Hello Everybody! Today I have an excerpt of Noise by Brett Garcia Rose! Check it out below along with some more information about the author.
Noise
By Brett Garcia Rose
Published 2014
Genres: Action, Adventure, Mystery
Synopsis:
The world
is an ugly place, and I can tell you now, I fit in just fine.
Lily is the only person Leon ever loved. When she left a suicide note
and disappeared into a murky lake ten years ago, she left him alone, drifting
through a silent landscape.
Or did she?
A postcard in her handwriting pulls Leon to the winter-cold concrete
heart of New York City. What he discovers unleashes a deadly rage that has no
sound.
A grisly trail of clues leads to The Bear, the sadistic Russian crime
lord who traffics in human flesh. The police—some corrupt, some merely
compromised—are of little help. They don’t like Leon’s methods, or the mess he
leaves in his wake.
Leon is deaf, but no sane person would ever call him disabled. He
survived as a child on the merciless streets of Nigeria. He misses nothing. He
feels no remorse. The only direction he’s ever known is forward.
He will not stop until he knows.
Where is
Lily?
Praise for
Noise:
“A staggering, compelling work of fiction…mind-blowingly perfect. It
has everything. Exquisite details, world-weary voice, and people worth knowing.
It is truly amazing!” – MaryAnne Kolton, Author and Editor of This Literary
Magazine
“Strong, compelling, raw and human in the best sense. Beautifully
written.” – Susan Tepper, Author of Deer and Other Stories
“Perfect, compact and explosive, closing with the gentlest word.” –
James Lloyd Davis, Author of Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves
“Wow. Beautiful and wonderful and sad and real.” – Sally Houtman,
Author of To Grandma’s House, We . . . Stay
“Frighteningly good.” – Meg Pokrass, Author of Bird Envy
“Superbly explosive. The rage escalates and careens out of control.
Amazing.” – Ajay Nair, Author of Desi Rap
------
Excerpt:
Twenty-Eight
The sounds I cannot hear: The whistle of the
hammer as it arcs through the air. The wailing of pain and the begging of The
Bear. The dripping of blood from thawing meat onto the wet concrete floor. The
beautifully crude threats.
My own hideous voice.
I drag The Bear into a walk-in freezer by the
hook sunk through his shoulder and toss him into a corner on the floor. When I
reenter the freezer, dragging the oak table behind me, The Bear is hard at work
on the hook, trying to muscle it out, but it’s sunk deep, through the tendons.
Hope is adrenaline, fear masks pain, begging helps no one.
I yank him up by the hook and then hold his hands
outstretched, one at a time, as I nail his wrists to the table with railroad
spikes. I put all of my 240 pounds behind the hammer, but even so, it takes
several swings. His body shakes, the nails sink further into the wood, his face
is pain. He screams, but I cannot hear.
The building above burns a deep blue hue with my
smuggled-in accelerants.
The sound of the hammer into The Bear. The pain
in his eyes. I have never seen so much hatred. It is beautiful to me, to reach
this center, this uncomplicated base, to disassemble the past and honor a new
history. It is another film, also homemade and rough, an overlay, an epilogue.
The Bear is broken but I have spared his face, and to see those eyes, that is
what I needed; to see his hatred flow into me, my own eyes sucking down the
scum like bathtub drains. His life whirls into me and I taste the fear, the hope,
the sharp sting of adrenaline pumping and the reeking muck of despair. His pain
soothes me, a slow, thick poison. We will all die.
I know it now; I am a broken man. I always was. I
imagine Lily watching me, Lily keeping score, making lists, balancing all. As a
child from far away, she was the queen, even more so than her mother. But she
didn’t survive. The world was not as we had imagined, not even close. The world
is a cruel, bastard place, Lily cold and lost somewhere, me hot and bleeding
and swinging my hammer. Life as it is, not as we wish it to be.
The sounds I cannot hear: The laughter of
the watchers. The groan of my sister as The Bear cums inside of her, pulling
her hair until the roots bleed. The Bear screams and shits himself
inside the dark freezer. Lily’s wailing and cursing and crying. I
scream at The Bear with all my mighty, damaged voice, swinging the hammer at
his ruined hands, hands that will never again touch anyone. Lily at the
end, beaten and pissed on and begging to die.
Lily is dead. I am dead. It will never be enough.
I remove the stack of photos from my wallet that
I’d printed at the Internet café a lifetime ago and place them face down on the
table in front of The Bear. I draw an X on the back of the first photo and turn
it over, laying it close to the pulp of his ruined hands.
The Bear offers me anything I want. An animal can
feel pain but cannot describe or transmit it adequately. The Bear both is and
is not an animal. I lack hearing, so the Bear cannot transmit his experience to
me unless I choose to see it. His pain is not my pain, but mine is very much
his. I swing the hammer into his unhooked shoulder, and then I draw another X
and flip another photo.
His lips move, and I understand what he wants to
know. Five photos.
In my notepad, I write: you are a rapist
fucking pig. I put the paper into the gristle of his hands and swing the
hammer against the metal hook again. It’s a sound I can feel.
Anything, The Bear
mouths. He is sweating in the cold air of the freezer. Crying. Bleeding.
In my pad, I write: I want my sister back.
I swing the hammer claw-side first into his mouth and leave it there. His body
shakes and twitches.
I turn over his photo and write one last note,
tearing it off slowly and holding it in front of his face, the handle of the
hammer protruding from his jaw like a tusk. You are number four. There
are a few seconds of space as the information stirs into him and I watch as he
deflates, the skin on his face sagging like a used condom. He knows what I
know.
I turn over the last photo for him. I turn it
slowly and carefully, sliding it toward him. Victor, his one good son,
his outside accomplishment, his college boy, the one who tried
to fuck him and they fucked my sister instead.
I remove another mason jar from my bag,
unscrewing the metal top and letting the thick fluid flow onto his lap. I wipe
my hands carefully and light a kitchen match, holding it in front of his face
for a few seconds as it catches fully. He doesn’t try to blow it out. He
doesn’t beg me to stop. He just stares at the match as the flame catches, and I
drop it onto his lap.
The Bear shakes so hard from the pain that one of
his arms rips from the table, leaving a skewer of meat and tendon on the metal
spike. I lean into his ear, taking in his sweet reek and the rot of his bowels
and, in my own hideous voice, I say:
“Wait for me.”
------
About the
Author:
Brett Garcia Rose is a writer, software entrepreneur, and former
animal rights soldier and stutterer. He is the author of two books,
Noise and
Losing
Found Things, and his work has been published in
Sunday Newsday
Magazine,
The Barcelona Review,
Opium,
Rose
and Thorn,
The Battered Suitcase,
Fiction Attic,
Paraphilia and
other literary magazines and anthologies. His short stories have won the
Fiction
Attic’s Short Memoir Award (Second Place), Opium’s Bookmark
Competition, The Lascaux Prize for Short Fiction, and have been
nominated for the
Million Writer’s Award,
Best of the Net
and The Pushcart Prize. Rose travels extensively, but
calls New York City home. To learn more, go to
BrettGarciaRose.com, or connect with Brett on
Twitter,
Facebook, and
Goodreads.
