An Author Dies...
...in a good cause. If you enjoy this story, or any of the other stories for Brian Keene Must Die Day! please consider making a small donation to The Shirley Jackson Awards.
Talismanic Magic
Just another day, at just another convention. Just another fan-boy mob scene. "Hey look!" a fat, pimply kid in a Dawn Of The Dead t-shirt shouted. "It's Brian Keene!"
The mob turned and raced toward a bearded man with glasses who had just stepped out of the elevator.. Their faces shone with the light of the true believers, FUKUS all, aglow with joy at the sight of Him, their adored one. The howling pack surrounded him, waving books, scraps of paper, and even used napkins from the con suite.
"Hey, Brian, will you sign my book?"
"Brian, I'm your friend on Facebook. GhoulGirl? You know?"
"I follow you on Twitter!"
"Sign my book?"
"Sign my paper towel?"
"Sign my underwear?" This last from a buxom brunette in a striped catsuit.
"Well, hey there," the author replied, scrawling his name on the red silk thong.
"Brian, I've read every one of your books!"
"You're my favorite writer, dude! Ghoul changed my life!"
Keene smiled and nodded, like a balding, bespectacled bobblehead. He signed everything they thrust at him, although with every stroke of the pen he felt diminished, as if he was shrinking, shriveling. Like each signature stole a little piece of his soul. But they were his public, his fans - without them, he'd be nothing, nobody. So he grinned, and autographed, and felt lesser by the minute.
As the ink drained out of his Sharpie, the vital force bled out of his essence. With one last, weak scribble, he inscribed his name on yet another paperback copy of The Rising. He was done.
They had what they wanted, all they could get, so the crowd turned away, leaving nothing in the hallway but a tiny, blasted husk. And then the brunette in the catsuit swept that up off the floor.
"Cool" she purred to herself. "I can sell this on E-Bay."
"Hey!" screamed the fat, pimply boy, pointing. "Isn't that Wrath James White? Hey, Wrath!"
Talismanic Magic
Just another day, at just another convention. Just another fan-boy mob scene. "Hey look!" a fat, pimply kid in a Dawn Of The Dead t-shirt shouted. "It's Brian Keene!"
The mob turned and raced toward a bearded man with glasses who had just stepped out of the elevator.. Their faces shone with the light of the true believers, FUKUS all, aglow with joy at the sight of Him, their adored one. The howling pack surrounded him, waving books, scraps of paper, and even used napkins from the con suite.
"Hey, Brian, will you sign my book?"
"Brian, I'm your friend on Facebook. GhoulGirl? You know?"
"I follow you on Twitter!"
"Sign my book?"
"Sign my paper towel?"
"Sign my underwear?" This last from a buxom brunette in a striped catsuit.
"Well, hey there," the author replied, scrawling his name on the red silk thong.
"Brian, I've read every one of your books!"
"You're my favorite writer, dude! Ghoul changed my life!"
Keene smiled and nodded, like a balding, bespectacled bobblehead. He signed everything they thrust at him, although with every stroke of the pen he felt diminished, as if he was shrinking, shriveling. Like each signature stole a little piece of his soul. But they were his public, his fans - without them, he'd be nothing, nobody. So he grinned, and autographed, and felt lesser by the minute.
As the ink drained out of his Sharpie, the vital force bled out of his essence. With one last, weak scribble, he inscribed his name on yet another paperback copy of The Rising. He was done.
They had what they wanted, all they could get, so the crowd turned away, leaving nothing in the hallway but a tiny, blasted husk. And then the brunette in the catsuit swept that up off the floor.
"Cool" she purred to herself. "I can sell this on E-Bay."
"Hey!" screamed the fat, pimply boy, pointing. "Isn't that Wrath James White? Hey, Wrath!"