The Monocle Man

  POISED TO WRITE since learning the alphabet, rural New Englander JB Murray crafts prose like the way he devours literature: with his dog by his side, a scotch in his hand, and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray. Aspiring to be a full-time author, Murray nurtures his creative energy by consuming a vast array of literature; studying as if he were an apprentice of the great Edgar Allan Poe. He balances his life by carving out time for his musical ventures, spending time with family and friends, enjoying nature, and the occasional Netflix binge.

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  SENTRIES OF TIME SNEAK PEAK

  Even though The Monocle Man is technically the third installment of my Strangeverse… all books within won’t follow a necessary order of reading. But if you’d like to know where it all began… check out Sentries of Time! A tale of time travel, Edgar Poe, and a mysterious stranger who shows up one day on Poe’s doorstep!

  Enjoy this excerpt from Sentries of Time…

  Excerpt from… Sentries of Time

  A gentle fog settles low to the ground. It clings to life a few feet above the earth, hovering here and there in wisps of white. The fog wafts to and fro over the brown grass and the little mounds of what snow remains. Storms raged weeks earlier. The heavy snowflakes cascading from the clouds above, making it near impossible to see but a few feet in front. It piles into rolling hills of clustered flakes. The hammering winds pushed the snow into ever-growing drifts. They stretched like waves in the ocean, smaller to larger, cresting in whites and grays. Storms often raged in the Northeast. And Baltimore was no exception. But over the past few days, the temperature warmed. The snow, though grudgingly so, melted. It left behind the slightest trace of the passing winter. And the people who ventured out to enjoy the city found their heels tapping against cobblestone once more, or softly padding against the tufts of brown and yellowed blades which lay buried in white a few days prior.

  The sun still slumbers. Though will soon awaken to another day. But for now, the moon, hanging low in the heavens, does its best to illuminate the world lying beneath. Through this pale light and drifting fog a figure cuts across the street, entering a cemetery through the rear gate. Well poised, the man walks in silence. His boots not making a sound. His confident stride seems to push away the fog at his feet as if it fears the man. The linen vapors move forward and split to the side as he walks along the gravel path toward his destination. A long, heavy trench coat bellows out behind him as he moves. The garment, now ill-fitting, though at one time the fabric hugged him comfortably. The coat is not his favorite anyhow. That, he’d left somewhere long ago. In another time. This one he now wears, purchased at a second hand store, is a pale though adequate enough substitute. And yes, he’s lost a considerable amount of weight these last few months. The stress of life, along with this new burden… (or is it a gift?)… weighs heavy on his heart and mind. Though this does little to convince him otherwise, that his original coat would wrap around him like a lover, if it were still in his possession.

  With one hand he tucks the small bouquet of roses he’s carrying under his arm. Then uses his free hand to pull tighter the hood that shadows his face and head. His destination looms before him. A bench, erected a foot or two off the gravel path, sits a mere few feet from a great stone jutting up from the ground. The sight is something for which he isn’t entirely prepared. He knew… yes… of course, had to know something might mark the spot. But this? This is more than expected. A simple stone with a few words would have placated him well enough. His ego is not as consuming as it may have once been. No, a common marker would suffice. He could have found contentment in a simple, “Here lies a man”. For that’s all he is. Just a man. Some called him gifted. Others called him talented. Many, if not most, called him insane. But these were only words. And those were something in which he fashioned himself quite knowledgeable.

  Setting the bouquet on the chilly, wooden bench, he reaches within the confines of his jacket to remove a smallish bottle. With a quiet sigh and placation, the man sits in front of the little monument. He stares a while. Not believing his eyes, but yet knowing all too well the ultimate truth which lay before him. Men die.

  He nestles the bottle between his legs and pulls off his gloves. Wraps his fingers around the bottle’s body, hoping it might warm the fluid a little. It isn’t terribly cold this morning. Not really. But it’s still January. And even a mild January carries a chill in the air.

  He looks this way and that, content in his solitude amongst the vast acres of flattened land, marble and limestone, and allows himself the pleasure of leaning back. The cold of the bench penetrates his garments, his body offering up the slightest shiver.

  “As if, someone just walked over your grave,” he whispers..

  THE STRANGE SNEAK PEAK

  And if you loved The Monocle Man… you can get a deeper dive into the world of Reynolds in… The Strange! Reynolds and Clara find themselves entangled by a time-traveling Poe, and a house that holds many secrets, while they all desperately try to eradicate an evil that’s lived far longer than it should!

  Enjoy this excerpt from The Strange

  Satin City, Rey… Now…

  No matter how hard he shakes his head, he can’t discount the strange occurrence that sits before him. Surely his mind is letting go of reality. His eyes tear up at the thought. He doesn’t want to go crazy. But it might be too late. He lets his head fall into his hands for a moment before facing this “event” now unfolding. The world is still silent, under water. The haze in front of him shifts. No, that isn’t right. This wavering ghost wall is growing more dense. Reynolds squints. He gazes through the obstruction, sure something lingers just past it. Absolutely convinced. At once the wavering slows to half its intensity, relaxing, and a vertical seam appears from the floor to the top of the apparition. It starts as a straight, hairline fracture. And then, toward the center of it comes the first real sound he’s heard since this began. A sucking sound. He watches a pale form trickle through the surface to this side.

