A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 16
September 29, 2008
NEWS: I’m off to LA this week for Shriekfest! Hopefully THE HUMANITARIAN will knock ‘em dead and suck their blood. Or something.
EXCERPT:I leaned backward to look at Rudolf. Thirty centimeters taller than me, and he always stood too close. He never forgave me for despising him, and I never forgave him for seducing my sixteen-year-old brother out of my home and into his decadent life. Inside of a week of meeting Rudolf, Ernst left school, moved out of the apartment, and started singing at the new El Dorado, a queer club on Motz Strasse. I barely saw him after that. Rudolf had turned him from a serious student into a chanteuse.
“He’s not a child any more,” Rudolf said. The front door swung shut behind his back. “In fact, he’s turned to defiling them himself.”
“What are you doing here, visiting Ernst?” I knew Ruldolf was not just visiting, but a lie from him might be illuminating.
“He’s not here.” Rudolf pursed his thin lips. “You look pasty in that horrible coat, Hannah. It is the color of a paper bag. And the cut is all wrong. Are you dressing out of the dustbin?”
“Where is he?” A cold weight lodged in my stomach.
“Cavorting with that Nazi boy he’s seeing no doubt.” Rudolf scanned the street.
“Nazi boy?” I stuttered.
“Someone more his own age. A luscious youth.” Rudolf hefted the box against his narrow hip. “Someone of whom you would approve.”
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 15
September 9, 2008
NEWS: I just found out that my vampire screenplay THE HUMANITARIAN is a finalist in Shriekfest 2008: The Los Angeles Horror/Sci-Fi Film Festival!
EXCERPT:
CHAPTER 2:
A burst of humid air hit my face as two teenage boys pried open the doors of the moving train. The train had entered a tunnel, and the boys were daring each other to stick their arms into the darkness, never knowing when they would draw back a bloody stump. Their parents thought they were safe in school. I closed my eyes and did not open them until I sensed the subway car had re-entered the light.
The train stopped at Kaiserhof station. I had missed my connection at Friedrichstadt. I should have climbed out and taken a bus to Moabit for the trial, but instead I rode west toward the more expensive borough of Wilmersdorf. Eventually this subway would take me to the Zoological Gardens, only a few blocks from Ernst’s apartment building. I stayed on, unable to do anything else.
When I got out at Bahnhof Zoo, I climbed the stairs like an old woman, hesitating on every step. Fewer passengers jostled me now. I wound my way through fashionable buildings, barely sparing a glance at the neo-Gothic spires of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial church.
As I wavered in front of Ernst’s apartment building, Rudolf von Reiche burst out, tall, lean, and aristocratic in a gray three-piece suit and a shirt so white it cut my eyes. He carried a cardboard box the size of a child’s school bag and almost knocked me off the stoop. “Ah, Hannah, Queen of the Bourgeoisie,” he said in a frosty tone, tipping his gray bowler at me.
“Hello, Rudolf, Defiler of Children.”
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 14
September 1, 2008
NEWS: Back to “A Trace of Smoke,” for those of you who are following the novel. I hope you liked the “Coffee” excerpt too. You should be able to get it at a bookstore near you by mid-October.
EXCERPT:
Outside, a gust of wind tried to rip the umbrella out of my hands, but I held on, cursing and half crying as I stumbled across cobblestones to the subway. I pushed my way down concrete stairs, against the crush of people going to work. They chattered and laughed together, gleeful in the mundane details of their lives. I wanted only to go home and be alone.
Pictures of Ernst flashed by in my head. The most painful images were from his childhood. He’d been a wonderful child and, later, a great friend. I leaned against the wall of the subway station, face turned toward the tile and sobbed, safely alone in the crowd. When I could stand and walk again, I did.
Once aboard the train I collapsed on the wooden seat and drew a deep breath. I ran my fingers over the oak slats of the bench. The wood was blonde, like Ernst’s hair. Across from me, their faces hidden behind twin newspapers, sat two men in black fedoras. One man read the Berliner Tageblatt, the other the Völkische Beobachter, that Nazi rag.