Craig Abbott

New book release!

The Insignificant Life of Rick Blume – the first in my new series Blood & Lust.

Available August 25th, 2022

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Read the pre-release excerpt from
The Insignificant Life of Rick Blume

Paul was still on his knees, shirtless. He roared, clenched his right hand into a tight fist, and repeatedly punched the ground, sending dirt and pebbles into the air with every blow. Sweat was pouring down his back as he struck at the earth. He tipped his head towards the moon and howled in pain, like a lone wolf searching for his pack. In between landing punches, I saw the skin on his right hand start to crack, like small rips in his skin. Blood dripped as the cracks widened–he was shedding his human skin. He continued to howl.

I could barely believe what I was seeing.

Paul’s human hand had been replaced with an extremity covered in thick black fur, his fingernails replaced with razor-sharp claws. His body was changing piece by piece. His right arm was no longer human and the shedded skin landed in a pile on the ground beneath him. It was steaming.

Paul lifted his werewolf arm and claws to his face. Starting at his forehead he sunk his sharp werewolf claws deep into his skin. He howled as he ripped the human skin off of his face. The man I knew as ‘Paul’ was disappearing in front of me and he was becoming a monster of many myths. A legend.

I could see patches of black fur poking through where the skin had been torn. His face was gushing with blood as his nose extended into a long, thick snout. His teeth had turned into immense fangs. The remnants of Paul’s human face fell to the ground in pieces. His head was now a complete wolf’s head, but much larger than any wolf I’d ever seen.

He hunched forward and put his snout to the pile of human skin on the ground. He opened up his werewolf maw and began eating his human skin, devouring himself. I could see his human face being ripped to shreds between his massive jaws.

Read an exclusive preview from
The Insignificant Life of Rick Blume

Chapter One

I sat at my usual table in Paul’s Café while I took in the scent of the freshly ground coffee beans. Everything about that Monday morning was routine for me, right down to the familiar smell of the blueberry muffins Maryanne had just pulled from the oven. I was half asleep, hungover, and definitely not ready for work. But there was no way I could afford to call in again–not on my paycheck. Besides, who else was going to pay for my drinking problem and recently rediscovered gambling addiction?

God, I hate Mondays.

Paul’s Café was small, but large enough for elbow-room between the few regular customers who camped there each day. I liked it that way as I preferred to keep to myself. Though I’d always wished I had more friends or was more inclined to be social, people didn’t seem to like me very much. I tended to get nervous in any-sized crowd of people, and rejection–even from strangers–cut like a knife every time. You’d think I’d gotten used to it after a lifetime’s worth, but, no. There was nothing I feared more than getting rejected.

Fuck. My head is pounding.

My head was swimming from guilt, and gin. Not for the first time I found myself wondering, Why in the hell did I do that to myself? Over and over again I wondered why I’d drank so much the night before. Every night, really. Even though I knew I would wake up with no energy and a severe, booze-induced headache, I just couldn’t seem to put the bottle down. But at that point I didn’t see any good reason to stop drinking as nothing was really going for me in life. As sad as it was to admit, the alcohol was actually my best friend. Like a good companion the gin kept me relaxed, and sleepy, and helped me not to care that I led such an empty life.

I knew I should have stopped after the first few G&Ts last night… But knowing and doing…knowing and doing. Plus, my mother didn’t raise no quitter.

My head throbbed with each passing second as I waited for the clock to tell me that it was time to go to work. Hoping that the clock on the wall was wrong somehow, I pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket and tapped on the screen to light it up.

Damn. 8:37AM. Well congrats on being annoyingly accurate, clock.

After confirming that I only had a few minutes before I needed to leave I shoved my phone in my pocket and turned my attention back to the window. The overhead light glinted off the lenses of my glasses as I turned my head, which generated a fleeting white flash that bounced from my glasses, to the plate-glass window, and back to my bloodshot eyeballs. I winced and groaned as the bright light punched through my hangover and pierced my brain.

Instead of focusing on the reflection of my groaning, bespectacled 36-year-old self in the glass, I watched the exciting bustle of New York City through the large oval windows that looked out to the street in front of Paul’s Café. The wind was beginning to pick up and the skies were spitting tiny droplets of rain. Typical for that time of year, really. The fall in New York always brought rain, and damp. At least it wasn’t that frozen white stuff. I dreaded the snow and winter, but the end of fall signaled they were coming. Soon.