snubbed his cigarette out and stood, fixing his apron before he returned to the front. He heard the servers talking about their plans after the shift.

“Are you going out tonight, Karl?” Kris asked.

Scott looked at her. Her hair was dark brown, which flowed over her shoulders, but she had pale skin and thin lips. You can have the monkey.

“Count on it,” Karl said.

A cheer came from the workers.

“You can always count on Karl to party.” Kim twirled her blonde hair between her fingers.

Scott ignored them and began counting his money in silence. They were making plans, and he wished to be invited. It’d been a few weeks since he was invited to join the workers for drinks.

“It’s all about the writing,” he muttered. He looked at his money, which was sixty-three dollars after a tip for the bartender, and shook his head. “I can’t afford it anyway.”

“Can’t afford what?” Melissa asked.

“A drink.”

“Come on. You can afford to have one drink. It won’t kill you.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I have to write—”

“Nonsense. You can’t say no to me. You’re going out tonight, and that’s all there is to it.” She slapped his arm playfully as he pinched her side.

“Bad boy,” she said, smiling. “Don’t pinch my fat.”

“For the last time, you’re not fat,” he answered. “You’re beautiful, and you know it.”

Smiling, she hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you there.”

He squeezed her hand again before continuing toward the office.
 
* * *
 
Scott stopped at his apartment to shave and shower, which was why most of his co-workers were already at the bar when he arrived. He entered the front door and saw Kim, Kris, and others talking in a group. He waved to them, but his greeting was not returned. He walked by them to where Dave and Melissa sat and saw Dave’s arm around her shoulders.

 “Scott!” Dave extended his hand.

“Dave,” he said, sitting next to him. He winked at Melissa as he signaled to the bartender.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

“You remember?” Scott laughed. “You are a credit to the profession.”

Scott lit a cigarette and surveyed the bar, which was packed with area workers after their night shifts.

“I got you a beer.” Dave clapped Scott on the back and lit a cigarette of his own.

“Cheers.” Scott raised he glass and gave Dave a nod.

“It’s good to see you out again,” Melissa said.

He reached over Dave and squeezed her hand. “I needed a break from writing.”

Melissa smiled at him. Her pretty brown eyes were framed lightly with mascara. Her dark brown hair stuck to her forehead before she brushed it away. She leaned toward him and touched glasses, giving him a view of a black bra and beautifully tanned breasts. His eyes met hers, and he smiled again. The warmth spread in his stomach.  
“I’m glad to be here,” Scott said as Kylie, Dave’s girl, walked in the front door.

Dave got off his stool and walked over to meet her, leaving Scott alone with Melissa.

“Tell me something,” she said, taking Dave’s stool. She smelled like flowers, and the touch of her arm against his made him feel dizzy. He wanted to say many things—how often he wrote about her, how often he imagined her naked, and her perfect golden skin next to his own—but couldn’t.

“The novel isn’t going well.”

“I see.” She leaned back on the stool and watched him.

She seemed disappointed, but Scott, with nerves in his stomach, concentrated more on his fingernails. He picked at them, peeling away his cuticles. “I’m writing about an outcast man and how society attempts to squelch individuality and personal freedom.”

“Sounds fun.”

Scott stared into his beer. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. Tell her you love her, he heard a voice say. He spun his head around but saw nothing. Returning his eyes to hers, words failed him and desperation spread in his veins. He ran a hand over his hair and took a deep breath. She remained quiet, waiting and watching him. Her eyes were intense, maybe a little angry.

“What do you want out of life?” he asked her.

She sipped at her drink with her eyes upon his. “I guess what everybody else wants: To be happy, secure, and to have a nice family,” she said.

He nodded, but inside, he wanted to ask what she meant by being happy. Don’t ask that. Tell her you love her, he heard the voice say again. He didn’t look this time and drank his beer instead.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I want to be a published writer.” He thought he’d captured it well with that statement and leaned back on his stool, crossing his arms.

“That’s all?” She seemed confused and leaned toward him as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“Nothing else will make me happy,” he said flatly.

She shook her head, but didn’t respond. She looked across the bar with her fingers clutching her glass, at a loss for words. Scott was about to speak, but a cheer from the workers stopped him.

“Karl!”

