Max Kwoa is back with “Hell lingering within”!
How physical can inner struggle become?
In the midst of mid-life crisis, Victor travels back to his birthplace, only to find familiar faces gnawing at his sanity.
Visceral, Max Kwoa’s story is a must read to anyone wondering what goes on in the mind of ageing men, or for anyone enjoying a good bloody story that splatters guts around.
Hardcover print version available in our shop, while digital versions are available from the book Smashwords platform, Google Play, Kindle / Amazon and Overdrive worldwide.
ISBN: 9780463385173
Words: 17,110
Excerpt:
We’re trying very hard, but places like this remind me that tradition has a funny way of using modernity. Brand new 6G plastic advertisements shielding rustic nuts cart from the wind. The amazingly white smile of the latest icon welcoming guests into barber shops with toothless managers…
Here, time slows down.
A veil… thinly decorating a tiny city patterned by folklore. The raw core bursting under. The harsh ceramics forged by burning oven, plated over clay, structuring a mystical geometry handed down by unknown times. I sense his furtive presence lurking behind the shadowy vaults. Light seems to fade as I walk down the arches over the bazaar.
Forms moving over apricots as the wind flow through holey drapes. Rays playing with shadow. Cumin seeds, curcuma, chili powder, badiane, canella, powdered ginger, tiny piles of overpowering colors. Yet, not enough to hide his stench. It reeks from sweat, banj smoke and anger. I tried to walk faster, past the bags of walnuts and raisins, before swiftly heading left, behind the beads door to engulf myself into the desolate corridors of housewares. My back against the crumbling wall, dust fall silent. His steps challenging destiny, playing with my heartbeat at every move. A moment hanging in time.
The merchant across noticed my presence, troubling the peaceful process of his digestive slumber. A finger across my lips nervously orders him to shut the fuck up. Somewhat amused, he reverts to inertia, laying down on his hosiery armchair.
So quiet; lost in the timeless darkness of the bazaar. My follower must have moved onward, heading down toward the meat section. Relieved, I stroll down the aisle, leaving sun’s light behind, on the other side of the beads. Mountains of bowls, thick cooking clay pots, imposing jars slightly notched. By the thickness of dust covering some stalls, I can tell that the place never attracted the interest of modern excitation. Deeper down the aisle, the dust blanket thickens. Intrigued, I penetrate deeper in time, up until a tiny wooden door inserted between broken glassware and a bowl of water left behind by a careless dog.
Behind my shoulder, I can see him, all the way back behind the beads, on the other side. Enough to fuel my curiosity, I stepped in, closing the door slowly behind me, so that no one would notice.
A piercing well of light falling from a tiny round aperture above the cupola welcomes me. The ray struggles to penetrate all the way down, blocked by the thick dust dancing all around the place. There’s just enough light to distinguish the golden frame of the four doors bordering the rounded room.
“aaaaaaah!”
Something icy…
… claws?
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Want more? Here is another snipet of Hell Lingering Within new edition:
The old guy: “Since when don’t you lik…”
Sandra: “Since ever! Asparagus. Are you for real? Then what, endives? broccoli? artichokes? I’m not eating trees, that’s just it.”
The old guy: “I… I… That asparagus lasagna took me two hours to make. Time I could have used to design two skirts and an overall instead, you know.”
Sandra: “Dull! Dull dull dull. Dull asparagus, dull table, dull house, dull family, dull… colors! It’s all yucky, brownish and greens.”
Ma: “You’re being unfair. Here, have some tea.”
Not enough? A last one for the road:
So many tiny vessels webbed under her skin, rallying excitement as her pulse speeds up.
I observe the gentle acceleration of her carotid bumping under the upper hem of the high leather neckpiece. I pull a few newtons more on the reinforced band.
Her lips get nervous, flinching almost imperceptibly for outsiders; and slowly turning into a glorious vermilion as she starts to gasp for air.
/Blinding flash/
The crew will spin this into a decent advertisement campaign. Professionals always do. The story is elsewhere.
How could they truly immortalize the depth of her glare?