Hi everyone! Today I'm happy to be participating in the blog tour excerpt reveal for
The Tragic Age by Stephen Metcalfe!
What it's about:
This is the story of
Billy Kinsey, heir to a lottery fortune, part genius, part philosopher
and social critic, full time insomniac and closeted rock drummer. Billy
has decided that the best way to deal with an absurd world is to stay
away from it. Do not volunteer. Do not join in. Billy will be
the first to tell you it doesn’t always work— not when your twin sister,
Dorie, has died, not when your unhappy parents are at war with one
another, not when frazzled soccer moms in two ton SUVs are more
dangerous than atom bombs, and not when your guidance counselor keeps
asking why you haven’t applied to college.Billy’s life changes when two people enter his life. Twom Twomey is a charismatic renegade who believes that truly living means going a little outlaw. Twom and Billy become one another’s mutual benefactor and friend. At the same time, Billy is reintroduced to Gretchen Quinn, an old and adored friend of Dorie’s. It is Gretchen who suggests to Billy that the world can be transformed by creative acts of the soul.
With Twom, Billy visits the dark side. And with Gretchen, Billy experiences possibilities.Billy knows that one path is leading him toward disaster and the other toward happiness. The problem is—Billy doesn’t trust happiness. It's the age he's at. The tragic age.
Stephen Metcalfe's brilliant, debut coming-of-age novel, The Tragic Age, will teach you to learn to love, trust and truly be alive in an absurd world.
All of us tour participants are giving readers a fun sneek peek into
The Tragic Age!
The Tragic Age!
By following these links, you can happily read your way through the first 50 pages of the book! Check it out:
Excerpt 1: Tuesday, February 3rd:
KellyVision
Excerpt 2: Saturday, February 7th:
Amaterasu Reads
Excerpt 3: Tuesday, February 10th:
The Young Folks
Excerpt 4: Friday, February 13th:
Unbound Books
Excerpt 5: Sunday, February 15th:
Books and Whimsy
Excerpt 6: Thursday, February 19th:
Stories & Sweeties
Excerpt 7: Monday, February 23rd:
As I Turn the Pages
Excerpt 8: Saturday, February 28th:
Novel Novice
And now, for the excerpt! :D
At the end
of every day in
front
of good
ol’
High School High, there’s always a line of vehicles clogging the street,
waiting to pick up the younger kids who don’t have rides
or are too
lazy to
walk.
Most of
these
vehicles
are
pricey
SUVs,
and
behind the
wheel of
each
of them there’s
usu-
ally a distracted,
impatient
soccer
mom
while
in the
backseat are crying babies, barking dogs, pissed-off tod-
dlers, and sullen
middle schoolers.
Fact.
There are over
fifty thousand
automobile fatalities
in the
United States every year.
Fact.
Two hundred thousand
died
at Hiroshima.
Conclusion.
A frazzled soccer mom in a five-thousand-pound sport utility vehicle
is more
dangerous
than
an atomic
bomb. Really, they can
get
you
anywhere, even
in front of
your
own
house. They can
even be those
who
are
closest to
you.
Example.
I’m on my skateboard, at the end of the driveway, just coming
home
from school, when
Mom
almost takes
me out with the
Range
Rover. The window is
half open
and she’s on her cell phone, fumbling with her Bluetooth.
“Hold
on,
Jane.
No,
nothing’s wrong,
I almost killed
Billy.”
She rolls
the window down
all
the way.
“Billy, the Taylors are out of
town.
Would you get their
newspaper
and
mail and put it
in the
house?”
“If they’re gone, why are they getting
a newspaper?”
“Because they don’t want burglars to know that no-
body’s home.”
“The paper was delivered this
morning. It’s
been sitting there all day.
Won’t
that
tell burglars
nobody’s home?”
“Sweetie, I’m
late for my
Pilates, will
you
just do
it?”
Mom
holds out house
keys
and
I take
them.
“Wait—here’s the
security
code.”
She hands
me a slip of
paper.
“Thanks, hon. Oh, and feed the
dog!”
And then she’s off, driving away like a maniac, on the
phone again. Mom I would not want to play chicken with.
The Taylors live up and across from us. Their home is a series
of one-
and
two-story
bunkers
that
look
like an
architect came in
and
said,
Why
don’t we
build
a house that will
take
up the entire
lot
and
have nothing in
com-
mon
with
anything else
on the
street.
The Taylors’ mail
consists of
a gas and electric
bill, a couple
of glossy
catalogues, Fortune magazine, and some third-class trash. Their paper is the L.A. Times, which, like most
newspapers,
will soon be out of
business.
The Taylors’ security code is 7606 which—the height
of brilliance—is their address on
the
street. When
I punch
in the
code a metallic voice
pipes up.
Security
on.
The Taylors have gone off and left their miniature
Getty Museum open
to the public.
I punch in the code again to turn off the alarm. I put the mail and paper down on the foyer table with the other
mail and papers.
It’s quiet.
All
you
can hear
is the barest
whisper of
the central air-conditioning. I look around. The
Taylors’ house
is all corners and hard
surfaces and weird furniture and it’s about as hospitable as an airplane hangar. Just
by looking
at it
you
can tell
everything cost a mint.
Something goes yarp and I jump. It’s the Taylors’ dog,
I’d forgotten about it.
It’s a dachshund.
Point of reference.
Dachshunds were
originally trained
to hunt
and
kill
badgers, which
means that once upon a time they were
ferocious little
bastards.
However.
This one is so happy to have a visitor, it flops over on its back and, tail wagging furiously, urinates on itself.
It’s people who’ve done this to him. People do stuff like this
to everything.
After I feed the Taylors’ dog some canned goop from a cupboard in the kitchen, I decide to do a little more exploring. On the freestanding, granite-topped ped- estal desk in the downstairs office I discover an unpaid American Express bill and an open box of Depends shields that offer to guard my manhood with man-style protec-
tion.
Mr.
Taylor
is not only
in credit
card debt
up to
his
eyeballs,
he wears male
diapers.
Who knew?
In the downstairs bathroom I check
out
the medicine cabinet. Mrs. Taylor takes
antidepressants.
Who doesn’t?
In the hallway
there’s a framed photo
on the
wall of
Mr.
Taylor holding a large, dead fish and another of Mrs. Taylor in
a skimpy
bikini. Both the fish and
Mrs. Tay- lor’s breasts
look
fake.
Whose aren’t?
And then in the master bedroom I open the top drawer
of
a bureau and I find a diary. It’s Mrs. Taylor’s diary and
I sit
down and I begin
to read.
Mrs. Taylor is having an affair.
She’s keeping the di-
ary hoping
Mr.
Taylor will
find it and
ask about it.
Only Mr. Taylor never asks about anything. Mrs. Taylor prays to
God for help.
Good luck.
I close the diary, get up and go to the bureau to put
it back. I have it exactly where it was in the drawer when
my hand
nudges
something. I push
aside the
underwear
that’s
covering it.
I look at it. I take it
very
carefully in
my hand
and
I lift it out. It’s
heavier
and
clumsier than I expect.
The etched letters on one side tell you it’s a Glock .357
automatic. The letters
on the other
side tell
you
it gives you “the
confidence to live
your
life.”
It’s the most
beautiful thing in
the house.
Pretty great, right?? I love the distinct writing style! Now don't forget to click over to the next link tomorrow to read more!