Mr G Writes A New Book...

Mr G writes a new book? Well, two actually, but that's another story...

The one on my mind and in my head and at my fingertips is Red House.

Red House is told from four different points of view, all first person.

The story involves four people who become intricately linked through their involvement with Red House, a sinister cult religion that preys on the minds, souls and wallets of the vulnerable. Their methods of recruiting new members is gruesome and questionable.

Red House follows four stories over five decades culminating in an apocalyptic climax where only one will survive and the world will change forever.

Expect cult religion, haute couture, trans-sexualism and the second coming.

To give you the flavour of the book, I have included a short excerpt from the opening. All comments welcome. I will be publishing at the end of the year.

Red House by Casimir Greenfield

They took Timmy to the Red House. It was October third, Nineteen Sixty Seven. The day Woody Guthrie died. I can remember the Tuesday as though it were yesterday. Woody. Bobby's muse. Gone. Fifty Five. A tragedy. At least Timmy came back alive. Well, I say alive. He was probably brain dead from day one. The Red House effect. I guess you can always tell when someone has gone. Their mind, I mean. There's a kind of blank stare, a lack of sparkle, a void - as though their soul has been ripped from within their very being and smeared across a sacrificial brow. But Timmy lost more than his spark on those brief dark days in early October. 

The sycamore trees still blazed with autumn russets when the sun was allowed to shine, fallen leaves crisp with frost, weighted down, ripped from their mother host and crushed underfoot. Like Timmy. 

I love my sleep, so twenty four hours of deprivation was a challenge. Timmy had been kept awake for close to ninety by the time they brought him back. They used such clean and powerful drugs. And there's me. Stupid idiot me. What did I go and do?  I kept him from suicide that's what. And that might have been the wrong thing.

I sliced the palm of my hand open trying to prise the bread knife from between his fingers. I still have the scar. Timmy still has the scars. Both external and internal. Still has the sight in one eye. Though what he sees I have not got the first clue. 

I used to visit him quite often, but in the last few years his mind has gone completely. He was unrecognisable, but they assured me it was him. Bloated and shaven-headed, strait-jacket smeared with bile-green vomit. He had been a beautiful flower child with Pre-Raphaelite curls falling to his shoulders until the aftermath of the Red House. Not anymore. I know fossilised lichens with more life. He didn't know who the fuck I was.  

Why the hell had I bothered?  All those years had been a complete fucking waste of time and funds. But I swore one thing before I lost him completely. In one of those rare lucid moments before the electroshocks fried the last remnants of his memory, I swore a quiet oath to him. That unholy fucking trinity will fall. If it's the last thing I ever do, I will avenge him. Timmy, and all the others. Dee, Melody, Ollie, Jake, Bleddyn, Patty, Chris, Raver - all the lost souls. All the ravaged lives fucked over and spat out like pomegranate seeds.

I will avenge them all, make no mistake about that. And if I die in the telling of the tale, so be it, but as long as this poisoned blood runs through my veins, I swear on the lives of all the damned saints and angels in heaven, Red House will fall. 

copyright 2012 Casimir Greenfield

Red House - a link to the song based on the book