It seems like I’ve been banging on about “upcoming” new works since 2016 and here I am…still banging on about upcoming works. Over the last weeks and month, I’ve began the laborious task of going through files on my external drive stick I had somewhat of a mental block going near, let alone picking up the work and take it forward. That was hurdle Number One cleared and it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. It rarely is, I guess.
My immediate project is my upcoming..(there I go again!) novella The Locked Room, which is a project I’ve spent the best part of two years on and
it will be the first release of Strange Days Press (SDP), which is my own and new publishing label. SDP’s website is currently under some construction changes, it needed some tweaks for ordering services and certain other facilities and the novella itself is also receiving a little polish and TLC in hair and makeup before it moves towards a release date. I have no firm date for this right now, but it will be early 2019. So behind the scenes, my minions are slaving away for minimum wage to try and help me make this happen and produce a quality product and a solid platform to launch it from.
Lurking in my notes and ideas, files and musings, I stumbled upon a small piece of flash fiction that I had forgotten about and to be honest, can’t remember writing. It has popped up on my blog before but here it is again.
That’s it for now, but I’ll be back as matters make progress and I finally move towards announcing the launch venue for The Locked Room, dates and pre-order details for the book.
My humble and eternal thanks as always to those reading and supporting my work.
//Jonathan
NIGHT OWL
He likes to stay a while. Not too long, but just enough to take it. What he wants. What he covets. What he craves. Watching them sleep from the shadows, his cloak is made of a strange magic and he uses it well.
Locked doors, windows and the bricks and mortar of buildings are mere trivialities to him now and he learned soon after his taking, that they offer little resistance. He is not of this place any more, but the rage from his distant life within it, still burns. Oh, how it burns.
Sometimes, he just stands over them, watching. Waiting. For the part of the night that smells the sweetest. He has a special affinity for the young. The vitality that oozes from their very bones a drug he just cannot consume enough of. It’s his pleasure. His opiate of choice.
Some of the ones he visits have house pets. They guard their owners sensing his presence in the air and unless he’s careful, they see him. Especially cats. Even one or two of them seem to sense him too. They wake as he’s taking it from them, their eyes wide and terrified, little hands reaching out into the darkness to try and stop what they cannot see, wondering if they are really awake or just dreaming. Are they dreaming of the black shadow sucking the breath out of them with great greedy gulps as it leans over their bed?
He’s getting stronger. He can feel it. Soon, he’ll be able to do more. He knows he must be patient, but he has time. Time is all he has. Lately, sensation has slowly began to return to his hands and fingers and it feels like pins and needles. He can almost move objects now when he tries to touch them and it feels good. Very good. He knows that soon he’ll be able to touch them too and he simply can’t wait for that.
Because he has ideas. Bad men always have lots of ideas. Even the dead ones.
Jonathan Wood 
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