the official website for the writings of
The full text of Father Figure is now available in new trade paperback and Kindle editions, with a 2015 Author's Preface, and an appendix which includes 6,000 words in deleted scenes.
Father Figure is also available at all other Amazon sites worldwide, and additional online venues. 175,000 words, plus 6,000 words of deleted scenes.
South of Anchorage, accessible only from a mud-rutted road off Seward Highway, lies the town of Lodgepole. After midnight, among the blueberry bushes of White Birch Park, a man climbs on top of a woman and begins making love to her. As her orgasm rises he puts his hands around her throat, shutting off her air. She struggles, not to stop him, but to stop herself from trying instinctively to pull his hands off her throat. As the top joints of his thumb meet at the front of her throat she comes, her cry of orgasm ricocheting around inside her forever.
Daryl Putnam, handsome, bookish, wakes up from a nightmare and decides to do something he hasn't done in years. Take a walk outside at night. Down in the park, at the lime green shores of Little Muncho Lake, he comes across the body of the strangled woman.
The next morning, at the coffee shop of the hospital where he works, Daryl meets Sally, a pretty, dark-haired girl. He's intelligent, she's outgoing. What they have in common is both are living lonely lives. Until today.
Also in the hospital coffee shop, shaking half a can of black pepper onto his tomato soup, is Sam Rudolph, a fiftyish man with eyes like an angry dog's, who has spent over twenty years quietly manipulating events in Daryl and Sally's lives to have this seemingly chance encounter among the three of them occur.
And who is actually a lot older than fifty.
"It is easy to see why Father Figure has become an underground classic over the years. It is a dark, extremely disturbing but completely gripping suspense thriller with a strongly erotic subtext...Moore is an extremely talented writer with a gift for pushing the reader's emotional buttons...certainly liable to become a cult classic, and deservedly so."
From an editorial review
When someone you love dies, are they gone forever?
Meet the Ghosters, and the desperate people who hire them.
In our modern world, only Ghosters know what comes after death. What stays behind. And what dwells between.
Ghosters are a small, loosely-connected group of individuals who travel the highways of America curing people of their hauntings. For as much money as they can negotiate from each client. They are legitimate. But they are not nice.
If you're here, it's probably night. You can see a window from where you sit, and the window is dark. Who really knows what's outside?
I write. If you read, we've just made a connection.
SENTENCE is the forest you fall asleep into.
I created SENTENCE back in 1998 as a way of letting readers know a little bit more about me. Here you'll find about a dozen of my stories, the complete text of my novel Father Figure, essays of mine, videos I've made, photographs I've shot, a decade and a half of my on-line diary entries, some of my favorite recipes, and much, much more. I don't fear plagiarism. Ideas can be stolen-- a simile, a description, a plot, a joke-- but that will happen regardless of the medium in which your luggage is left alone on the airport floor. The truth is, fear of plagiarism is fear of readership. To be plagiarized is never fatal. What is more important is to be read. Because if it's in a box, and no one but you knows about the storms raging through the paragraphs, the footsteps plodding soggily down the sentences, water dripping off the rims of words, that's the biggest shame of all. A fizzle. Because the real achievement of writing is not the writing. The real achievement of writing is someone else reading the writing.
SENTENCE started as an island. Over the years, its accumulated bulk, added to each month, became a continent.
Art is an invitation to go inside someone else's mind. To see our world as they see it. SENTENCE is my mind.
I've been published in America, Canada, England, Ireland, India and Australia in a wide variety of genre and literary magazines and anthologies. My fiction has been called "graphically morbid". My writings are not for everyone. Are they for you? Find out.
I'm glad you came. I just lit a cigarette. I just poured Merlot. I hope you enjoy your exploration.
Webmaster Ralph Robert Moore at firstname.lastname@example.org. Entire contents Copyright © 1997-2016 by Ralph Robert Moore, All Rights Reserved.
Established January 1, 1998.
To buy my books, please go to BUY MY BOOKS
To see where I've been published, please go to BIBLIOGRAPHY
For samples of my writing style, please go to WORDS WALKING NUDE
For a complete chronology of site updates, please see HISTORY
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"All was chaos, that is, earth, air, water, and fire were mixed together; and out of that bulk a mass formed-- just as cheese is made out of milk-- and worms appeared in it, and these were the angels."
and i will be so happy
june 1, 2016
Yesterday, no coffee. No alcohol. No aspirin to thin my blood.
No breakfast, and in fact no lunch or dinner. No solid food at all. Just broth.
At 2:00 I took two tiny pills.
At 5:00, no more broth. Or water. Or anything.
At 7:00 I started drinking four liters of spiked water. Fuck, that's hard to do. While I forced it down, we watched our Blu-rays of the early seasons of Modern Family, because they're funny and heartwarming, and that's really what you want while you drink that much water. Last time I did this, four years ago, it was early seasons of The Office, US version.
Once I finished the spiked water, no more liquids at all. Even water.
This morning I woke up, smoked a cigarette. Again, no liquids at all, even water. Took a shower. At seven, we got in our car, got up on the highway.
Hopefully, we'll be back about nine-thirty. Mary driving this time, because I won't be able to, since I'll have been under intravenous anesthesia.
I will not have a cigarette on the way back, because last time I did that, I collapsed on the concrete floor of our garage, face-first. Twice. It still amazes me I didn't break my nose either face-landing, or knock out some teeth.
And at that point, back in the safety of our familiar home, while I'm in bed, Mary will make a sandwich for me. Underwood's devilled ham spread on densely-crumbed white bread, slathered with Grey Poupon mustard, green olives on the side. And I will be so happy.
Later today I'll pull out of our refrigerator a small chilled jar of taramasalata, eat it spooned across Triscuits flavored with olive oil and cracked black pepper while we watch recorded TV.
I will not drink any alcohol at all today, because it's not safe to, after my IV anesthesia, when I slipped under into absolute blackness, and came to in a different room.
I'll wake up in the middle of the night at some point, frantically trying to remember in the bedroom darkness if the procedure is still ahead of me, or finished, and be so relieved to know it's in the past.
Tomorrow, I'll eat eggs. Have my coffee with half and half.
In the late afternoon, drop a maraschino cherry into a glass. Add ice. Add whiskey. A splash of vermouth, shake of bitters.
It is past.