RYAN POLLARD'S FREE BOOK JINGLE HELL

Don't buy the e-book version of The Devil's Nest in December. You can get it for free during RYAN POLLARD'S FREE BOOK JINGLE HELL. December 21-25. However, if you can't wait that long to enjoy this five star freak fest, then feel free to give me your $2.99 or whatever amount of currency is required to purchase it on your respective country's Amazon site...

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ASHES - A POEM

She materialised along a foggy riverside.

Stabbing stilettos echoed at the midnight hour.

She was distant at the feet of the clock tower,

Splashing through rain puddles, or maybe piss,

Or broken innocence on those deserted streets,

Where scowling policemen walked the beat.

She didn't answer when I called out her name,

Fading into the shadows of the cold sombre night,

Where memories remain like a stubborn flame,

When we used to dance underneath the city lights.

A flicker and flash took us to the past.

We sat together at a table in a corner,

In a place where everyone knew my face,

Amongst the last of the big time drinkers,

Who often witnessed my falls from grace.

She spoke of what she thought she knew,

For she couldn't grow into what she knew.

I recall the time I saw her by a fountain,

On a brisk autumn day in the city centre,

Where she was with a failed comedian.

I wasn't sure at first, but it was her,

With her smile withered away,

And all I could do was turn away.

I fell upon her name in a newspaper,

One white morning in the winter,

Sat by the window in that corner.

They found her in a land faraway,

Washed up on a bay under the sun,

After they killed more than her time.

I see her on the streets around here,

That form her presence back here,

Where she comes and disappears,

In moments as fleeting as life itself.

She comes and goes with the wind,

Which blows through these streets,

Whipping the flames of memories.
The fearsome fires flicker and flash.

Blazing, burning, they turn me to ash.

THE DEVIL'S NEST, CHAPTER ONE - A PREVIEW

 
My novel, The Devil's Nest, is out for pre-order right now at the great price of $2.99. It is available on Amazon Kindle and the free Kindle reading app for computers and mobile devices. The release date is May 11, 2015. This post contains the first chapter in its entirety, and links to pre-order The Devil's Nest will be at the bottom of this page.

CHAPTER ONE: MAYHEM

“Go Down Fighting” - Half Life (Never Give In, 1989)

“Sex and Violence” - The Exploited (Punks Not Dead, 1981)

My vision blurred and I became lost in a puddle of blood. Crawling on my hands and knees, the room spun around me. Premonitions of powerlessness clouded my panicking thoughts. It's a scenario that one might envision themselves in while reading exaggerated bar fight stories on a message board at two in the morning, but this wasn't an online forum. This was real and raw.

My blood already spilled onto the floor and my brains were scrambled by a baleful man – someone who not only smelled of, but looked as if they were made of cheap cigars and whiskey farts.

The patrons looked down at me in the gloomy and uproarious cauldron of The Devil's Nest. Tinges of regulation-breaking cigarette smoke and cannabis caught my nose. Then a foot drove into my ribs and turned me over onto my back. I took another kick to the ribs, but got my hand high enough to graze their nut sack. My fingertips clipped them through their blue denim jeans. It was a rash attempt to buy myself time and get into the fight, but it only pissed them off even more. They knocked me back down with a chest-crushing stomp.

I laid in the glass that was broken over my head moments earlier. The shouts for violence intensified. A silhouette of my attacker emerged, and their burdensome figure formed in the very little amount of light that emitted from a bulb hanging pathetically from the basement ceiling. The towering man wore a Boston Red Sox ballcap, because he's most likely a bandwagoning dipshit who got into them in 2004. His longish hair spilled out from under the hat and looked dry like straw. His terrifying angular face was sweatier than a priest walking past a playground. A scar under his left eye stood out on a relatively young face that was aged by alcohol – a monument to brutality. He stood over me and lifted a fire extinguisher over his head. This was Ozzie Scroggs - “The Mad Dog.”

He supported that nickname further by mercilessly slamming the extinguisher on my nose. A thunderous pop rose out of the onlookers. Drowning in the inhospitable existence, I put my hands up in defense. Ozzie threw the extinguisher down with such vigor that it wasn't of much use. I felt my nose break and the thick, dark red blood clogged my breathing, flowed over my teeth, into my mouth, trickled off my chin and ran down the back of my throat. I tried to sit upright to prevent the blood from going down my throat too much, because I already felt sick to my stomach. It mixed with the dozen or so pints that I drank throughout the night. Drinking all the whiskey in my flask wasn't such a good idea either.

Ozzie's big left foot, made heavier by his Irish Setter boot, knocked me unconscious before I could take in the crisp smell of its leather. It's difficult for me to recall how I got to lying on some dirty snow in the pub's dark back alley. Crawling to my hands and knees, a gentle touch of my nose brought on a grinding pain. Blood dripped from my nostrils and stained the snow. My neck struggled to prop my throbbing head.