  This side?

  What the hell?

  But it seems right. The pale shape extends back into the anomaly, followed by something darker. And as it moves closer, as it comes through, Reynolds can tell it’s a hand.

  Holy hell, a hand!

  Followed by a sleeve! Black in color. And next, as if it’s popped through in a phantasmic burst, all at once, the rest of the figure comes snapping into his kitchen; into this reality. A man!

  The man stands there, inches in front of this odd occurrence while the wavering waterfall of air behind him folds in on itself. Sucked back to whence it came. And in a rush the sounds of the city and the world Reynolds knows comes flooding back in. He reaches up and grabs his ears, the noise immense. It takes several moments for the returned volume to steady, and seem normal once again to Reynolds. He looks at the man before him with unbelieving eyes.

  “Ahhhhh,” speaks the man standing there in his kitchen. He looks around a moment before spotting Reynolds on the floor near the table. Bending at the hip, he feigns surprise. “There you are.” Taps the brim of his hat as if an introduction were necessary.

  “What…” Reynolds voice trails.

  “May I offer you a hand?” The strange man asks reaching for Reynolds. Rey backpedals, bouncing off table legs, finding himself flat on his back beneath its surface, his chest heaving, his body covered in a nervous sweat. “Be indignant all you want,” the man says. “The indignation of man will certainly lead to the turpitude of one’s soul!” The stranger smiles. “Oh my, I should jot that down!”

  Reynolds rubs his eyes with fervor and then closes them for a length of period. He has to be imagining this! Doesn’t he? But when he opens them again, the man is still standing there in his kitchen, half slouched to on
e side, peering at Reynolds with the most peculiar of grins.

  “Please sir, if you will, remove yourself from under the table. I’ve not the faintest notion of how long my sojourn will last, but I can quite assure you, not as long as we may need. Every second counts sir. Every… last… second!”

  With some trepidation, Reynolds pulls himself from under the table, pushing aside the stranger’s hand and help. Once on his feet he takes a few steps back, eyeing the strange man with suspicion. Suspicion well deserved. He may have walked into his kitchen, an apparition, but Reynolds is far too good a cop to disregard the facts. Men did not simply materialize. And as absurd as this scenario seems, he’s convinced the stranger came from somewhere, or quite possibly, some when? Almost as likely. Isn’t it? That latter makes more sense, given the man’s peculiar manner of dress. Though oddly enough he looks familiar.

  The stranger stands around five foot eight, maybe nine. An inch or two shorter than Reynolds himself. Dressed mostly in black. With black trousers which drape over a well-worn pair of black boots. Under a black vest, he sports a white shirt with a high collar, the only real breach in dark. And what appears to be a well-worn cravat, which may have once been white, but time has faded to an off-white, creamy hue. Other than the cravat and shirt, both of a finer, lighter linen, the clothing looks thick and heavy. Wool? When was this last in fashion? Over all of this he wears a thick, long, beige trench coat of a sort, with a wide collar and very large buttons. The trench coat however looks out of place, and as odd as it would seem, somewhat outdated to the rest of the ensemble. The garment hangs much lower than a trench should. More of a hybrid, trench coat/western duster.

  He stands erect, this anomalous character, with a distinct bearing and muster. His eyes, a piercing gray, look perpetually in thought. He wears his curling, dark brown hair, wavering on black, brushed back from his prominent brow. This is also sprinkled with touches of gray as a man in his forties might appear. Under his nose, the beginnings of a mustache. His face, a pair of long, well maintained side burns. His complexion overall is fair, pale, though not sickly, merely that of a man who spends little time in the sun. He is most likely, handsome from wherever, or whenever he came, with an oval countenance. His features are not large, though irregular, which makes him look somewhat unpleasant, or rather, disagreeable. A man of self-stature, that is obvious, in the way he carries himself. And when he speaks his voice is mellow, soft and melodious. Almost musical in a sense, but very concise and direct. A man who’s used to people listening. Therefor speaks with clarity and tone, warmth and depth, to his listeners, rather than having to boast to be heard.

  The stranger walks over toward Reynolds, who’s still holding his ground. He bends over and picks up the bottle of vodka from the floor, setting it upon the table. He pulls out a chair and sits facing Reynolds who’s backed up against one wall. Again, the stranger smiles. This gesture causes Reynolds’ shoulders to loosen and relax. The man, now seated at the table, crosses one leg over the other. He threads the fingers on both hands and sets the pair on his thigh, leaning back in the chair.

  “Well,” the stranger says. “Now that you have most assuredly, and indubitably appraised my countenance and personage, might we have a few words? As I’ve said, time itself, is of the essence.”

  Both Sentries of Time and The Strange are

  Available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes and JBWRITES.COM!