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Sometimes grief sneaks up on you and hunts you down.
Sometimes it walks right up and punches you.
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Holes in the Somewhere
by Richard R. Brown
Genre: Speculative Fiction, Horror Stories
Holes In The Somewhere is a collection of short works,
anchored by a personal memoir of the author’s own experience with grief and
loss after the passing of his father from cancer, by speculative fiction author
Richard R. Brown.
A single mother encounters insanity in the worst possible
person; an estranged parent loses his reunited family to a mysterious bathroom
wall; a group of strangers come together to fight a fungal pandemic; college
students prepare for the extinction of the Sun… these are a few of the
challenges faced by the desperate characters in Holes In The Somewhere. The
choices they make, the dilemmas they wrestle with, all have very supernatural
consequences, but are felt with very human emotions.
These stories will tug at strings your heart thought were
too well-hidden for anyone to know about, and cause the mind to probe the gray
areas between wrong and right. Between normal and paranormal. Behind what’s
real and only to the side of what’s unreal. A perfect mix of quick, unsettling
reads, and longer, heart-wrenching escapes.
What readers
are saying:
“The debut is speculative fiction in form: weird,
unsettling, occasionally cosmic. But it reads less like a genre exercise than
like grief that has been given permission to take unusual shapes.” –
Justine Castellon, Author/Reviewer
“I guarantee there is a ‘gotcha’ story in there for
just about anybody, and if you don’t find at least one that bothers you just as
you’re about to fall asleep, you’re made of sterner stuff than I am.” –
Kenneth Crist, editor-in-chief, Black Petals Magazine
“These stories are weird and creepy and heart-wrenching
in all the best ways. If you enjoy fiction that makes you question everything
and wrecks you emotionally, this is for you!” – Valerie S., 5 star Amazon
Review
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* Goodreads
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Excerpt from ‘Death’s Demons’, a story in ‘Holes In The
Somewhere’
The
darkened sky descended into the depths of a dismal dusk, and Jason and Abby
returned to the church. The priest met them at the looming front door and
offered his aging hand in greeting.
“I look forward to hearing your story
again, Jason. I am Father Gregory. I see you have brought a friend. Excellent.
Miss?” The tall, slender man turned to Abby.
At the utterance of his name, Abby
turned white, despite her tan. When he offered his hand to shake, she
reciprocated like a zombie in that old music video. She couldn’t manage to
vocalize an answer to him, though. She winced and visibly recoiled when the man
brought her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.
“This is my best friend, Abby. She’s
pleased to meet you,” Jason said, curious at Abby’s unexpected frigidity.
The priest smiled at Abby, then
produced an oversized key ring from his coat pocket. He found a very large iron
key and used it to unlock the gargantuan portal into the church.
“Please, follow me to my office,” he
said, and led them toward the altar. He climbed the three small steps to the
altar and turned left, heading for a door much like the door to the
confessional. As Jason and Abby approached the altar, Abby clutched Jason’s arm
and clung to him. Jason turned his head to ask if she was all right, but was
cut off by Father Gregory. “Please, make
yourselves comfortable,” he said.
Abby chose a chair in the corner,
leaving the chairs in the middle of the room open for Jason and Father Gregory.
As Jason sat down, he heard Abby scoot her chair next to his and felt her hand
slide under his and grasp it tightly.
The priest closed the office door and
sat in the unoccupied chair. “Would either of you care for a glass of water?”
he asked.‘Either’ came out as ‘eye-thur’, and Jason imagined that snakes would
pronounce it in the same way if they spoke English.
They both shook their heads in
refusal, and Father Gregory sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “All
right, then,” he said, and looked at Jason with an expectant smile curving his
thin lips.
Jason squirmed under the priest’s gaze
and started the discussion. “Well, I told you about my seeing Death…” he began.
“Yes. Please recount your experiences
for me,” Father Gregory prodded.
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What are some of your pet peeves?
I actively, intentionally, put effort into not complaining about things. If I didn’t, I’d never shut up. But let’s talk about a few of my biggest pet peeves!
I’m mostly blind. Really restrictive tunnel-vision, and what I can see is cloudy and distorted. That’s not the pet peeve. I’m a man. Also not the pet peeve. But you know how men can’t find things in the fridge or cupboards unless it’s beer or leftover pizza? Well, make that man mostly blind and the fridge itself becomes hard to find, let alone specific things in it. My biggest pet peeve (after all that set-up) is when anyone, including myself, moves my things around without telling me.
For eight years, I had a service dog, a Guide Dog, who would steer me around obstacles or tripping hazards away from the house. He retired last summer, and is living his best life on the other side of the country from me now, while I wait for his replacement to finish training. Another pet peeve is when people, friends and foes alike, offer my dog attention and/or especially treats while he’s working. Even these highly-trained dogs are easily distracted, and doing that not only interrupts whatever errand I was on, but it also sets back the dog’s training quite a few steps. I am not the world’s best dog trainer, I have found. Please don’t make me try to retrain my service dog.
I live alone in the upstairs of my mother’s house. She’s almost as old as a certain current U.S. President, so that gives some indication of how much help we have to give each other. Thankfully, they can both still identify pictures of giraffes. I digress. Upstairs. Alone…except, not quite. There’s a ghost (or maybe two) who also like to hang around. Sorry if that’s offensive to them – I’m not aware of how they died, so that may have been insensitive. Anyway, they are able to vocalize. I heard one, in a childlike voice, whisper “Come here, Edison!” (my last service dog’s name) while Edison and I were in our respective beds. I also saw Edison raise his head and look at the spot where I heard the whisper come from, so he heard it, too.
Recently, a much more adult-sounding voice has been heard (by me) saying my name in a sharp, commanding tone, like it’s trying to wake me up. Here’s the pet peeve: It’s trying to wake me up. I hear it around five or six in the morning. Far too early to get up.
If you knew you’d die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
If I knew I would die tomorrow, I would spend my last day doing what I love most. I would call my kids (both teenagers) and hopefully they’d answer. I would find somewhere sunny and warm (low 80s…ah, hell, it’s my last day…make that mid-80s!), hope there’s only a very slight breeze, play my favorite music loud, and sing along with it until I fall asleep, then sleep under the hot sun. Sunburn? Who cares? It’s my last day!
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Richard R. Brown is a legally-blind author of speculative
fiction, horror, and thrillers. He writes from experience, having lived through
paranormal events, alien attacks, and cosmic horrors — at least, in his mind
and in the books he listens to. He and his Guide Dog live in the Pacific Northwest.
Richard is between Guide Dogs at the moment as Edison retired last summer.
Edison was at Richard’s side through every story in his book. Richard has no
such guidance for his current novel, but will likely have one for editing help.
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