False Words: A Mystery

By Mark Von Kyling

But why did he do it? He had everything to live for.

A lot of people are left wondering what happened after a famous writer with everything to live for kills himself. Was he depressed? Was he sad? Or was something far more sinister going on? His old college roommate, John Parminter, is equally as curious and is more than surprised when he learns the truth behind his friend's untimely demise.

False Words is a mystery that shows that even the most obvious of tragedies may not be exactly as it appears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Tradition Books
• Release date: May 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938107412

Book preview

Fire

False Words

Mark Von Kyling

Reverberator Books

False Words. Copyright © 2013 by Mark Von Kyling.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. For more information, email [e-mail].

Published by Reverberator Books, an imprint of Artrum Media.

eBook ISBN–13:    978-1-938107-41-2

eBook ISBN–10:   1-938107-41-1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For the fried chicken.

False Words

Even though he was a very lucky man, Nate Geralds felt terrible. He just couldn’t help but think he was a failure. By all appearances, he seemed like a very successful person though. He was rich, famous and good looking. In fact, he had achieved everything that many others in his field would work all their lives for and still fail to achieve. It was true; he was one of the most read authors in the world.

But it just didn’t feel right. All of this.

The world was at his fingertips, most would admit. He realized this completely as he waved to the groundskeeper and drove past the security guard and on up to the workshop which was located behind his fabulous farmhouse on his large Southern estate.

Yes, it would be the workshop. That damned workshop.

The workshop was a particular point of contention to him. To him it was symbolic of everything that was wrong. Even so, it, like people’s image of himself, was perfect. Picture perfect. Even though it hadn’t exactly been this, it was the sort of place that looked like it was full of history and had been handed down from generation to generation. It was the kind of place that only a writer could imagine.

While appearing to be like something from a catalog, the workshop was very well-used—it had once been a blacksmith shop back in the 1800’s. In it, everything was in its place and just…well-worn. Comfortably well-worn. That was the right way to put it. Nowadays it was supposed to be for woodworking. It had antique lathes, planes and hammers and wooden toolboxes and everything a guy like him, one so connected to the past and to his feelings, should have. It was well-suited for a man to work with his hands and make something simple and honest. It was the kind of place where one would build a table or chair. Something nice that would give the person who owned and used it nothing but warm feelings.

But none of this mattered now. He had been on the phone all day and had realized that there was nothing else he could do with the unease and depression he was feeling. He walked into the workshop and looked around for a piece of paper. He found an old notepad along with a perfectly well-worn pencil over near the rotary-dial phone. He started to write something down, but the words just wouldn’t come. They were confused in his mind. They just didn’t make sense. He just couldn’t get it straight what he wanted to say.

He couldn’t keep from chuckling at the irony. He gave up and began to go about the business that had brought him here in the first place.

And with that, he moved a perfectly battered, but still usable chair to the center of the room. He went to the pegboard on the wall and got a vintage extension cord which he hung on one of the rafters of his picture perfect workshop, making sure to get it in place right over the chair. He then wrapped the other end around his neck and stepped up on the chair.

Please forgive me, he said and stepped off.

And that was that.

All in all, he had finally achieved legitimate success in at least one thing. The other odd thing was the place of this last achievement. He had always hated woodworking.

* * * * *

Why the fuck did Ratledge want to meet here? Parminter hated this place. Well, hate wasn’t exactly the right word. He just didn’t want to come in here anymore.

But it wasn’t because of the food. It was because of the waitstaff. No, that wasn’t quite it either. It was because of one particular member of the waitstaff, an old waitress who had probably worked there since the beginning of time. He didn’t even know her name, but he liked to refer to her