The Long, Hard Road to November

Many of you may or may not have heard about my two successful NaNoWriMo runs. This year, I plan to go for it a third time. The only problem is that all these ideas in my head brew and evolve on their own, leaving me with a very tough choice. If I were to ask you to help me nominate a project for November, which one would you pick? I'd very much like to hear your picks and your thoughts, so please feel free to reply to this entry, e-mail me or contact me through Twitter and Facebook.

The Thirteenth Round - Excerpt

“Mankind is like dogs, not gods; if you stay humble they will bite you,
but stay mad and you’ll never be bitten.”
-Jack Kerouac

Physical injuries take days or even longer to cure, yet an emotional injury never scars. A thought along those lines drifted along the mind of Hyde, the “Beast”, two days after returning to the gym and three after the sparring incident with his best friend, Franky Canet. Walking along the maze of benches, punching bags, piles of tattered equipment and other things strewn about, he didn’t have to turn around to know everyone stared at him with a mixture of hatred and fear. All those furrowed brows and narrow snake eyes hardly fazed him; on the contrary, they amused him. Did they seriously think some stinky looks would hurt more than a real punch? Surely not. They were aware that they couldn’t lay a finger on him, hard as they may try.

Hyde’s destination was a locker room where a proper change of training clothes awaited him. He made it to the blue door not before being interrupted by coach Guido, who quickly and rudely summarized today’s training menu. The outlaw boxer pretended not to hear as he made his way into the next room. It took him one step to forget everything.

Killing Dead Men - Chapter 5 (Excerpt)

Here is an excerpt of my third novel "Killing Dead Men", a tale of violence, bloodshed and heartbreak. It is the story of a man unfortunate enough to survive death; now, as long as he remains alive, the streets of Frontier City will see carnage.


‘Franco’s not here. Joey’s not here.’ thought Junior Borja a couple of minutes before, back when his scared self was so slow to understand that they were driving him to the site of his execution in the desert. Moments after Marty Rizzo had finished driving several miles towards nowhere, Junior was on his knees in a big hole dug in the mantles of sand, begging for the mercy of two men who couldn’t help but look down on him. Marty kept his poker face and Parco continued having that perpetual mask of melancholy and boredom.

“Really! You don’t have to do this! I can pay you! I can.. I can..--I can kill that asshole myself, if you want! Honest!” implored Junior, his face reddened and his voice weakened due to his panic. He screamed at the top of his lungs when Parco drew an automatic handgun from his belt.

“No, Junior. No --Oh, god damn it. Stop crying already. Give it a rest. You're a big boy now!” said Parco, his emotion that of someone who has just gone through a marathon of boredom.

The bookmaker squealed every time the sights of the Beretta drifted over his body, creating further annoyance for Parco; he hadn’t even bothered to take the safety off. The bespectacled hitman sighed and started to scratch the side of his head --with his gun, no less.

“What do you want then? Do you want Marty to come down to that hole and beat you to a pulp, genius?” Parco crossed his arms in exasperation. “I think he carries a bat in the trunk. You do, right?”

Marty didn’t take his eyes off good old Junior. He simply nodded.