By R.M. Vaughan
A murder-mystery-ghost-story-romance that manages to subvert all of the traps of such genres Daniel MacIvor
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Extra info for A Quilted Heart
Beginner's luck, I thought, but the next day was the same, and all the days after. There really isn't that much in the world to write about, is there? "The rugs helped. I rolled them under the doors. No click-click anymore. And then I blacked off the windows so people would think someone had died. We never went out, Sylvain wouldn't leave his office. Clickety-click. Well, one can't just cut the world off without a plausible lie. "And Sylvain grew in the dark, he heartened in airlessness. Despite his habits, which he was never really true to, Sylvain was ultimately an ascetic.
He had been given the theatre's equivalent to the Mafia kiss, full on the mouth. Samson was quiet and generous in victory. The Brindle house reclaimed Sylvain's attention. He began his second exploration from the bottom up — camping, and staying, in the wine cellar. Humiliated, Sylvain drank his wounds clean. He ended his nights pelting bottles at phantom critics he met in the long, vaulted hallways. Samson took up oriental cooking. In the hazy mornings-after, Samson petted Sylvain's forehead and brought him a volume of Brecht to calm his nerves.
He wanted something from me a simple fucking couldn't give him: Revenge. " A curling, bottomless yowl rushed out of Sylvain's office and down the upstairs hall. Sylvain's desk crashed in rhythmic sequence, rising and falling end on end. A goblin see-saw. "The skin on my legs would bruise horribly from his hands. I found his hair coiled inside my ears, across my throat. How Sylvain hated himself afterwards. He would cry, and read me pages of his book. " The fireball hissed red steam. Lampshades spun.
A Quilted Heart by R.M. Vaughan