I believe this is the first time I've ever shown, displayed, posted, or shared anything from this particular part of my creative mind. It falls pretty solidly into the "urban fantasy" genre, and is the only thing I've written that does. Its working title is The Wyrd Magnet.
I actually don't usually care for urban fantasy; too much of it reads like everything else. For all I know, this will, too. Anyone familiar with Simon R. Green's "Nightside" series may sense some comparisons. I'm cool with that; I dig the series almost as much as I dug his "Hawk and Fisher" series. But, I actually wrote this first chapter about a year before the first "Nightside" book came out. Like some of my other work, this was based on a dream. (In fact, most of Chapter One was from that dream.)
I don't know if y'all will like this at all. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I know I've got another entire chapter written, two more somewhat written, and a few planned out. The problem? They're all out of order.
I'm going to post this here, but I'll most likely only post updates in the left-hand side column. Let me know what y'all think about Martin and his world.
The Wyrd Magnet
Chapter One - Sub-culture
Club Houngan was the busiest nightclub in town, even on a Wednesday night. My cab made the turn onto Briar and pulled to a stop fifty feet or so away from the front door – about as close as we could get. A heavy line of black limousines waited, their drivers lurking protectively near them. The line to get in, which began around the corner, ended in an honest-to-God red velvet rope which was manned by a pair of bouncers that could moonlight as walls. A long canopy ran to the corner, keeping dry those fortunate enough to get inside within the next few hours or so. The rest covered themselves with umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines. I glanced up through the car window at the three-story high building with a garish neon sign of a smiling voodoo priest atop it. The ugly red and white light of the sign reflected on the rain-slick pavement. This was the hottest club in town, and I’d just been told that an old classmate of mine owned it outright. Stranger still, that old classmate needed my help.
“Thirty-one twenty,” the driver said, turning down his pounding tech-metal music. He turned to face me. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your twenty cents.”
I gave him a pair of twenties: “Keep it.”
It was a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed this guy, I’d get him.
“Thanks, man.” The driver pushed a button and unlocked the doors. I got out and did my best to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt and overcoat. I ran my fingers through my hair and strolled toward the head of the line. A couple of things were certain. The first is that I was at least ten years past the freshness date for this club, and I was making a bad situation an egregious one by not showing up with a bauble on my arm. The second thing I knew was that the bouncers weren’t going to be able to do a goddamn thing about it.