Hello! It’s me and I’d like to share the announcement of my new short story, crime fiction, superpowered fiction story. I wrote it several months ago and published it on Amazon last Sunday. I’d like to share a few chapters to entice interest for anyone willing to read it (it’s free on Kindle Unlimited and a dollar otherwise). I don’t know what else to say, hah, so let’s just get right to it. Without further ado, my newest book! Enjoy!
As a young boy, he lost his mother to a gun. He sat before her dead body and carried her from the house in his small arms, wearing her silver necklace. As a result, he has grown cold and bitter, stronger and weak.
His landlady’s dead and he saw it all happen right before his eyes – without even being there. Young P.I. Hannibal Musa, a telekinetic survivor of darkness, has to solve her murder. His investigation will take him through the rough and twisted streets of Oasleham City. From decadent, burned churches to crime-ridden neighborhoods, he and his partner will come face-to-face with metaphysical enemies and adverse “allies.”
The Moon shone like a symbol of ephemeral light in the shadowy darkness, beaming down its beacon onto a lone house resting in the hilltops. These hilltops had no life growing on their sides. On this dark hill, the grass grew not green but gray. The trees possessed no leaves but rather, as if possessed, the trees stood, dead, with their branches like thin fingers seeking to claim the White Disk for themselves. Beyond these rows of haunted trees rested a house. This house stood awake in the deep hours of the cloudy night.
On the top floor of the house, underneath a twin-sized bed, a boy hid, shivering and sweating profusely from the tip of his brow.
“So that’s how you’re gonna do me, huh?!” A voice shouted from downstairs. “You just gonna do me like that?!”
“Get out of here!” shouted another voice. “Get out! Get the hell out!”
“Tell me! Tell me why you left and took my son with you! TELL ME!”
“Oh, dear God… Get out!”
“No, don’t run away from me! No Allah to save you now! Scream! Scream! He can’t hear you! Tell me!”
BANG! BANG! BANG! THUD!
The boy under the bed curled into a ball, teary and sniffling.
“Umi…” he whispered, gripping his legs tightly. The boy struggled to remain quiet, the gunshot sounds echoing in his ear and reverberating through his spine. The boy’s shivering intensified as the sound of creaking and soft footsteps approached his bedroom. The room was pitch-black dark except for the moonlight that palely shone through the window and provided the gravest of light into the deathly room.
The boy stiffened hard when he heard the footsteps stop in front of his door.
The door slowly opened with the barrel of a shotgun peeking through the doorway before the head of the man came through, the top half of his body shrouded in the veil of darkness. Then, like the wildness of a coyote, the man pounced forward, grabbed the boy by his leg, and pulled him out from under the bed.
“No! Umi!” The boy clawed at the wooden floor, his fingernails bleeding as he was dragged from the floor.
“Shut up, boy! Your mother ain’t here no more!” The man angrily lifted the boy by his collar and threw him to the wall. The boy fell to his knees, coughing from the impact. He slowly raised his head to see the barrel of a gun facing his face. “You and her can both get it…”
Tears began clouding his eyes as he stared down the gun, images and sounds of his mother’s pain continuously flashing through his mind’s eye like a mental slideshow. Veins began popping in the boy’s head and his pupils shrunk dangerously.
“What the hell?” The man looked down at his arm, finding it tense and unable to pull the trigger. His arm bent at the elbow, switching the tip of the barrel to the man’s chin instead. “Wait… no!”
The boy watched as the body dropped to the ground with a loud thud, blood pooling beneath it. Numb and still coughing, the young child stood up and grabbed a flashlight before walking out of the room, fingertips bleeding and dripping to the floor like drizzling rain.
He made his way downstairs and into the kitchen where his light shined in the center and revealed his beautiful mother sprawled on the floor, several gaping holes in her chest, stomach, and leg. The boy walked over to the body and collapsed on the floor, his head bowed and his heartstring plucked, emitting a pained melody. His cloudy eyes then saw something through the mist; a sparkle in the darkness. The boy reached out for the glimmer and picked up a necklace, one his mother wore. It was stained with blood. The boy wiped the blood off on his shirt and clasped the necklace behind his neck, tears rolling down his cheeks from the windows of his soul.
Chapter 1: The Rabbit-Faced Ravager
“I hate this place…” thought Hannibal Musa, a young caramel-skinned man, walking through the streets of Oasleham City, Oregon, kicking a can as he walked. His hands in his pocket, the boy stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn red. The boy stood under the foggy polluted clouds of his hometown, the sunlight filtered through the black smog.
He was a young man of moderately average height, standing with low black hair, a lean build, and demonic red contacts over his eyes, the sclera a deep black. It also doubled as the main thing that kept passersby from looking him in the eye. Besides the contacts, he also wore a faded black shirt, dark blue jeans, black boots that were untied, a long black leather trench coat – which he kept his hands in its pockets – and a silver necklace hanging from his neck. At the end of the chain was a crescent moon shape with a star resting in the center.
“I hate the air, the feeling like you’re suffocating…” the boy’s thoughts continued to crackle, like a fire on wood. “I hate the overzealously religious people, the fact that there’s a nasty hobo on every corner, or that there’s literally a black cloud over this forsaken city…”
The light switched from green to red and, with a huff, the boy proceeded across the street. His eyes circled from the various homeless people lying in the alleyways and boxes, the well-dressed men and women just walking by on their smartphones, and the few cars that drove up and down the street.
