About The Artist
Chryse Wymer is a fiction author living in Ravenna, Ohio.
She admits to having a strange dark way of looking at the world, and her writing is a reflection of that. Her work tends toward science fiction and fantasy, horror, and mystery. But it's funny, off beat, like her.
Aside from reading, she's an adventurer. Although she likes jewelry making and mundane things, in the summer, she'll gladly saddle up on the back of her sweetie's hog, ride four-wheelers and go where the wind takes her.
Chryse is 32, short, a massage therapist and part-time receptionist. James her husband is 25, tall, and a full-time extrusion operator. They are both rather serious metalheads, Metallica being on the frontlines of that seriousness; they are absorbed in music in general.
William S. Burroughs is her biggest writing influence. "The Naked Lunch blew me away," Chryse said.
She is currently novelizing Living with Murder, based on her novella of that same title. A suspense novel is in the preliminary stages, and poetry collection entitled Living with Murder, primarily based around her novella Living with Murder.
She admits to having a strange dark way of looking at the world, and her writing is a reflection of that. Her work tends toward science fiction and fantasy, horror, and mystery. But it's funny, off beat, like her.
Aside from reading, she's an adventurer. Although she likes jewelry making and mundane things, in the summer, she'll gladly saddle up on the back of her sweetie's hog, ride four-wheelers and go where the wind takes her.
Chryse is 32, short, a massage therapist and part-time receptionist. James her husband is 25, tall, and a full-time extrusion operator. They are both rather serious metalheads, Metallica being on the frontlines of that seriousness; they are absorbed in music in general.
William S. Burroughs is her biggest writing influence. "The Naked Lunch blew me away," Chryse said.
She is currently novelizing Living with Murder, based on her novella of that same title. A suspense novel is in the preliminary stages, and poetry collection entitled Living with Murder, primarily based around her novella Living with Murder.
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Excerpt from Living With Murder
1.The Midwest, 2039
1.The Midwest, 2039
Her eyes were the cloudy blue fish-eyes you might expect a psychic to have and sometimes, at night, she forced them open and daydreamed that her own vocal cords had strangled her. She could see the ropy things pushing through the skin of her neck. Then, she imagined nothing but a half-gasp before death.
Late that afternoon, she woke up with a film of sweat covering her. Mary Miller deliberately made each muscle move, at least a little bit, because she wasn't used to the strange angles that the couch impelled her into. Her neck ached, cracked, crunched. Yet, when she woke up, it was always to the same reality. Her husband never let her forget. "Your son is dead, he told her every morning, every night, every moment he was home. And tiny glass needles of sadness stabbed her. One day blurred into the next. She slept on the couch as a silent vigil for her missing son. Soon, he might be returned to her.
Costumed in moonlight-colored lingerie made to resemble an angel's gossamer wings, she waited for her husband to get home and then ignored him, turning her attention, instead, to a martini or her so-called imaginary struggle to find the son that everyone else believed was dead.
Numerous times, she heard the details: her son was hitchhiking down a deserted road in West Virginia, wearing a sequin-covered gown, and some no-account hick killed him. The man pulled off the road and dumped his body in a hard-to-find location. D-e-a-d is a four-letter word and its smallness shows what a large word it is, a word with impact. But not for Mary.
Her son was dead. The officer told her; her husband told her; and his dead body on that cold-looking table told her. But she would not believe it. "No," she keened and repeated. She couldn't believe it because she didn't dream it. Why was there no warning? Not a single vision? Brandon and she got along okay enough, but they were never as close as Kirk and him. Yet, she dreamed about everything. She saw almost everything.
One day, they woke up to footsteps clacking on their stone walkway, the only thing to mark the location of their house aside from the mailbox. The doorbell, which was affixed to the solar panels that comprised the top of their house, buzzed and their home quickly pushed up from underground. Mary looked out the peephole, suspicious. "Who is it?" her voice sang politely.
"Mary Miller? Are you Mary Miller?"
She opened the door two inches and looked at a man with feminine features who wore the standard black and silver colors of police officers. "Yes, I'm Mary Miller."
"What's going on? her husband asked and hovered behind her.
