Journals of a Psychopath.



What is different about my novel, read it and find out.

The Farmstead

Rheanna and Smithson were attractive. Caldwell was relaxing in his favorite baroque chair. Inching closer to view him, he was reading a newspaper. Setting out from the den Caldwell shuffled upstairs, I bashed the pane, Rheanna frowned when she saw me, and I was furious. Seizing a brick, I nearly lobbed it.
      “No do not do it I will open the door.”
Crosswise her face was angst.
      “Have you seen my keys?” Caldwell asked.
He was in the hall, Rhea examined through the patio doors, and then she opened them.
      “I will let you in when my father leaves the ranch he has had a minor heart attack if you cause trouble it will make him worse.”
Abandoning the lobby, Caldwell negotiated the stairs, I hovered impatiently, and I could have stormed in, except I did not want him to die so soon. Rheanna ran up the stairs to check on her father.
I turned my back to leave I knew she wondered what I wanted it was quite simple I needed to know if she craved for Perry. I was not jealous regarding Pep wanting Rhea, but irate by the idea of Perry encroaching on my property.

The Haven and the corpse Connor

      “Do you still want her?”
Connor was disinclined to speak and the black-sockets appeared to be peering. Sleeping and the laptop began to make a noise, roused me. Fiddling with it the Lady Flarice’s face became clear. She staggered upstairs to her bedroom and Lady Flarice was tight, I observed her with high interest, she tumbled into bed and oblivion took her.

The Lady Flarice’s House

I spanned the threshold and sneaking into the bedroom, I clasped her nipple in my fingers I squashed and rotated it, moans escaped from Lady Flarice’s mouth. Discovering the outline of her body and my hands glided over her feminine form. The covers slid off, stirring she was too drunk to comprehend what was going on. Her mound was festooned with silvery-blonde hair and Lady Flarice's clitoris responded to my touch, her face became flushed.
      “Connor,” she said.

The Trees and the Archangel

Connor’s body bumped on the ice. He earned the legal requirement for disassemble, Connor had touched, and dirtied Lady Flarice.
Chanting the song of the possessed, my skull was high. The black-angels gyrated. Roaring into life, the conflagration crackled, the Woodlander Warriors tinged by the combustion. Bounding around the flaming voracity, I saw the cleaver was honed and polished. I narrated from my pocketbook, the list of Connor’s felonies, and the greater offense, the defiling of my Lady Flarice.
      “You have sinned.”
Sentencing him to be hewed in pieces, I intoned the mantra concerning death. The odor from the black-angel wafted it was the smell of rotting flesh.


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