Scott seethed while the workers hugged and kissed. Their laughter rose over the music. Karl pushed through the crowd to the bar and nodded at Scott. He grinned and yelled for all to hear.

“Who wants a shot?”

A loud cheer came from the workers.

“I’ll take one,” Melissa yelled, getting up to join the others.

Dave took his seat once again with Kylie at his side. Without asking, Dave ordered shots from the bartender, which they drank off in silence. Scott closed his eyes but still heard the chorus of laughter from the workers. Karl danced on a table, kicking his furry legs high in the air. Scott groaned. The monkey executed a back flip, sending a roar of approval through the bar.

The bartender rang the bell and pushed a shot toward the monkey. “On the house!”

“He’s a showboat.” Scott’s anger was palpable.

“Agreed,” Dave said, lighting a cigarette.

“The damned monkey is a fantasy writer!” Scott said as if that statement explained it all. Eying Karl, he threw money on the bar before finishing his beer. Scott stood, put on his jacket, and took his keys from his pocket.

“Are you leaving?” Dave asked.

“I can’t watch this.” Karl was speaking with Melissa, and Scott wanted to put his fingers around the monkey’s neck. He walked toward the door, ignoring Dave’s farewell.
 
* * *
 
Later that night, Scott lay awake, deep in thought. He attempted to write in his journal, but after an hour of staring at nearly-blank, white paper, the one sentence he wrote displeased him:
 
We must fight to retain our individuality in the face of attempts by society to homogenize its citizens into well-behaved lemmings.
 
Motionless, he stared at the ceiling. He resisted the urge to light a cigarette and continued to stare at the ceiling, making shapes of shadows cast by moonlight peeking at him through the blinds. Closing his eyes, his thoughts centered on the monkey.
“He is everything I’m not.” Scott was shocked at how thin his voice sounded. He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, waiting for sleep.
 
* * *
 
Weeks passed without change. Karl remained popular, spending almost every night partying. Scott grew more bitter and angry as time passed, isolating himself from all social activity. His writing did not improve, and his efforts weren’t helped by news that Karl’s agent might sell his novel soon. The monkey informed him it was his first novel and that fact irritated Scott more than anything.

Scott arrived for his Friday shift to find the workers filled with excitement. The ladies were talking excitedly by the coffee station. He heard Karl’s name and walked over.

“Karl gave his notice,” Kim told him.

He’s quitting? He felt a surge of joy and laughed. “Why?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

Scott stared at her. He felt his heart skipping and his palms sweating. From the bottom of his soul, he wanted to scream, but instead, he attempted to gather himself. “I haven’t worked the past couple of days. What happened?”

Kim clapped her hands together, as Karl often did, happy to inform him. “A publisher accepted Karl’s book.”

Scott blinked, his knees weak. “It can’t be true. He finished that book less than six months ago. He couldn’t have sold it this fast.” The room seemed to dim, and Scott struggled to breathe. She continued to speak, but it took a few moments for him to focus on her words.

“He called to tell me,” Kim said.

It all made sense and he was forced to lean on the counter for support. The room spun under his feet, and he felt cold—very cold. The floor rose to meet him until his cheek pressed against the tile, cool and comfortable against his skin.

Karl entered the kitchen to a cheer from the workers. He stood near the spot Scott lay prone on the floor, close enough for Scott to see the pink skin below his monkey fur. All the while, the co-workers chanted...

Karl, Karl, Karl!

Scott heard their voices as if under water. He attempted to lift himself, but lacked the strength. His arm fell useless at his side. Looking up, he watched Melissa kiss Karl’s cheek and her lips form the word “congratulations.” Scott felt consciousness slipping at the sounds…

Karl, Karl, Karl!


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    THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

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    REVIEWS OF THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET
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    SERVER

    EXCERPT FROM SERVER
    ​DAY ADVENTURE WITH MONKEY

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    EXCERPT FROM SERVER
    KARL MARX: A REFUTATION

    EXCERPT FROM ELLA
    ROUTINE

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    EXCERPT FROM ELLA
    ​THE INTERROGATION

    REVIEW OF ELLA

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    Stephen Moran lives in Las Vegas with his beautiful wife, baby Kiana, and two dogs. 

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