Page 45 of Glitterland

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Then I remembered: I’d only intended to write one book about him. Not six. I should kill the bastard off.

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Another Night

Scrabbling around in the dark, fingers shoved inside myself, altogether a poor substitute.

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Another Day

Egelkraut Splettstößer. And I could call the book whatever I damn well pleased.

Assuming I was willing to write about the adventures of a fifty-year-old German housewife.

Fuck you, Rik Glass.

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Another Day

Rik Glass had run out of cigarettes and discovered a corpse in the middle of his living room.

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Another Day

Shot Glass? Breaking Glass? Glasshopper? Cracked Glass? Under Glass? Raise Your Glass? Ground Glass? Glasswork? Glass Blower? Maybe not. Fibre Glass? Wine Glass? Hour Glass? Glassolalia? Fuck it.

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Another Night

4:07 was the worst time. The world had stopped moving around me. I was a prisoner of time. Memory tore at me like vultures. Why couldn’t I sleep?

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Another Day

It was not a good day. Not only had Rik Glass run out of cigarettes, but there was a dead body in his living room.

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Another Day

Homicide detective Rik Glass smelled burning flesh and knew—Damn it.

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Another Night

Darian. How could you miss something you’ve never really had?

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Another Day

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