Joined: 29 Oct 2011
Location: Kansas City, MO
|Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 8:08 pm Post subject: Papa Legba, l'uvri bay é pu mwê! Pu mwê pasé!
|The next morning, Desamours walked to the hotel, head high and coco macaque swinging. Time to make a big splash, he thought, see if anyone comes calling.
He heard the drums as he came closer, a low, stuttering beat that grumbled just outside of his hearing. The grunts of rooting pigs and the smell of burning wood seeped from the building, and no one moved inside.
He walked through the front door, heard rustling from the walls. The foyer was empty, tattered paper and rotting furniture speaking to a long abandonment. The wallpaper bulged and tore under the weight of ages, and dust lifted from the carpet with every footstep.
As he walked up the stairs, Desamours could hear louder drumming. Feet stamped out an unsteady rhythm, rattling the floor and walls in counterpoint to the squeals and grunts.
He opened his door to find a wave of people moving through the room. Some of them were stomping and leaping, lashing out at anyone who came too close, while others crawled on the floor, grunting, squealing and rooting at the ground. In the center of the room, stroking the dead cat that Desamours had left to draw unwelcome attention away, sat the hotel’s desk clerk, left leg curled up to his chest and a burned chair leg in his hand.
“You open up a door,” it said in clipped, precise tones, “you shouldn’t be surprised if someone take that as an invitation. Figure I make the place closer to home.” It smiled a thin, mirthless smile and gnawed on the chair leg, sparks flaring from the smoking wood.
My name's Sean Demory. I'm an author currently living in Kansas City, Missouri, and I hope you'll take a look at my latest novella, "Zobop Bebop." The book's a a cross between Superfly and Divine Horsemen. It's about hard men, bad women, bad choices and dirty dealings, and it's a lot of fun.
|The girl moved closer. Marquise could see her leathery skin, see cracks at her joints. She grinned, showing him rows of tiny teeth.
“This place,” the deep voice said, “is soundproof, or near enough. Drains in the floor. Hooks to hang meat. Season it. Dedicated to Kalfu and Ti-Jean Petro.”
A big man stepped out of the shadows, holding a twisted walking stick in his hands. He had the broad shoulders and prison-short, iron-gray hair of one of the broken down ex-cons down at the halfway house. Marquise could feel the big man's eyes staring at him, prodding him.
“This place,” the big man said, “is just about the worst place in the world to be tied to a chair without a plan, bon zanmi. You got a plan?”
My plan, at present, is to Kickstart the thing into the world. The campaign's in its final days, and the site is at http://kck.st/qYR941. I'd be incredibly grateful if you'd visit and even more so if you'd be willing to kick in and help "Zobop Bebop" arise and walk.
Thanks for your time.