GRiP - Find something to grab ahold of
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GRiP is a novel about a man struggling with the familiar. Newly married, he and his wife plan for the future: settle into a career, buy a house, have a baby, and live happily ever after. Except Sebastian is both aided and tormented by a voice in his head that may stem from a psychological disorder, or may truly be a result of glimpses that Seb has of parallel universes but has trouble remembering fully. The voice, which Seb calls his “thought familiar”, helped him cheat on exams, mocks his personal habits, and knows how to hide the bodies of those Seb has accidentally enjoyed killing.
As Seb’s life unravels, he becomes convinced that he will not be able to avoid the compulsion to kill his wife, whom he loves dearly but is unable to show her. In an effort to save his relationship and the lives of those around him, Seb seeks help to recover and thwart once and for all the familiar within.
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Stop reading now if you find course language offensive. Seb ain't a nice guy
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Endorsements
GRiP,
a novel I wrote about a drug deluded sociopath who slips through
alternate realities and behaves fairly badly, has content, style, and
cadence that many people find off-putting. It was written that way on
purpose. On the back cover, I'm thinking I will list the people who
read it and never mentioned it again, ever. Kinda like endorsement
quotes. Pete suggested "I thought I didn't like it at first - now I'm
sure."
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Getting to know Seb
His thoughts slowed his pace a
little. The Alice in Chains song that
was playing would normally have cheered him up, but it didn’t. He needed to get drunk. But then his wife would get on him for being
drunk, on a Tuesday, and would start in on him about getting more than a part
time job, and what about the kids, who haven’t been conceived let alone born
yet, and college wasn’t going to be any cheaper in 2020, and they should own
their own house by now. So, he had to
get high instead. Not heroin or
anything. Just oxycodone or something
like that. Something she couldn’t smell,
and something she was too stupid to notice.
He could probably take a couple hundred out of the bank without her
noticing right away. If she noticed, he
could say he bought a suit for interviews and was having it tailored. That would work for a while. Fuck, why is everything a secret? Because everything is an inquisition. Wait ’til she sees the $3,000 withdrawn from
the supposed college account. What you
got to say then? Silence.
...
When your story is narrated by the voice in your head
He drove up to the window where
the attendant held out his hand, laden with stubby fingers anticipating his
ticket. “Hey,” the attendant said. Seb nodded and muttered something back. He forgot what. He was distracted by thoughts of how fat this
guy was. How the hell did he fit in the
booth? How’d he get in and out of
it? Geesus. He looked like a cat that was put in a mayonnaise
jar as a kitten and then force fed for a couple of years. He could beat you in 100m. No way.
Have another smoke and a beer.
What size are those pants you just fucked up? He handed the sausage fingers the ticket and
$7. “You want a receipt?” Seb didn’t so just he drove off when the
barrier came up. They were a 38. Definitely on the upswing too. He had a thought that he should do something
about that, but turning up the radio was easier. Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” buzzed out of his car
radio in the most irritating and tinny way.
It could only have been worse if it was AM and slightly miss-tuned so as
to add that little high pitched whine in the background. He didn’t seem to notice. The bass riff made his speakers warble.
...
Seeing the bright side
His wipers should have been
called smearers. Really they just
squished the water and grease around on his window making it almost impossible
to see properly. In fact, visibility was
better after the wiper had passed and some rain had fallen in its
backdraft. Then the wiper would come
back and screw it up again. Oddly, if he
left the wipers off, he couldn’t see either.
He crossed the centre line a couple of times as he drove. Or at least he figured he did based on the
oncoming cars high-beaming him and honking their horns. He thought about veering a little more into
their way, just to fuck with them, but the last thing he needed was to provoke
a DUI on top of his current problems. He
checked his speedometer to make sure he was doing at least the speed limit and
kept on going. He had heard that if
you’re driving slow and swerving, the cops are far more likely to single you
out than if you’re confidently doing a little more than the posted speed limit. He wasn’t really sure if that was true if he
was swerving from lane to lane. He tried
to concentrate.
...
How to be better than everyone else
He walked back into his cube and
Windows was almost done its startup.bat. Not exactly noting the irony, he launched the terminal software that
connected to the mainframe. He was
running a DOS window no more sophisticated than the green screen terminal that
he would have gotten if he’d come to work on time. Instead, he came to work 3 hours early to get
a cube with a sliver of light and a computer that he wasn’t really using as a
computer.
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Relaxing in front of the TV
“So Seb, I have some news too,”
she started, looking away from Seinfeld for a second. Don’t ask him what was going on on Seinfeld. Every time he watched that show he’d sit
there and fantasize about hooking Kramer up to electrodes and zapping him. Or punching George in the face. He never knew what was going on when he
watched that show. Boring. A goddam whole show about two guys arguing
over a parking spot? Geesus he could get that downtown.
...
Suspecting you're in the wrong alternate reality
Maybe he could find an old
bastard to bash with a shovel, just to take the edge off. That’s what the Dilaudid is supposed to be
for. But it isn’t working is it? Why is that? He could feel the numbness and nothing, nothing at all hurt, not even
his back and his feet – and at this point in his life and his weight, they were
pretty much supposed to hurt. But his
mind was still doing that thing it does. The thing that gets people pooling into hotel room carpet instead of
getting their back taxes filed. Why was
that? It always worked before. Yeah, but this time it’s Jo. Jo knows the music you like, and she watches
you paint for hours and drinks green tea. No she doesn’t. Well she
should. She’s seven, seven year olds
don’t drink tea. Musically she likes
the Wiggles. And she watches Dora when I paint. It’s because you paint shit. And they hurt her head, so it’s different.
...
Finding a more productive hobby
Part of his problem was that he
was alone today. Maybe he should get a blow-up
doll, put a Kindle or a tablet in its hands, and stick it on the couch behind
him. It wouldn’t talk any less than
either of his two real women, and it wouldn’t change his music on him
either. He smiled. “Radio, eighties new wave, not Culture Club,
shuffle all,” and he laid out some titanium white on his palette. By the time
OMD’s “If You Leave” was done, his colours were all laid out and ready to go. There was more than he’d ever use finishing
this piece, but if there was one thing he hated, it was breaking the creative
process to squeeze a tube. It ruined his
mojo.
...
Climbing the corporate ladder
He had a couple of conference
calls, and was thankful for the <mute> button on his phone so he could
mock his colleagues from around the country as they spoke. It was how he passed his time. He really only needed to be downtown today as
an excuse to clean out his glove box; but sundown was still a couple of hours
away. He tried to remember more details
of the double murder, but they still eluded him. He was starting to agree that taping it would
have been cool, especially if he was going to gap out. But the tape would probably have to go into
the river with the rest of the stuff. Yeah and the knife should finally go too.
...
How not to adjust your meds
After a week of the lowered
dosage Seb was feeling fine. The
half-pills were a pain in the ass, they didn’t split well, so he just knocked
it down by a pill a day. The twitchiness
was much less and the times when he couldn’t really move off of the couch were
almost non-existent. He was, however,
sitting on the couch and watching an episode of Bob Ross, but because he enjoyed
it not because he couldn’t get up. He
had a thought that Bob’s soothing voice made it impossible for most people to
get up off the couch, not just the over-medicated ones like he’d been. When the episode was over, he was suitably
inspired to paint.
Electronic version
ISBN 978-0-9920447-0-1 ebook
ISBN 978-0-9920447-0-8 print
ASIN B00E3FPYJ0 kindle