I have just finished the first draft of my next novel: PROGENY.
It is the story of when 5 serial killers/murderers come together in group therapy in an asylumn for the criminally insane.
Here is the cover for the first time:
The opening of PROGENY:
“The fear entered my room at a quarter passed one that morning, the door creaked open, rusty from the years of continued overuse. He stood silhouetted from the hallway light. I knew what was beneath his robe, but he didn’t know what was beneath my pillow. “As usual, say anything and I’ll kill you, understand?” But the question itself implied I could only shake my head. He began to disrobe but not letting go of the whiskey bottle, as I undressed my own innocence, the shirt with a BMX biker and the tighty-whities. He undid his belt like so many times before, the light from my night light glistened with a smirk of betrayal. “Come here,” he waved over. I took a step, he put his hand on top of the back of my head, pulling me down. He unloaded his gun into my mouth as I had cocked my own behind. The tears that rained down my face tasted like the bitterness left in my mouth. Fear that night entered the gunman and I pulled the trigger.”
Here's an excerpt from later on:
“How is everyone doing today?” Pine asked as a hyperactive little mouse of a man-child exclaimed nearly jumping out of his skin with caffeine-filled eurphoria was ushered in by two nurses. It was Frank, in a straight-jacket.
“Great fine, superb! How are you Doctor P?” He replied, sitting down. “My name is Lester Frank but you can call me Les, I’m 32, I like the color green did you know my eyes are green? That’s why my favorite color is green.”
“Nice to meet you Les, do you know why you are here?” Pine asked.
“Of course.”
“We are all friends here, nothing leaves this room. Do you want to tell us?”
“Yeah sure.” He then sat calmly in his chair, moved his tongue around as if moving the gum from his mouth, cleared his throat, “I killed my family.”
“Why’d you do that Lester?”
“Because.”
“Because why?” Dr. Pine asked pointedly, knowing the script for the conversation.
He looked confused. “I need a reason?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“How did you do it?”
“With a shovel of course. Kind of brilliant really because then I could just use the shovel to shovel the parts I cut up into the bonfire. That was a beautiful fire. The way the flame danced on their toes and played the ivories of their fingers like Mozart, Van Gogh would have been impressed.”
“Thank you Lester for sharing your story.” He wrote down something and came to the next person. A older woman in her late 40s, brown hair wiry with strings of gray lace. Skin soft, the weight of one and a half full-grown German Sheppard Dogs, the same that it took to get her off the policeman she was trying to claw the face off of.
“Miss Maguire is your name correct?” Pine asked her.
“Yes.”
“Why are you with us today?”
“Because I attacked someone as well.”
“Why?”
“Because he arrested me.”
“For what?”
“Murder.”
“Of who?”
“No one. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“So you didn’t go to the police saying you drowned your children?”
“No.”
“Then why did they find them where you said they were?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you for sharing Miss Maguire.”
At least I had a reason for killing someone. What was wrong with these people?
