the official website for the writings of
ralph robert moore

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

Amazon US Trade Paperback and Kindle

Amazon UK Trade Paperback and Kindle

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.

Amazon US Trade Paperback and Kindle

Amazon UK Trade Paperback and Kindle

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.

And to see what I'm up to right now, and what currently interests me, visit my page.

Webmaster Ralph Robert Moore at Entire contents Copyright © 1997-2015 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

SENTENCE Publishing

Ralph Robert Moore on Facebook

"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."

-- Domenico Scandella, 1599 (Two years before being burned at the stake).

eap: rrm remix
october 1, 2015

Why will you say I heard all things?
I loved the old man, his pale blue eye,
I was never kinder while he slept.
A watch's minute hand moved more quickly
than did mine. I fairly chuckled at the idea.
Many a night, I waited very patiently, it was open,
wide, wide open, and have I not told you
it was the beating of the old man's heart?
No stain of any kind. An end of these labors.
What had I to fear? His treasures, secure, undisturbed.
I brought chairs into the room;
arose and argued about trifles,
and still the men chatted pleasantly.

The thousand inquiries had a weak point,
for he had been drinking much, encrusted with nitre.
No attendants at home. We came together, upon the
damp ground of the catacombs. He raised it to his lips
with a leer. The bells jingled. "Be it so," I said, replacing
the tool beneath my cloak, throwing the links about
his waist. For a brief moment I hesitated. I completed
the eighth, the ninth, the tenth tier. "Let us be gone!"
"Yes," I said. "Let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes, for the love of God!" I plastered it up.

That long agony, how terrible an exaggeration.
The syllables of my name, and I shuddered,
so frail may that web have been, the perfume of some
novel flower. I had swooned, brief, very brief dizziness
of my heart, a strong desire so far I had not opened.
My outstretched hands, confusion, the doom that
had been prepared for me, physical agonies,
its size, inch by inch, swept so closely over me.
I dropped my head back, devoured, cold lips sought my own.
I looked up, shuddering.

Dull, dark, soundless boys. I really knew little of my
childish experiment. I shall perish, thus, thus, and not
otherwise, and laugh--but smile no more. I well remember
our books. I could not help thinking that the lady Madeline
was no more. Small, damp, used. Bitter grief! Ordinary occupations
forgotten through the pauses of the storm.
"And have you not seen it? You must not--You shall not
behold this! Hollow, metallic, and clangorous."

I neither expect nor solicit belief. I married early,
a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely
black. I deliberately cut one eye from its socket.
One morning I slipped a noose around its neck and
hung it, because I knew it loved me. The curtains
of my bed were in flames. I continued my caresses,
not exactly a dread, and one day she accompanied me.
I felt no embarrassment whatsoever. Stood
erect before the eyes of the spectators. A dozen
stout arms had seduced me into murder.

Of course I shall not pretend. I was appalled by the
leaden hue. Left lung entirely useless. I spoke
freely. A male and a female nurse were in attendance.
He replied feebly, "Yes, I wish to be mesmerized."
A little before sunrise: "Do you still sleep?"
No longer the faintest sign of vitality.
"Can you explain to us what are your wishes?"
Absolutely bursting from the tongue,
His whole frame crumbled, a liquid mass.

The rules (because there are always rules): each poem/pastiche must harvest its text from a single story, and all of its text must be from that single story (no additional text allowed); each word in a p/p must appear in the same sequential order as it appears in the source text.

A new Lately is published the first of each month. To print this Lately, please go here. To read previous Latelys, please go here.