I rolled into a sitting position, then felt a rutty cotton glove touch my right cheek. A grumble slipped from my mouth. My bruised cheeks swelled and made it hard for me to talk without feeling as if a pocket of blood was going to burst out of the flesh. I groggily lifted my head to see a scraggly old man, with long unkempt gray hair all over his head, and a musty odor that came off his tattered brown buttoned-up coat. The burdens of life hung on each wrinkle that hardship carved into his wooden face. Those wintry eyes examined me from top to bottom.

I looked around the hushed alley with trepidation, dazed and confused, trying to process the moment. The pitiless wind died down throughout the night, leaving us to our frozen hinterland. The only thing between us was the fog from our breath. My muscles tensed and, in a move triggered by nothing but the natural desire to survive, I put an arm up to get a little distance from the man. I braced myself for a mugging.

“C'mon, kid.” His voice was accommodating. He pulled my arm in a bid to help me off the ground. “This ain't no place for anybody. December in Minnesota ain't nothin' to fuck with. Come on...”

He threw my arm around his shoulder, dragged me to the sidewalk, then flagged down a cab. He threw me in the back seat, then told the driver to get me to the hospital, but didn't get in the cab for the lift. At least the bare minimum is better than nothing.

I barely remember what happened next, but I puked all over myself in the back of the cab. I do remember being diagnosed with a broken nose the next day. A cute nurse pulled slivers of glass out of my head with tweezers in the early morning hours. My mouth tasted of dry blood and stale vomit. My head banged in agony. All I wanted to do was take a shower and sleep in the warm comforts of my own bed.

This was all the result of a darts game gone awry. A fucking darts game. I had previous history with Ozzie Scroggs before, but a darts game brought our paths together again. It more than pissed me off. It reminded me of something that needed to be forgotten a long time ago, and made me feel more exposed than I ever wished to feel again. Becoming a better darts player wasn't going to be my way forward, but I couldn't let that night go without a response. This was bigger than Scroggs. It cut to my bones more than most will ever know.

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FRACTURED WORK OF ART - A POEM

Self-idolatry meets self-loathing.

My wistful eyes stunned frozen,

As I stare at the vaulted ceiling.

I recall the seagulls squealing,

On the brisk Lake Superior shore,

In simpler days of mild malaise,

Away from clubs and dance floors,

We grew tired of those summer days.

Sitting with my old friend, silence,

I recall her pleasant countenance,

Between reality and imagination,

In the woe of a fading stimulation.

Tender words drip from bloody lips,

Down the steps and into an abyss,

That swallows memories of bliss,

Then coaxes me in a writhing grip.

Flick of a wrist and kiss of a knife.

Stubborn hands commit the deeds.

Cowering with trembling knees.

Guiltless eyes close the windows,

To a chamber of rotting faces,

Tortured by a harrowing heart.

This body is a haunted place,

A fractured work of art.

THE LAST HOURS OF MONTY O'CONNOR - A POEM

The bells rung out in the night.

A mist hung over the ghastly sight.

A man limped in the alley light,

Coughing as he fell to his right.

O'Rourke and the lads stood grimaced,

Overcoats coated the hearts on their sleeves.

They pressed for answers Monty hadn't the slimmest,

For the pack of vigilant thieves.

They pulled Monty up and punched him loose,

Those memories and years of useless abuse,

He wished he could take back.

He gulped but wouldn't crack,

Hoped he could see them again.

Then told himself it wasn't in vain.

There was his wife - Sinead McCann,

The lovely lass he met in the rain,

At a bus stop one night by the Quays.

Brushed her hair and kissed in the breeze,

Too many more frightful moons ago.

A love so foolish to hold loose and let go.

His son Liam was ten-years-old,

Took the brunt and left in the cold,

After nights of drinks and fury.

His daughter Aisling wiped her eyes,

Fifteen-years-old and often chastised.

How Monty wronged them so,

He realised after another blow.

He fell to his knees and spat out a tooth.

Blood ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

He looked up at his old mate, Johnny,

Recalling the fun bloom of youth.

He could tell on his face it hurt,

Johnny fought to keep dry eyes.

O'Rourke aggressively lifted him,

“No more of these lies, Monty.”

I won't give up 'til I have the truth.”

“I don't know what you mean,

I don't know a fucking thing.”

Monty was honest but knew,

The fate O'Rourke's eyes drew.

Green and weathered all through,

Left Monty feeling awfully blue.

They took him out into the crisp woods,

Threw him down into the slippery dirt.

Small wind let trees sit still and lifeless,

Timeless eyes idle and baring witness.

