Singularity is stories within stories.
Singularity is surprising.
Singularity is a love letter to classic Gothic horror stories like Frankenstein or The Monkey’s Paw.
Singularity is bound to have you second-guessing yourself.
Singularity is the sequel to JESSICA, and features the writing of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Sara Litchfield, Sandy Ramsey, Lizzi Rogers and Hannah Sears.
Singularity is coming soon.
If you haven’t read JESSICA yet, you can read Chapter One HERE.
And now, a short snippet from Singularity, coming later this summer from Dilettante Publications
Luther came storming in from the rain like a gust of wind and slogged his way through the foyer to elevators to take him down to Ward C. He was soaking wet and gave off silent waves of leave me the fuck alone. He’d parked across the street from the hospital, and the second he stepped out of his car the rain, which had been steady but light on the drive over, suddenly turned into a downpour so hard that each drop felt like a bee sting.
He was glad he’d had the foresight to put the folders into his old briefcase; otherwise they would have been reduced to a smeared, pulpy mess. He remembered when Alice gave it to him when he’d made Detective. She’d been so proud, and had spent way too much on the thing. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d never use it, and so he took it to work with him every day and brought it home every night. He found uses for it, even if sometimes all it carried were fast food wrappers and empty cigarette packs.
Luther popped into a bathroom to dry himself off, using paper towels to soak up the rain that had pooled in his frizzy hair like dew. He set the briefcase on the counter and dried it off, too, running his hand over the worn leather, fingering a scratch it had gotten when some junkie decided to take a swing at him with a knife one night coming home from the bar. He hadn’t even had a reason to have it with him, but it had become something of a security blanket after Alice left, and so he carried it everywhere he went. He was lucky he had it that night.
He shrugged off his London Fog and threw it over his shoulder like a model in a Sears catalogue and picked up his briefcase. He took one last look at himself in the mirror and paused – maybe it had been a long time since he’d really taken a good look at himself, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen himself so clearly. Every detail from his deep brown eyes and strong jaw – peppered with three days worth of stubble – seemed to jump out at him. He had his father’s crooked nose and his mother’s shapely, full mouth. When he smiled – which was more and more rarely – he saw his mother staring back at him and it pinched at his heart. How long had it been since the aneurysm? Five years? Surely not that long; the pain still felt fresh.
He stared into the mirror and got lost for a moment, and then recovered himself and rushed out of the bathroom, a touch alarmed at the unwelcome bit of nostalgia.
He stumbled into Dr. Chandra’s office, looking unfocused. For a moment it seemed he had forgotten why he was there.
“Detective?” Dr. Chandra asked. “Is there something I can help you with? Have you discovered anything?”
“The bodies,” he tried to say, but his voice was caught in his throat.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I need to see the bodies. Particularly the burned one. I need to see the body of the burned girl.”