[excerpt] Dear Alex
Excerpt From Dear Alex
Note: An old novel of mine currently being converted into a screenplay. Will be posting many excerpts of the old novel… this scene takes place toward the very end of the book. You don’t really need to know anything to understand it, but you might be interested to know that Lady Dee is a really man. 
She was waiting for him on his bed, as he’d commanded. The King shut his doors and locked them, closing the curtains on all the windows, one by one. He could feel her eyes following him around the room, but he ignored her, playing his games of power.
The Lady in red did not seem to notice. “You have fine men, Sire. Lucian is a good man.”
Too good, the King thought for a fleeting moment, and shook his head furiously. He looked at her, her eyes staring back so calmly at him, waiting for him to answer. He said nothing.
She smiled. “But I hear he is no Godric Unbrunner.” She yawned, and he glared at her. “He was murdered, yes? About ten years ago in the dungeons. I heard the stories, very interesting… his body found in chopped up little pieces, locked in a coffin with a note that said his name. They say it was the only way to recognize him. The murderer must have been very kind to leave a note, don’t you think?”
[short] Stalking In Ten Easy Steps
Stalking In Ten Easy Steps
Warning: Zombies. Um. Gross-factor.
Note: Very old. 2005-6ish.
rule #1: know yourself
Norman had died a very long time ago, but he didn’t know it. Or maybe he did know it and he didn’t care. Whatever the case, he staggered down the road, staggering because his maggot-infested legs couldn’t support his hulking frame anymore, their rotten meat falling in a trail behind him with every stomp he took. The stench of death rolled around him in a solid wall, even if he couldn’t smell it because he had a fat cockroach for a nose and the cockroach could a give damn about his smell very much at all. He wandered, up the street beyond the cemetery that he’d risen from, not entirely sure of where he was going, perhaps incapable of understanding enough to ask. He had no working brain, the maggots had made sure of it, and what was a mind without a brain?
[excerpt] Flawed
Excerpt From Flawed
Note: A long-fiction project being written over the years, which entails a number of short stories connecting to a larger plot. This is the first paragraph of that project.
Maggie May was obsessive-compulsive about her laundry. She didn’t know what obsessive-compulsive meant, but she knew that’s what the funny man in the suit told her when her children complained of her habits. They gave her pills, and made her sit down and talk every week, usually about nothing at all, which annoyed her because she couldn’t do her laundry in the little office so far away from where she lived talking about nothing. After all, there wasn’t a clothesline in his office, much to her growing annoyance. The funny man would ask her mundane questions about her childhood, ignoring anything related to clothes–questions like who her mother had been, her father, her children, and most especially about her first husband, who had so strangely disappeared thirty years ago… Maggie always answered everything accordingly, but she didn’t like it, because it was boring and there wasn’t any laundry to do in the office where the funny man worked. That was at home. She didn’t like leaving the house because the laundry was there, and it stayed there, and that’s where she belonged. With the laundry.
[short] May I Taste You?
May I Taste You?
Warning: sexual content, gore, cannibalism. seriously.
Note: Written in 2005, I think. Ish.
Her tongue rolled like a python on the shoulders of a snake charmer, licking at the air to taste my scent. She inhaled deeply, her eyes drifting shut to savor whatever it was she was feeling, and then she smiled. Hand on round hip, smooth legs perched with confidence before my bed as I lay exposed like a monarch before her. She asked me, “May I taste you?”
[short] Like A Black Hole
Like A Black Hole
Note: Written sometime during 2005. I think. *thinks*
“Someday, the sun is going to stop rising,” she said.
Her hands were shaking as they hung over the rail of her chair, limp, like a dead thing waiting to decompose. She was hardly breathing and I wondered for the slightest moment if she really were dead and I was speaking to a ghost, to a memory of a time trapped in the broken bottles and snapped six-pack rings stranded around us.
[short] Done When I’m Dead
Done When I’m Dead
Notes: This is an old one, like most things that will be posted here. For explanation, it’s about being a fanfiction writer.
My lips are the pen and paper becomes your skin, writing words given to me by lovers living within the walls of my head, encouraging dares I would never dare for any other body underneath. Oh, sweet nothings of leviathans made of gold upon men made of leather and hair, I bite a story into you of characters I do not own, of worlds I did not discover, of voices I did not hear but for the obsession curling itself into my toes every time they scream–and you say, “Do me like them,” choking as they have choked to understand the broken drabbles and unfinished fiction spilling from my mouth like smoke. Do me, let me do you, let me do you like them, let me do you a story of things that I have seen in the worlds that weren’t mine that I have written upon your skin.
Yayzors!
This is all original fiction by RC Grant, otherwise known as cozzybob. Please leave a comment and give me love, ne? They’re my fuel. ^^
The only fiction that will be posted here are things that I don’t care to protect or submit to magazines. Excerpts of other things that *are* protected will be posted, but to view the entire work of these pieces, you’ll need to beg and plead and then maybe I’ll send you everything I have via email or filters in exchange for wonderful fangirling/boying. 
Enjoy!
