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My Work in Progress
(with excerpt/s)
Currently, I am writing a psychological thriller set in a post-apocalyptic South Island of Aotearoa. Its working title is 'Justifier'.
‘The truth was black and blue, and it all came down to the boy with the gun.’
Summer, 1983: Two young boys in a forest promised to embrace stereotypical masculinity. One returned from the forest. Alone. Years later, that boy aimed a rifle at someone he believed should die. He didn't pull the trigger.
Winter, 1992: Everyone at school speculates that seventeen-year-old orphan Charlie Whittaker conceals a dark secret beneath his lanky physique. Supernaturally, he and an enigmatic child named Abe become the only people in the world overnight. While Charlie’s memory of recent events is lost, Abe claims to know everything, including a spontaneous journey Charlie took with a girl named Penny.
Seeking answers, the unlikely duo embark on the same route that will expose cold truths amidst surfacing memories: a cryptic lullaby; cruel torment from bullies; an obsession for vengeance; and faces that haunt their pasts. As the truth reveals itself to be jarring, Charlie and Abe are forced to question if they’re beyond redemption from their own worst selves.
Justifier
Excerpt!
Ants are billowing from the apple’s flesh. The fruit is pregnant with them. I open my mouth to scream at the boy to stop, to warn him about what’s inside. Nothing escapes my lips, as if I have no tongue.
My eyes squeeze shut in a futile attempt to drive away the scene. It doesn’t work. A crunching sound echoes around the clearing, followed by the small child coughing, then choking. Gasping for air that isn’t there. Desperate attempts to inhale through the nose. Hearing it without seeing makes it more distressing, because I can still see his innocent, little face in my memory: eyes lolling back in his head; a tiny body collapsing to the ground; and the struggle of arms and legs in the dirt. A long, raspy wheeze. Suspense keeps me rooted, waiting for the next sound of life. I count the seconds. One, two, three, nothing.
I allow myself to take in the horror. His face is a greyish-blue. Light purple semi-circles rim his eyes. The multitude of ants blanket their mass across him, entering his nose, his mouth, and his ears. Beneath them, the boy is black and blue. No gun, though. The ants clear a little. I expect to see glossy, lifeless eyes, but they aren’t. Because he has no eyes, just deep, endless sockets.