“Spare some change, sir?” a small old man dressed in rags asked weakly of the passersby. They ignored him or, even worse, treated him with disdain.
Hannibal stopped in front of the man and dropped several dollars into the man’s cup. “Here,” said he. “Get yourself something to eat.”
“Oh,” the man breathed out, his cheeks rosy and the stink of alcohol viciously apparent on his breath, “thank you, young man. Yes, yes, absolutely, I will make sure this goes to good use.”
Hannibal could only sigh and shake his head. “Of course you will…” he whispered bitterly, continuing on his way.
“What the hell is wrong with the world? Why does it stink so bad?”
No answer rained from the Heavens nor did one grow from the Earth. Silence only accompanied the question and another hard sigh followed it.
“This world… is rotten to the core.”
Hannibal eventually stopped in front of a local hat store. The young man walked through the door, smiling politely to strangers as they walked out of the store with bags in hand.
“Welcome!” greeted the owner, a bald man with a smile far too wide. “Welcome! Please, take a look through our fine brand here. Or here? Or maybe you’d like something like this?”
While the owner suggested all of those hats, Hannibal’s disguised red eyes rested on a certain hat on the shelf above him. The owner followed his customer’s line of sight and smirked.
“Ah, that one?”
“Yeah,” replied Hannibal.
The owner reached up and pulled the hat down – a black custom Fedora with the “disk” being narrower and longer at the ends. Hannibal held it, letting the cotton soothe his hands, before lifting it up and letting it settle on his head.
“Oh, it looks great!” announced the exuberant owner. “Here, here, see for yourself!”
From the side of the shelf, the man pulled out a hand mirror and gave it to Hannibal. A small smile graced his face as he looked himself over, the hat’s shadow darkening his eyes even further than they already were.
“I can’t even lie…” said he, stroking his chin, “I look pretty damn good.”
The owner nodded in agreement. “Yes, you do. That’ll be $29.95.”
Hannibal reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of rolled up bills held together by a skimpy rubber band. The owner watched him pull out a $20 and a $10 dollar bill before handing it to him.
“Thank you for doing business with Mr. Shaq’s Hats. Please come again.”
Hannibal tipped his hat to the man, took his nickel in change, and exited the door, feeling rather well about himself.
“Alright, now- URGH!”
A vein on the side of the boy’s head pulsed painfully, forcing a collapse to his knees in pain and a grab of his throbbing skull. Everyone around Hannibal continued on their way, walking around the boy like he was a wet floor sign. Hannibal’s mind, however, was numb to the outside world. Deep in his mind’s eye, a scene took place before him…
“Stop it!” yelled a female voice. “Get out!”
A hooded shadowy figure stood over the woman’s body, his gun smoking.
Hannibal’s eyes reopened and they were wide as saucers, the experience he just had relatively alien to him. The woman in the vision, however, was not.
“Ms. Johnson… no…”
With the speed of a mustang, the young man raced down the street as fast as his long legs would carry him.
The drivers angrily screamed at him as he sprinted and vaulted the hoods of their cars but he paid them no mind, his focus on the danger ahead.
It wasn’t long before he had finally made it and after he pounced up the steps, he proceeded to kick the door in with the might of a Spartan. His nostrils exhumed quick, quiet pants and his body dropped to a crouch as he saw, in the hall, on the first door to the left, the door opened partly with scathed footmarks below the door knob. Hannibal tightened his jaw and clenched his fist before quickly busting into the house and finding a sight that made him gasp in shock.
The woman, Ms. Johnson, laid on the ground with a gaping hole in her forehead. Her eyes were wide open but with soulless pupils, like open curtains to a dead house. Blood was splattered from her forehead and drops scattered around her face. Her arms and legs lay spread out as if she were peacefully laying in the grass.
Hannibal grimaced while looking at the sight, his heart heavy with bitter beats. The smell of death began to poignantly reach up into his nose as his eyes scanned the scene. As he stood there, staring at the body, however, a sudden realization came to mind.
“That wound is still fresh… I just saw it somehow… This only happened seconds ago… meaning the killer is still here!”
Hannibal’s head was turned to the sound of a window opening and like a hound on the hunt, he ran to the kitchen where, beyond an open window, he saw the back alley on the side of the building and a hooded man running away from it.
Without hesitation, Hannibal dove through the window and landed on the ground feet-first before taking off after the escaping man. The killer began picking up speed but he wasn’t faster than Hannibal and soon, the young man managed to tackle the figure to the ground. Mounting him, Hannibal reached for the man’s hood when the pinned man, utilizing impressive flexibility, backhanded Hannibal and overpowered him enough to throw him off and onto the ground.
Hannibal’s eyes managed to catch a brief glimpse of a purple rabbit mask under the hood and the tip of a gold necklace sticking out of the man’s pocket. The man, in a sort of fidgety, twitchy motion, turned and ran out of the alley, leaving Hannibal lying in the grime, wondering:
“Why didn’t he kill me?”
Liked it? Purchase the entire book (or download) right here.