Monty looked up at O'Rourke's haunting figure,

A stoic silhouette formed out of headlights.

The lads stood behind him in the shadows.

“This is your last chance,”

O'Rourke reached into his trenchcoat,

The silver caught Monty's bloodshot glance.

“Did you help the man who slit the gaffer's throat?

Who stole from the unfortunate of little wealth?

What do you have to say of yourself?”

“I did nothing at all,”

Monty begged but didn't ball.

He didn't have the strength to stand,

But refused to die a cowardly man.

“Just tell my family I love them.”

O'Rourke lifted the gun and stepped forward,

A solemn scene of tragedy Monty saw before.

He was battered, bloodied, left in ruins,

Kicked in the ribs and shot in the head.

Dropping to his knees was Johnny McGuinn.

A man should never see a friend shot dead.

O'Rourke struggled with a single tear,

Wiped it off and turned around aware.

Men had shovels and flashlights in hand.

They held their head up and kept quiet,

Stepped silently and to dig they began.

They left dear old Monty in that dirt pit,

Then carried on without a heart's content.

IN THE CATACOMBS - A POEM

Dizzy, dazed, in the catacombs I wandered,

My aching being had been taken possessed.

I tripped on aborted fetuses and needles,

Discarded, faded, and worn-away postcards,

Of exotic lands, toxic smiles, then reminisced,

A time when I thought this was love.

Lost in the twists and turns of the catacombs,

Seeking the one who had me possessed,

Falling over skeletons and a mare's nest,

Broken bottles stuck shards in my flesh.

Lapsing, I screamed their screams enmeshed,

Clasping onto when I thought this was love.

My eyes gazed with deep amaze at the bones,

Which lined the walls of the catacombs,

Confined home of the one who possessed.

The skulls stared back with empty sockets,

Told me that I am what they once were,

They are what I will be if I don't leave,

The deplorable love I once believed.

A hectoring voice rattled the chambers,

Called my name from out of nowhere.

I jolted up and stood there in silence,

Then turned with a curious hesitance.

There I stood, toe-to-toe with the one,

The figure that had taken me possessed.

Their eyes took guise to my very own.

Facial features that resembled my own.

Their body took a shape like my own.

Their hair could compare to my own.

In a voice that sounded like my own,

They proclaimed forcibly to be mine.

We screamed our screams enmeshed,

Lost forever in the catacombs.

THE DEVIL'S NEST – AN EXCERPT

Here is Robert Creighton talking to Pete Schreiber in a Minneapolis pub that the story is named after.

“Doesn't sound worth it.”

Pete scoffed. “You fucking think?” He quickly downed the final quarter of his pint. “I didn't feel any better after attacking Todd. I didn't get anything out of my system. I got my hand cut open and still haven't washed the blood out of that coat. I lost my knife and spent too much on beer that night.”

“Couldn't they do a DNA test on the knife?” I stepped towards him, checked around quickly, then spoke softly. “I know he didn't recognize you, but still...”

“I'm sure they could. If they catch me, then fuck it. I have nothing to live for. But anyway, I got off at 38th. Instead of turning left to walk home, I turned right, went into the Cardinal and drank until they closed. I lied and told the barman that I cut my hand on some ice after a fall. I don't think they bought it. I threw up on a snowman while walking back home. I should have stayed in like every other night. Just watch shitty films on SyFy and jack myself off into a coma when those Girls Gone Wild infomercials come on.”

“You shouldn't go out by yourself,” I said. “You've never been good with that.”

“I try to have nice, easy-going, and calm nights out by myself.” Pete stared fondly at his empty glass. “It worked more often than not with Carey. We were like a team. She was the diplomat. I was the one who told people to fuck off if they overstepped their boundaries. It worked. I've always been a mess by myself and I can't help it. Things happen.” He put his glass back on the table and made a quick order to get us some Furious. “Anyway... Things such as trying to cope with losing a job. Things such as getting around the idea that maybe I'm not a very good fiction writer. I hear the conversations around me. There's nothing to be optimistic about in this country. Everyone thinks the politicians are clueless when they actually just hate us commoners. The music is shit. What we see on film and television is terrible. The kids get more fat, more stupid, more lazy, and more greedy. We're being killed slowly by every meal we consume. There's nothing we can do besides drink until we're numb. I'll open my notebook and add another line of thought to an already impressive, yet valueless, compilation of rotten ideas, hopes, and past desires. Somebody asks me what's in the notebook, and I don't know what else to do other than tell them to mind their fucking own. More problems arise when whiskey takes me over. Sometimes, things happen.”

“You either stab them or go on a long rant,” I said with a smile. “That's not fair. They can't win.” Pete pretended like he wasn't going to pass me my pint. “So you come to The Devil's Nest of all places?”