For Vincent Anthony Kyle, Everett, MA was a spotlight city way before they decided to put a casino here. His parents were born and both grew up in this city and they were the model for having hard working, family first ideals. Vincent was born and raised here too but he hasn’t gone two straight days without wanting to scam or hurt someone, and he’s not exactly sure why, other than the desire for chaos has a stronger draw than being normal like everyone else. Paul Barrett clearly didn’t deserve to die because of him but if that poor bastard had his shit together than maybe Vincent finally could’ve made things right.
DRAG is the first novel offered by Domenic D. Augustus and S.M Dudley and it is a dark and suspenseful story depicting the sociopathic tendencies of its main character, Vincent, while highlighting the landscape just north of Boston, MA. The details are sharp, the characters evoke relatable tragedy, and the story is gripping and refreshingly unpredictable.
There was a dusting on the ground that morning from the previous day's snowfall but the temperature was a mild forty-two degrees. I remember this as I do most of the details of that day as I sat alone on the steps of our Everett home in the slight chill for hours after the ambulance showed up quietly and removed my mom from our house. There was a faint siren in the distance coming from the vicinity of the LNG tanks that are situated down the Line, an industrial section of this city that houses the monstrous fuel tanks of death, which urban legend always warned will one day explode and incinerate us all. I took off my gloves in an attempt to entertain myself by putting my sweaty hands on the wrought iron railings of the steps, seeing if my skin might get caught and then pulling them off quickly. As the day went on I received pats on my head from my aunts and uncles who stopped by to pay their condolences, while both my dad and brother remained silent and unapproachable in the house. I thought at some point someone would come out to see how I was doing? Maybe bring out a sandwich or something? I never told a soul of my mother’s notes or the revelation of her suicide within them. Maybe I was selfish or scared. The guilt and shame that I feel now for not sharing them are immense but, as only I can do, I have managed to block them out. The feelings do not go away but I am too much the coward to outwardly admit it. I hide most often now behind a planned avoidance of others, pretending to be normal, continually seeking to fill an emotional void. I would like to pretend that my conscience isn't speaking to me at every waking moment, and further pretend that I am in control, that I am loved, that I am not a monster, and that I have a plan.
But what I am most often—is numb.
lives just north of Boston and feels uniquely blessed with the Italian and Irish heritage that he was born into. A combination that fostered a family first loyalty and the mindset that hard work and honesty shall pave the way to better things. His love of reading anything suspenseful led to the goal of someday crafting a novel of his own, weaving characters from his past and a story line that steals from the days of his youth.
works on projects that range from historical fiction and fantasy to horror and suspense. She has a particular interest in local lore and legend and loves to weave tales set in the landscape of her small hometown and it's rural surroundings. Also an avid reader with a love of profiling people and analyzing the human condition, she credits Stephen King for her sometimes dark imagination, but even more for her deep and complicated characters.