"I don't know."
"You are the parents of Brandon Miller. Is that correct? He took his hat off and bowed his head, almost in tears.
"Yes, Kirk, her husband, replied.
Mary's world spun like a merry-go-round moving too fast. She had to get off, to tell the kids pushing her to stop, just stop already. Then she fainted in the doorway.
"Can I see where he died? Mary asked when she came-to.
"Yes, ma'am."
The couple walked side-by-side to the police-issue airmobile, the officer in front. Once they reached some switchback dirt road, they hiked into the woods single-file. Mary wrung her hands. Her eyelashes and skin chilled by the deeply wooded air, it was as if the trees breathed. Kirk kept his head bowed low so no one could see his tears. The officer looked sad but purpose-driven. The wind was cold and strong that afternoon when they arrived at Brandon's place of death. To Mary, this was a holy place where his spirit might decide to return.
"Right there, the officer said and pointed. He walked farther away, up to the old dirt road, probably to give them some privacy.
Mary bent and touched the ground where the officer had pointed. Her ballerina-like shoes crunched over the thin layer of snow that had recently dusted the autumn leaves. The spot on the ground that the officer referred to seemed warmer than the surrounding area. She pushed the leaves aside, her hands slimy with their mitten shapes, until she reached the warm earth. There was blood. Not much blood, but it was there. She touched her fingertip to the drop and held it against her lips. That might seem disgusting to someone else, but to her, it was all they had left of their only son.
Kirk stood over her and watched. "At least it wasn't cancer, he said. "It was faster than that."
Mary turned around, face contorted in confusion. How could he be so glib about their son's death? "He probably writhed in agony for three full minutes. It's not as if he was shot between the eyes. He was strangled to death."
"I know, he mumbled, and moved the dirt around with the right toe of his work boot.
Mary expected to fall into her husband's arms and weep. She expected that he would rub her back and tell her everything was going to be okay. She expected that through their tears and willpower-she did have psychic abilities, after all-maybe they could bring him back. Instead, they stared off in different directions and didn't speak until Mary looked up and asked, "Can we get out of here?"
"Yeah."
Mary's family was New Orleans Catholic, which meant that a cup of voodoo had been thrown in with a pinch of the saints. She wondered if some powerful Mambo High Priestess in her ancestry could account for her clairvoyance.
Brandon was such a good kid, an even better man, that no one could have predicted so much hate at his funeral. People spit words and raised their fists, their holoslogans glowing above the somewhat circular throng. On both sides, there was anger. It seemed that she and Kirk were the only ones who just needed to grieve and remember him well.
Reporters were nearby, waiting to get breaking coverage on them. She rolled her eyes as yet another broadcast journalist asked the stupidest question of all, "How are you feeling? She always wanted to answer the same way: punch the reporter repeatedly in the chest and eventually stop, and then say, "That's how I'm feeling. Of course, they were likely also waiting for the riot that would ensue between the Millers and the anti-gay community if anybody should be foolish enough to speak a mean word about her Brandon.
Costumed in moonlight-colored lingerie made to resemble an angel's gossamer wings, she waited for her husband to get home and then ignored him, turning her attention, instead, to a martini or her so-called imaginary struggle to find the son that everyone else believed was dead.
Numerous times, she heard the details: her son was hitchhiking down a deserted road in West Virginia, wearing a sequin-covered gown, and some no-account hick killed him. The man pulled off the road and dumped his body in a hard-to-find location. D-e-a-d is a four-letter word and its smallness shows what a large word it is, a word with impact. But not for Mary.
Her son was dead. The officer told her; her husband told her; and his dead body on that cold-looking table told her. But she would not believe it. "No," she keened and repeated. She couldn't believe it because she didn't dream it. Why was there no warning? Not a single vision? Brandon and she got along okay enough, but they were never as close as Kirk and him. Yet, she dreamed about everything. She saw almost everything.
One day, they woke up to footsteps clacking on their stone walkway, the only thing to mark the location of their house aside from the mailbox. The doorbell, which was affixed to the solar panels that comprised the top of their house, buzzed and their home quickly pushed up from underground. Mary looked out the peephole, suspicious. "Who is it?" her voice sang politely.
