This is another darkly moving piece from my talented nephew.
Links to more of Daniel Kennedy’s marvelous work can be found below…
Please click here or on image above to visit original piece at Ghost Parachute Magazine.
Here are additional links for more of Daniel Kennedy’s work:
“Colossus,” Typehouse Literary Magazine, page 44
“Maid of the Mist,” The Madison Review, Fall 2019, page 38
“Film and Literature Holding Hands: Reflecting on Jordan Peele’s Us,” The Minnesota Review
Get to know Daniel’s darkly superb, intensely authentic voice now, and you might be one of the intelligent folks who can boast, “I knew this young man when…”!!!
I should have done this sooner—
that is, to share my nephew Daniel Kennedy’s brilliant work. Daniel’s heart, down to the raw insides, is exponentially compassionate. He is not only a thoughtful and decent young man, his writing talent is boundless. The dedication he pours into his craft is humbling to behold. It is my privilege and honor to highlight some of Daniel’s work here.
Start reading him now—before you have to wait on a bookstore line for his autograph!
click here or on image below to enter
just in time for Halloween
I’m honored to be included in Chicago Literati, with my flash piece, The Dipping Bread
I hope you enjoy reading, as much as I enjoy writing about vampires and their victims 😘
THE DIPPING BREAD
It happens at the Fondue Palace. Near the cheese fountain. Two lovers twirling their fondue forks suggestively. He’s been ignoring his inner voice all evening. “Something is very wrong with your date, John.” The very same voice that hours before implored him to make an escape out the backdoor. Get out before it’s too late. Too late.
Suri’s sultry eyes are vacant things. John can’t gaze into those shining black planets orbiting his date’s face. He turns away from the closeness of her flawless skin. She giggles and flicks her tongue into John’s exposed ear. He laughs nervously. He senses a curious warm spot on his cheek.
Crimson droplets appear on the dipping bread.
His hand touches his face and traces the warmth down to his neck. The wetness tints his fingertips. He slides his thumb and middle finger together. Then apart. His eyes focus on what he sees. He’s unable to wrestle out the weak cry pinned behind his gum-line. Other unwitting customers continue gleefully stabbing at bread cubes. Drowning baked dough in pots of hot liquified cheese.
No words will leave John’s chained voice. Suri’s fondue fork finds her date’s palm. She guides the two-pronged metal, like a serpent’s fangs, along the meat of John’s hand then sweetly plunges the sharp points into his flesh. She guides his limp fist up to her wine-colored mouth. Her satin skin smells like ancient ice. A burning sensation shoots from John’s brain to his groin. An explosion unlike any erotica he’s ever experienced.
Suri’s slim, powerful hand slides beneath John’s shirt. His sweating back is buckling. She holds him up effortlessly with a polished finger. John clenches his jaw. His uninjured hand reaches around his date’s cool neck. Forceful and swift–he pulls her face to his. He kisses this “woman” in a manner unfamiliar to his own lips. Their mouths sucking like uncontrolled siphons. Lightning between his legs. Shockwaves ripple inside his thigh muscles. Metallic saliva flows back and forth between their twisting tongues. Cold bliss blankets John’s dying instincts.
It’s blood, John.