by 
Noise by Brett Garcia Rose, is a thriller/mysterycentering on a deaf character’s search for his missing sister. It’s short,
violent, but ultimately it’s about love.
Noise was published in June 2014.
Genres: Action, Adventure, Mystery
Synopsis:
The world
is an ugly place, and I can tell you now, I fit in just fine.
is an ugly place, and I can tell you now, I fit in just fine.
Lily is the only person Leon ever loved. When she left a suicide note
and disappeared into a murky lake ten years ago, she left him alone, drifting
through a silent landscape.
and disappeared into a murky lake ten years ago, she left him alone, drifting
through a silent landscape.
Or did she?
A postcard in her handwriting pulls Leon to the winter-cold concrete
heart of New York City. What he discovers unleashes a deadly rage that has no
sound.
heart of New York City. What he discovers unleashes a deadly rage that has no
sound.
A grisly trail of clues leads to The Bear, the sadistic Russian crime
lord who traffics in human flesh. The police—some corrupt, some merely
compromised—are of little help. They don’t like Leon’s methods, or the mess he
leaves in his wake.
lord who traffics in human flesh. The police—some corrupt, some merely
compromised—are of little help. They don’t like Leon’s methods, or the mess he
leaves in his wake.
Leon is deaf, but no sane person would ever call him disabled. He
survived as a child on the merciless streets of Nigeria. He misses nothing. He
feels no remorse. The only direction he’s ever known is forward.
survived as a child on the merciless streets of Nigeria. He misses nothing. He
feels no remorse. The only direction he’s ever known is forward.
He will not stop until he knows.
Where is
Lily?
Lily?
Excerpt:
Twenty-Eight
The
sounds I cannot hear: The whistle of the hammer as it arcs through the air. The
wailing of pain and the begging of The Bear.The dripping of blood from thawing
meat onto the wet concrete floor.The beautifully crude threats.
sounds I cannot hear: The whistle of the hammer as it arcs through the air. The
wailing of pain and the begging of The Bear.The dripping of blood from thawing
meat onto the wet concrete floor.The beautifully crude threats.
My
own hideous voice.
own hideous voice.
I
drag The Bear into a walk-in freezer by the hook sunk through his shoulder and
toss him into a corner on the floor. When I reenter the freezer, dragging the
oak table behind me, The Bear is hard at work on the hook, trying to muscle it
out, but it’s sunk deep, through the tendons. Hope is adrenaline, fear masks
pain, begging helps no one.
drag The Bear into a walk-in freezer by the hook sunk through his shoulder and
toss him into a corner on the floor. When I reenter the freezer, dragging the
oak table behind me, The Bear is hard at work on the hook, trying to muscle it
out, but it’s sunk deep, through the tendons. Hope is adrenaline, fear masks
pain, begging helps no one.
I
yank him up by the hook and then hold his hands outstretched, one at a time, as
I nail his wrists to the table with railroad spikes. I put all of my 240 pounds
behind the hammer, but even so, it takes several swings. His body shakes, the
nails sink further into the wood, his face is pain. He screams, but I cannot
hear.
yank him up by the hook and then hold his hands outstretched, one at a time, as
I nail his wrists to the table with railroad spikes. I put all of my 240 pounds
behind the hammer, but even so, it takes several swings. His body shakes, the
nails sink further into the wood, his face is pain. He screams, but I cannot
hear.
The
building above burns a deep blue hue with my smuggled-in accelerants.
building above burns a deep blue hue with my smuggled-in accelerants.
The
sound of the hammer into The Bear.The pain in his eyes. I have never seen so
much hatred. It is beautiful to me, to reach this center, this uncomplicated
base, to disassemble the past and honor a new history. It is another film, also
homemade and rough, an overlay, an epilogue. The Bear is broken but I have
spared his face, and to see those eyes, that is what I needed; to see his
hatred flow into me, my own eyes sucking down the scum like bathtub drains. His
life whirls into me and I taste the fear, the hope, the sharp sting of
adrenaline pumping and the reeking muck of despair. His pain soothes me, a
slow, thick poison. We will all die.
sound of the hammer into The Bear.The pain in his eyes. I have never seen so
much hatred. It is beautiful to me, to reach this center, this uncomplicated
base, to disassemble the past and honor a new history. It is another film, also
homemade and rough, an overlay, an epilogue. The Bear is broken but I have
spared his face, and to see those eyes, that is what I needed; to see his
hatred flow into me, my own eyes sucking down the scum like bathtub drains. His
life whirls into me and I taste the fear, the hope, the sharp sting of
adrenaline pumping and the reeking muck of despair. His pain soothes me, a
slow, thick poison. We will all die.