"Mary Miller? Are you Mary Miller?"
She opened the door two inches and looked at a man with feminine features who wore the standard black and silver colors of police officers. "Yes, I'm Mary Miller."
"What's going on? her husband asked and hovered behind her.
"I don't know."
"You are the parents of Brandon Miller. Is that correct? He took his hat off and bowed his head, almost in tears.
"Yes, Kirk, her husband, replied.
Mary's world spun like a merry-go-round moving too fast. She had to get off, to tell the kids pushing her to stop, just stop already. Then she fainted in the doorway.
"Can I see where he died? Mary asked when she came-to.
"Yes, ma'am."
The couple walked side-by-side to the police-issue airmobile, the officer in front. Once they reached some switchback dirt road, they hiked into the woods single-file. Mary wrung her hands. Her eyelashes and skin chilled by the deeply wooded air, it was as if the trees breathed. Kirk kept his head bowed low so no one could see his tears. The officer looked sad but purpose-driven. The wind was cold and strong that afternoon when they arrived at Brandon's place of death. To Mary, this was a holy place where his spirit might decide to return.
"Right there, the officer said and pointed. He walked farther away, up to the old dirt road, probably to give them some privacy.
Mary bent and touched the ground where the officer had pointed. Her ballerina-like shoes crunched over the thin layer of snow that had recently dusted the autumn leaves. The spot on the ground that the officer referred to seemed warmer than the surrounding area. She pushed the leaves aside, her hands slimy with their mitten shapes, until she reached the warm earth. There was blood. Not much blood, but it was there. She touched her fingertip to the drop and held it against her lips. That might seem disgusting to someone else, but to her, it was all they had left of their only son.
Kirk stood over her and watched. "At least it wasn't cancer, he said. "It was faster than that."
Mary turned around, face contorted in confusion. How could he be so glib about their son's death? "He probably writhed in agony for three full minutes. It's not as if he was shot between the eyes. He was strangled to death."
"I know, he mumbled, and moved the dirt around with the right toe of his work boot.
Mary expected to fall into her husband's arms and weep. She expected that he would rub her back and tell her everything was going to be okay. She expected that through their tears and willpower-she did have psychic abilities, after all-maybe they could bring him back. Instead, they stared off in different directions and didn't speak until Mary looked up and asked, "Can we get out of here?"
"Yeah."
Mary's family was New Orleans Catholic, which meant that a cup of voodoo had been thrown in with a pinch of the saints. She wondered if some powerful Mambo High Priestess in her ancestry could account for her clairvoyance.
Brandon was such a good kid, an even better man, that no one could have predicted so much hate at his funeral. People spit words and raised their fists, their holoslogans glowing above the somewhat circular throng. On both sides, there was anger. It seemed that she and Kirk were the only ones who just needed to grieve and remember him well.
Reporters were nearby, waiting to get breaking coverage on them. She rolled her eyes as yet another broadcast journalist asked the stupidest question of all, "How are you feeling? She always wanted to answer the same way: punch the reporter repeatedly in the chest and eventually stop, and then say, "That's how I'm feeling. Of course, they were likely also waiting for the riot that would ensue between the Millers and the anti-gay community if anybody should be foolish enough to speak a mean word about her Brandon.
The day was cold, pretty enough for the time of year. Had it been summer, more people would have attended, probably wearing skimpy outfits like they thought this was some spring break vacation get-away, all with their young tongues waggling hatred, and all with their own little agendas that excluded her son personally. She looked at them, and then turned away. Her only agenda was as a mother. Her only big agenda, now that his remains lay before her, was justice. She refused to look at his body, even when Kirk said maybe she needed to see his death for herself or she might always regret it. She turned away and wept into her husband's shoulder. "That's not him. I know that's not him."
1 Holoslogans are holographic, three-dimensional words and/or images that often swirl in a circular pattern around one’s head, as in a halo, or immediate line-of-vision.
All content Copyright Chryse Wymer 2007-2008
This Website Designed By Anne Rogers Copyright 2007-2008.
This Website Designed By Anne Rogers Copyright 2007-2008.
