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Genre: Horror & Thriller
About alixLocation: Edmonton, AB Home Region: Age:22 Website: http://seventeeninetyone.com Favorite novels: Catch-22, Slaughterhouse Five, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Favorite writers: Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, JRR Tolkein, Neil Gaiman Favorite music: Fall Out Boy, The Weakerthans, Carmina Burana, Matthew Good Non-noveling interests: Queerness, gender, atheism, transgenderism, anarchy, zines, poetry, sex, silliness, body modification, piercing, tattoos, sleep |
Joined: October 18, 2009 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 25 NaNoWriMo buddies: 6
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Brief Author Bio: I'm Alix. I've been known formerly as Maris, Morgan/Morgan Jade, and Dean. I think there's another one in there somewhere but I can't remember it. But I'm really Alix now. Permanently and for sure. So. Alix. This is my third and-a-half year doing NaNo. I last did NaNo in 2008, but I punked out and didn't go to any write-ins. I tend to write either fantasy or fanfic. This year I'm doing queer/genderqueer themed horror with monsters, demons and lots of corpses, split personalities, mental illness, addiction, and fucked-up relationships. I'm 22, a student at the U of A studying history and creative writings (my main genres are poetry and non-fiction, but for November I write novels). I can be an asshole, obnoxious, abrasive and opinionated, but I'm generally a pretty cool guy. Please note that despite the things on my chest, I do use male pronouns and will be forced to result to violence or tears if you call me a girl. Outside of writing novels, I publish zines (hand-made photocopied magazines) that I distribute at Anarchist bookfairs and zine fairs and recently put out a chapbook of poetry. So yeah, basically that's me. |
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Synopsis: All Hands on the Bad One
It starts with the small things -- Pete Stanford's neighbour's irritating, yappy, illegal dog accidentally falls out of a fifteenth-story window, his douchebag boss is hospitalized with mercury poisoning, and his cheating boyfriend picks up herpes from one of his flings. But when Pete starts seeing things, shadows on the edges of his vision, and hearing voices in the dark, he's pretty sure something's wrong.
It gets worse from there. A string of gruesome murders shakes Chicago, and as the corpses pile up and lives fall apart, the voices Pete hears in his head are getting more and more numerous -- Katie Abascal, a former art student murdered in her home, takes up residence in his brain, as does Frankie, the queer, polyamorous gender-indeterminate shifter whose paranormal investigator boyfriend saw him torn apart by nothing at all.
The dead leave behind family and friends, and attract curious onlookers: Katie's recovering-alcoholic older sister, Gabrielle, and a long-standing crush from school, Jon Saller; Frankie's boyfriend, Sean Flynn, and their demon-hunter girlfriend, Cassidy Parke. Cassidy brings with her Ryan Mercer, a jaded 18-year-old who can hear everyone's thoughts.
They are searching for answers, but all they find is Pete, half-crazed from lack of sleep and from hearing the voices of the dead and their killers, insisting he's somehow responsible.
Excerpt: All Hands on the Bad One
Across the hall, Jason's door was open just a crack. Jason was this sweet kid Pete ran into pretty frequently -- he always had this weird sense of when things were shitty, and would do stupid, nice things to make Pete smile: come over with a batch of home-made cookies, leave goofy notes under his door, play good music just a little louder than he probably should, always the right tune to pick Pete up.
Pete knocked at the open door. There was no answer.
"Hey, Jay," he said, and he pushed the door open, "you're up early, you want a bagel and --"
There was blood. Jason was spread out on the couch -- it was completely red, although last time Pete had been in the apartment, it had been this sort of dirty, hand-me-down white colour. Now it was soaked through red, and the air smelled tinny. Pete didn't know blood smelled like that. Didn't know it was that colour, that deep, bright red, still fresh. He didn't know that guts were that shade of pink and splotchy red, or that tangled, or that long, hanging from Jason's stomach down onto the floor, making a red pool on the hardwood floor.
He didn't know that people really died with their eyes open, or with that horrible expression on their face, mouth twisted and open. That was horror movie stuff, not real, not -- but that was Jason, laying on his couch with his stomach ripped open and his guts everywhere they weren‘t supposed to me. That was the gash that ran from under his chin down to his pelvic bone, insides spread open, and the soft drip of blood draining out of the upholstery onto the floor.
And the voices, the dark voices that spoke all at once, they whispered, This was you, Pete. This is your fault.
Jason's mouth moved, eyes still fixed open, staring in horror at the ceiling He said, "Pete. Pete, what did you do?" And when Pete gasped, blinked, and looke back, Jason was exactly how he'd been before, unmoving, silent except for the soft tap tap tap of his blood.
"I," Pete said.
And this time he heard the voice in his head, clear, murmuring, Pete? Pete, what -- what happened? What did you do, Pete?
"I," Pete tried again. "I don't. I don't know." He swallowed, stood at the edge of that pool of red. "I don't know, I don't--"
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