Take a Peek is a page that’ll navigate you toward samples from the works of author A.K. Kuykendall. Whether you’re seeking to “take a peek” at his writing style, “take a peek” at a well-positioned phrase, “take a peek” at a wacky sentence here and there, “take a peek” at a paragraph sure to make you salivate for more, and/or “take a peek” at an entire chapter; you’ve come to the right place.
The author is passionate when he says, “I often tell people that to know me is to know my words—dark in delivery, passionate in prose. To know me is to know my words raw in form and free from an editor’s cunning touch. To know me is to know my words and the origin of their births. To know me is to know my words free from your conditioned complacencies in music, radio, theater, or television. To know me is to know my words with the unbiased objective eyes and heart of a newborn. To know me is to know my words—how I love, make love, and kill. To know me is to dive UN-hesitant into the waters of my pages. To know me is to know my words.”
Take a breath and your precious time as you peruse through the mind of the author on this particular page, et alia. And if you look close enough, you’ll be able to see author A.K. Kuykendall, immersed in his latest novel, tapping away at his typewriter in the domain of his home office, which sits on the second floor of his glamorous home in rural Michigan. Here, in his private home-away-from-home, he finds the personal comfort that encourages his drive to push every over-stressed cell in his brain to endure hour after hour of creative work; drops of sweat rolling down his forehead and poised ever so artfully at the tip end of his nose.
You’ll see that, in the heat of his creation, he ignores the sweat. Here, in his most private moments, which we are covertly invading, he desires to be alone: a solitary artist pushing his fingers to strike words onto his canvas, creating a world that, right now, exists only within his storytelling mind. And as we see him leaning back in his rickety antique office chair, we can clearly see that, for now, the world belongs solely to him as he clings menacingly to the pages in his hands; his eyes beaming with a horrifying reality I believe we shouldn’t be viewing—the author is jealously possessive of his creation.
“Hatred can be either Godly and sinful, depending on the object—the who or what—to which we direct our hatred. The Bible speaks of loving God and hating evil, of hating the assembly of
A voice, deep, slow, and calm, interrupted from the shadows. “‘Lord?’ Your Lord’s not going to do anything for you. He’s too busy sitting on his ass and ignoring the needs of his faithful followers. I will not ignore you, I promise. What you need is someone who can, and will, help you now.”
Pulling Karen behind him, Jacobe shouted, “Show yourself.”
“As you wish.” Walking from the shadows came a tall, thin man dressed in black and bearing a snake-handled cane. His jet-black hair matched his goatee. His black fingernails ended in sharp points. His black eyes seemed to have no white in them.
Karen and Jacobe looked at him oddly.
“Who are you?” Karen asked.
“Someone who can save you from the obvious death that your families have in store for you.”
“How, Mr…..” said Jacobe.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” The man moved closer. “Hi, I’m Lucifer, but you can call me… well, after tonight, you can call me savior.”
“Find me my beloved Abioye. Chase me, yet again, through the jungle. Entangle me in a juxtaposition of our canoodling among the chaos. Be both intrigued and cautious for stowed away in the jungles beyond are perils you must brave to end me. Until that time comes, my love, I will await your kiss from that lonely hillside where I was twice-born: The Corners of Blood.” –Bahati and the Corners of Blood (A Short Story)