I
know it now; I am a broken man. I always was. I imagine Lily watching me, Lily
keeping score, making lists, balancing all. As a child from far away, she was
the queen, even more so than her mother. But she didn’t survive. The world was
not as we had imagined, not even close. The world is a cruel, bastard place,
Lily cold and lost somewhere, me hot and bleeding and swinging my hammer. Life
as it is, not as we wish it to be.
know it now; I am a broken man. I always was. I imagine Lily watching me, Lily
keeping score, making lists, balancing all. As a child from far away, she was
the queen, even more so than her mother. But she didn’t survive. The world was
not as we had imagined, not even close. The world is a cruel, bastard place,
Lily cold and lost somewhere, me hot and bleeding and swinging my hammer. Life
as it is, not as we wish it to be.
The
sounds I cannot hear: The laughter of the watchers. The groan of my
sister as The Bear cums inside of her, pulling her hair until the roots bleed. The
Bear screams and shits himself inside the dark freezer. Lily’s wailing
and cursing and crying. I scream at The Bear with all my mighty,
damaged voice, swinging the hammer at his ruined hands, hands that will never
again touch anyone. Lily at the end, beaten and pissed on and begging
to die.
sounds I cannot hear: The laughter of the watchers. The groan of my
sister as The Bear cums inside of her, pulling her hair until the roots bleed. The
Bear screams and shits himself inside the dark freezer. Lily’s wailing
and cursing and crying. I scream at The Bear with all my mighty,
damaged voice, swinging the hammer at his ruined hands, hands that will never
again touch anyone. Lily at the end, beaten and pissed on and begging
to die.
Lily
is dead. I am dead. It will never be enough.
is dead. I am dead. It will never be enough.
I
remove the stack of photos from my wallet that I’d printed at the Internet café
a lifetime ago and place them face down on the table in front of The Bear. I
draw an X on the back of the first photo and turn it over, laying it close to
the pulp of his ruined hands.
remove the stack of photos from my wallet that I’d printed at the Internet café
a lifetime ago and place them face down on the table in front of The Bear. I
draw an X on the back of the first photo and turn it over, laying it close to
the pulp of his ruined hands.
The
Bear offers me anything I want. An animal can feel pain but cannot describe or
transmit it adequately. The Bear both is and is not an animal. I lack hearing,
so the Bear cannot transmit his experience to me unless I choose to see it. His
pain is not my pain, but mine is very much his. I swing the hammer into his
unhooked shoulder, and then I draw another X and flip another photo.
Bear offers me anything I want. An animal can feel pain but cannot describe or
transmit it adequately. The Bear both is and is not an animal. I lack hearing,
so the Bear cannot transmit his experience to me unless I choose to see it. His
pain is not my pain, but mine is very much his. I swing the hammer into his
unhooked shoulder, and then I draw another X and flip another photo.
His
lips move, and I understand what he wants to know. Five photos.
lips move, and I understand what he wants to know. Five photos.
In
my notepad, I write: you are a rapist fucking pig. I put the paper
into the gristle of his hands and swing the hammer against the metal hook
again. It’s a sound I can feel.
my notepad, I write: you are a rapist fucking pig. I put the paper
into the gristle of his hands and swing the hammer against the metal hook
again. It’s a sound I can feel.
Anything, The Bear mouths.
He is sweating in the cold air of the freezer. Crying. Bleeding.
He is sweating in the cold air of the freezer. Crying. Bleeding.
In
my pad, I write: I want my sister back. I swing the hammer
claw-side first into his mouth and leave it there. His body shakes and
twitches.
my pad, I write: I want my sister back. I swing the hammer
claw-side first into his mouth and leave it there. His body shakes and
twitches.
