THE WRITINGS OF STEPHEN JOHN MORAN
  • A Writer's Diary
  • ELLA'S JOURNAL
  • THE MARKETPLACE
  • MORAN PRESS

Origin Paperback

5/29/2017

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ORIGIN
PAPERBACK

The paperback is alive at Amazon. It feels 'real' now. No, I'm not a book snob that thinks e-books aren't books. But, there's going to be something special in the moment when I hold this book in my hands. All these years I've promised - I'm going to be a published writer and finally that day is here.

The things George said to me long ago about writing and publishing have become clearer to me now. It's taken years to get my words onto the page, never mind the dirty business of getting people to read the book. I'd say it almost feels hopeless at times, but I can't think of times that the almost part of the sentence applies. 

But, I will write and put words between pages, hoping for...something. I can't even tell you what I want. Maybe the author is the last to know. If you ask me what I wish for the reader, I hope you are entertained by the insanity of the my stories and life. In my attempts at catharsis, may you find...whatever it is you seek. 

Mother told me not to waste time writing stories after she caught me scribbling in the notebook father bought me. She wanted me to learn how to be a proper lady. But, I was never much for listening. Today is for you mother. I hope you're burning in hell with father. 
PURCHASE ORIGIN PAPERBACK
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The Hunt

5/28/2017

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THE HUNT

            The limousine idles in a parking lot while I check my phone, refreshing a website page over and again in hopes that the sales numbers will change. But, nothing. Not a single sale. It worsens my mood and I glance at Paul. He sits like a statue on the seat opposite me in the limo, waiting for me.

            "Some say killing is easy, but it's not. Before you can learn to be a killer, you must kill. I imagine that's a confusing thing to hear, but to be honest, I don't give a damn." 

          Paul gulps in air and I light a cigarette. Returning my attention to the phone, I open a message from Saul and show the screen to Paul. He studies the map, using two fingers to zoom closer on the target address.

            "That's a residential address."

            "You're quick, Paul. We're hunting a man today. Mostly, men live in houses."

            He begins to respond, but thinks better of it and leans back against the headrest, eyes locked with mine. I tap a button on the console built into the door and a drawer opens, revealing a row of handguns. Removing one, I eject the clip and the bullet in the chamber before handing the gun to Paul. While he examines it, I retrieve a silencer and black gloves and place the items in a pile next to him on the seat.

            "Tell me about this man we are hunting. What do I need to know about him?"

           "He's a Nazi. That's all the information you need. As for the deed, it could not be simpler. Saul will park outside the home. You'll enter the building and execute the target. Drop the gun next to the body and return to the limousine. Any questions?"

             "Won't someone see? It's still light out."

             I take a drag of my cigarette and stare out the window. It's tiring dealing with the anxiety of my book and explaining these simple things to him. "We wait for nightfall, then we move. Is that it, you're worried about being caught? No other questions about your target?"

           The clicking sound of Paul disassembling the handgun fills the limousine and I turn to watch him work. He places the pieces on a copy of my book, using it as a makeshift table on his lap. With a series of deft movements, he assembles the pieces and loads the firearm.

              "Saul taught you well. That was very well done."

              "I do have one question. Is this man guilty?" 

             "He's a Nazi. Self-professed. You need know nothing more about him."

           Paul nods and I tap a button on the phone to play music. We wait for darkness and listen to Mozart.
PURCHASE ORIGIN
PURCHASE ELLA PAPERBACK
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Origin E-Book

5/26/2017

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ORIGIN
EBOOK

My book of stories is *alive* at Amazon. I don't know if I should be happy about it. Does anyone even know? 

I can't explain what took me so long to publish this slim volume of my earliest stories. This book should have been published two years ago. But...I've been busy getting drunk and high and...playing with my male toys.

I hope you enjoy this stroll through memory lane. I'd like to thank the FBI for keeping some of these lost stories in evidence and letting me have them.

The Bank (first story in the collection) is the only one that remains that I wrote when mother was still alive. Make of that little trivia what you will. 

​I must celebrate with a martini. I'll see you around. 
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THE TRIAL IN VEGAS -- SUPER BLOOD MOON

5/26/2017

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THE TRIAL IN VEGAS
SUPER BLOOD MOON

I follow George through the set of double doors leading to the garden. Ray and Ana stand near a row of rose bushes, the entire area lit by the glow of the blood moon. My white dress flutters in the light breeze while we wait for Saul to bring the prisoner from the kennels. His hulking shadow passes over the fountain and I know the moment draws closer. We will have a trial in Vegas. 

            Saul leads the man, hooded and shackled into the clearing and binds him with rope to a thick wooden pole. I approach him as George, Ana, and Ray sit on the stone steps of the fountain. Beside the pole is a table and on it my special knife rests next to a stack of documents. Taking the knife into my hand, I remove the hood from the prisoner.

            A slim blonde man wearing glasses blinks at me, duct tape covering his mouth. I doubt he understands the situation, but I remain silent, studying him for a span of time stretching into minutes. Why not make him sweat before I tell him the bad news? Let his imagination conjure the worst of his fears. I yank the duct tape off in a swift motion and smile when the man yelps with pain. 

            "Do you know why you are on trial tonight?" I ask. 

            His eyes move from me to the watchers by the fountain and back again. "The man that broke into my apartment told me it was because I am part of Gamer Gate."

            "You harass and stalk feminist women online. Women like me. Tonight you will answer for your crimes." 

            "Crimes? You're such a victim that you consider someone disagreeing with you on the internet a crime? Fucking feminists." 

            I laugh and grab a paper from the table. "When I saw your tweets online, I knew there was more to it than simple harassment. I don't kill people for opinions, only rape. Saul hacked your computer and ran a background check on you. You have something of a record. Don't you, Paul?" 

            "No..." he begins to stammer, but I interrupt. 

            "Save it. You pleaded guilty to sexual assault freshman year of college. Rich papa saw to it that you didn't catch a more serious charge. But you raped that girl. Don't bother with denials, Saul found proof on your hard-drive. You were stupid enough to video tape the party. Spoiled rich boy indeed. Tsk, tsk." 

            The man opens his mouth to respond, but I do not let him speak and place the duct tape over his lips. 

            "I heard enough of your hate online. I've heard more than enough from all you Gamer Gate people harassing me. When I see men stalk and harass women online, I know that most of the time it's not just online. Looking into a few hundred of the screen names associated with Gamer Gate, many have been convicted of sexual assault, harassment, and stalking women. You're no lone wolf exception. It's very common." 

            George approaches me, hands behind his back waiting for my orders. I nod to him and he removes a mobile phone from a suit pocket and taps a button to start the music playlist. One of my favorite songs plays, Total Eclipse of the Heart.
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            "I'll tell you this, Paul. Gamer Gate will soon be over, because the ones stalking and harassing will ruin the movement, but for you, it will be tonight because you met the Butcher of Vegas."

            Pulling the tape away enough for him to speak, I say, "I don't suppose you have heard of me."

             "The what of Vegas?" he asks and once again I pull the duct tape over his lips.

            "The Butcher of Vegas and I don't suffer rapists stalking me," I say, placing the knife against his throat. I begin singing with the song, watching his eyes pleading with me for mercy. "Every now and then I fall apart...and kill people." 

            Dragging the blade deep into his neck, I watch the life ebb from his eyes while streams of blood cover my white dress. Looking up at the blood red moon, I smile. 

            "Bring me the next rapist, Saul." 
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Preview of the Cover - ORIGIN

5/17/2017

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    ELLA'S JOURNAL
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