There’s big news on the horizon, but there are little victories as well. Not long ago, I deleted my editing draft of The Data Collector. It is no longer in editing, it is only in manuscript form. Yes, there are more than a dozen little excerpts on my hard drive now, but each of those is tailored to a particular agency’s query requirements.
“Haven’t I suffered enough?” He asks with sullen eyes.
“Not according to your account,” the machine replies.
Lucien Parish’s bandaged hand shakes as he slips it into the opening on the front of the machine. The opening leads into the machine’s suffering box, a convenience which allows transactions to be easily completed on demand.
The following is a section from the second chapter of my upcoming novel: The Data Collector. The narrator, Sylvia, is returning from hate-purchasing coffee supplies as part of an elaborate ruse at her office. It’s been a weird day that is about to get a whole lot weirder.