I
turn over his photo and write one last note, tearing it off slowly and holding
it in front of his face, the handle of the hammer protruding from his jaw like
a tusk. You are number four. There are a few seconds of space
as the information stirs into him and I watch as he deflates, the skin on his face
sagging like a used condom. He knows what I know.
turn over his photo and write one last note, tearing it off slowly and holding
it in front of his face, the handle of the hammer protruding from his jaw like
a tusk. You are number four. There are a few seconds of space
as the information stirs into him and I watch as he deflates, the skin on his face
sagging like a used condom. He knows what I know.
I
turn over the last photo for him. I turn it slowly and carefully, sliding it
toward him. Victor, his one good son, his outside accomplishment,
his college boy, the one who tried to fuck him and they fucked my sister
instead.
turn over the last photo for him. I turn it slowly and carefully, sliding it
toward him. Victor, his one good son, his outside accomplishment,
his college boy, the one who tried to fuck him and they fucked my sister
instead.
I
remove another mason jar from my bag, unscrewing the metal top and letting the
thick fluid flow onto his lap. I wipe my hands carefully and light a kitchen
match, holding it in front of his face for a few seconds as it catches fully.
He doesn’t try to blow it out. He doesn’t beg me to stop. He just stares at the
match as the flame catches, and I drop it onto his lap.
remove another mason jar from my bag, unscrewing the metal top and letting the
thick fluid flow onto his lap. I wipe my hands carefully and light a kitchen
match, holding it in front of his face for a few seconds as it catches fully.
He doesn’t try to blow it out. He doesn’t beg me to stop. He just stares at the
match as the flame catches, and I drop it onto his lap.
The
Bear shakes so hard from the pain that one of his arms rips from the table,
leaving a skewer of meat and tendon on the metal spike. I lean into his ear,
taking in his sweet reek and the rot of his bowels and, in my own hideous
voice, I say:
Bear shakes so hard from the pain that one of his arms rips from the table,
leaving a skewer of meat and tendon on the metal spike. I lean into his ear,
taking in his sweet reek and the rot of his bowels and, in my own hideous
voice, I say:
“Wait
for me.”
for me.”
Praise for
Noise:
Noise:
“A staggering, compelling work of fiction…mind-blowingly perfect. It
has everything. Exquisite details, world-weary voice, and people worth knowing.
It is truly amazing!” – MaryAnneKolton, Author and Editor of This Literary
Magazine
has everything. Exquisite details, world-weary voice, and people worth knowing.
It is truly amazing!” – MaryAnneKolton, Author and Editor of This Literary
Magazine
“Strong, compelling, raw and human in the best sense. Beautifully
written.” – Susan Tepper, Author of Deer and Other Stories
written.” – Susan Tepper, Author of Deer and Other Stories
“Perfect, compact and explosive, closing with the gentlest word.” –
James Lloyd Davis, Author of Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves
James Lloyd Davis, Author of Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves
“Wow. Beautiful and wonderful and sad and real.” – Sally Houtman,
Author of To Grandma’s House, We . . . Stay
Author of To Grandma’s House, We . . . Stay
“Frighteningly good.” – Meg Pokrass, Author of Bird Envy
“Superbly explosive. The rage escalates and careens out of control.
Amazing.” – Ajay Nair, Author of Desi Rap
Amazing.” – Ajay Nair, Author of Desi Rap
Buying Links:
Amazon US: Paperback | Kindle Ebook
Amazon IN: Kindle Ebook
B&N: Paperback
About the
Author:
Author:
Brett Garcia Rose is a writer, software entrepreneur, and former
animal rights soldier and stutterer. He is the author of two books, Noise and LosingFound Things, and his work has been published in Sunday Newsday
Magazine, The Barcelona Review, Opium, Rose
and Thorn, The Battered Suitcase, Fiction Attic, Paraphilia and
other literary magazines and anthologies. His short stories have won the Fiction
Attic’s Short Memoir Award (Second Place), Opium’s Bookmark
Competition, The Lascaux Prize for Short Fiction, and have been
nominated for the Million Writer’s Award, Best of the Net
and The Pushcart Prize. Rose travels extensively, but
calls New York City home.
To learn more, go to BrettGarciaRose.com, or connect with Brett on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.
Thank you nikita for the spotlight.
apologize in the delay in responding!
Appreciate it!
Welcome Ruchira.. 🙂