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Richard Thomas Biography

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“Through the archway, and up the hill, I feel it surging, and drop to my knees. A string of black smoke wafts out of my mouth, as a long slender form starts to crawl out of my gaping maw. My eyes water as it slides and pulls and slowly works its way out of me, trying not to bite down, struggling to breathe. And in the glow of the moon the serpent finally weaves its muscled form out of me, a diamond pattern running down its length, crisscrossed threads of silver, a flicker of its tongue, and an angry hiss permeating the night. As it slithers into the underbrush—ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet long—the last of it to disappear are three razor sharp needles sticking out of its tail. (End of Chapter Two.)”

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“As I stare across the never-ending whiteness that is my arctic prison, I realize that while I seek isolation at times, the work requires me to interact with the locals—we each have something that the other party needs. And out here in the frigid wilderness, the night creeps in, expanding across several months, making my life, and duty, that much more difficult. I’m not getting any younger, and the cabin I live in, while ringed with several layers of protection, is not going to keep me safe from my work. (Opening paragraph of prologue.)”

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“The darkness is expanding—sixty days of night looming on the horizon—so I step out onto my porch and take a deep breath, the cold air burning my nostrils and making my lungs ache. There is so much to do, so much pain to repurpose into the void. I rub my hands together to warm them, already dressed in layers—long thermal underwear over boxers, two pairs of wool socks—with more to come. The morning is brisk, hoarfrost sparkling across the snow-covered ground, but I know I can’t stand here for long. I inhale again—juniper, salt, a whiff of fish, my own musk—and take in my humble abode, knowing that the season is upon us, preparing for what will come. It is both invigorating and daunting at the same time. (Opening paragraph, first chapter.)”

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“About an hour outside of Chicago, as you drive north toward Wisconsin, there is a man sitting in the basement of an old farmhouse, wringing his pale, white hands. In fact, his entire nude body is covered in a white dust, a powder, a singular tear running down his right cheek. His overweight body hangs in folds over the edges of his frame, the tiny, brown stool straining under the weight. There is a singular light bulb overheard, and it is doing a poor job illuminating the cold concrete, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. (Clown Face)”

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“The family heard that the meteor shower would be visible from the cornfields of northern Illinois, just twenty minutes away from their sedentary suburban bliss, but Robert had been sleepless for weeks already, images flickering across his dreams—shadows and voices, a burning sensation running all the way to his core. They were mother and father, sister and brother—nothing special, rows of houses the same, but in blue, or yellow, or brick. But for the boy, half of a set of twins, all the magic and wonder rested in his cells—the darkness and vengeance in his sister, Rebecca. So as they snuffed out the lights of the family sedan, hand in hand down a dirt path the boy had mapped out, trust so easy to come by in this family—the girl sparked danger in her squinting eyes, as the boy’s ever widened to the stars, and possibility. Fresh cut grass lingered under buzzing power lines that disappeared as they stretched out to the horizon, a moist smell ripe with cleanliness and godliness—a hint of something sour underneath. The girl grinned as the rest held their noses, so eager she was to embrace death. (How Not to Come Undone)”

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