I love that moment when I fall in love with a story. My newest, tentatively titled "Narco-Klepto" is hitting that point.
Crazy people falling in love is nothing new, so I wanted the disorder to be original. As far as I know, there isn't any link between kleptomania (addiction to stealing) and narcolepsy (falling asleep in random places). What's more, I didn't care. Part of the fun of fiction is telling reality to fuck off.
Here's the beginning. A link to my 99-cent short stories follows. Happy new year to all.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00DV8K5FS
Crazy people falling in love is nothing new, so I wanted the disorder to be original. As far as I know, there isn't any link between kleptomania (addiction to stealing) and narcolepsy (falling asleep in random places). What's more, I didn't care. Part of the fun of fiction is telling reality to fuck off.
Here's the beginning. A link to my 99-cent short stories follows. Happy new year to all.
Narco-Klepto
The boy
is a narcoleptic kleptomaniac. This presents problems. He studies a store’s security
infrastructure. He finds answers to many self-generated questions. Guards or no
guards? Beeping machines by the exits? If so, do they bother to change the
batteries? Or, like so much of his country, is it merely security theater?
He goes
to all this trouble to steal. The object is not the objective: it is often
something as trivial as a pack of gum. Sometimes he steals tic-tacs because
they make noise and it’s a challenge.
The thrill of crossing a perceived
line: that is the kleptomaniac’s objective.
This is
where the narcolepsy becomes an issue. Sometimes the thrill of stealing is too
much. Sometimes his mind will shut his body down. The boy will fall asleep
standing up in aisle five, and when a guard or clerk checks to see if he’s
alive, he’s busted. Sometimes they pat him or poke at him, discovering his
ill-gotten gains. Other times, he wakes, forgetting the merchandise in his
pocket. He walks rather than runs through the machine and beep-beep-beep! He’s
caught.
So, at
fifteen, the boy has a record.
You
wouldn’t know it to look at him. His hair is long and heavy metal dark, but he
maintains it well – he shampoos and conditions daily. He wears jeans, but none
with holes. He does not scribble band names on their legs or allow others to do
so. He wears button down shirts, exclusively. Though he will not tuck them in,
they are always ironed, impeccably so.
This is
how he looks when he meets the girl.
She
dresses like a mall mannequin. Jeans and t-shirt. Tasteful makeup. A redhead
but not head-on-fire. Not goth. Not prissy. No band shirts. Simple lines.
Sometimes dots. Color but nothing nuclear green or orange. Nothing overdone. He
guesses she isn’t shallow, just planned. This is a costume. She’s built to
blend. It’s all by design.
The
first time he sees her, she’s reading US Weekly on aisle four in the local
Walgreens. Her other hand pockets a stick of men’s deodorant. Her eyes never
leave the page. The boy stands there, watching, in awe of her technique. It
takes him a while to realize her eyes are closed. He hears her lightly snoring.
He
falls in love.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00DV8K5FS
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