Entry Nickname: WEEL
Title: Who's Eating Eric Lynch?
Word count: 119K
Genre: Adult Horror Comedy


Misdiagnosed as schizophrenic, Eric Lynch’s hallucinations are actually precognition. Enter a demon who absorbs supernatural powers, and Eric’s about to become demon chow—unless he can convince a group of rogue angels that his deadbeat ass is worth protecting.

Being a college drop-out, working for minimum wage at a retail store, trying his best not to end up back in the asylum for a third time…it’s not like Eric is next in line for winning the Nobel Prize. So why are demons always so drawn to him, particularly this one nasty manticore who’s been hiding in his closet since he was thirteen?

Well, okay. Maybe it’s because not only can Eric see the future, but he can manipulate time too. Prophet is what the angels call him. And apparently there hasn’t been a Prophet on earth for over a century.

The precognition, the time manipulation—that’s exactly what makes Eric so appetizing. The only reason the manticore hasn’t eaten Eric yet is because it’s waiting for Eric’s powers to ripen. And let’s face it, a demon able to manipulate time means a bad time for everyone. Better find someone who can kill it—and quick.

After tracking a group of angels to their hideout, it doesn’t take much convincing to get them on Eric’s side. Maybe too much on his side, especially after he finds out that once the manticore is dealt with, these angels are likely to lock Eric up so they can use his Prophetic powers to fulfill their own demon-hunting agenda.

Angelic weapon or prime rib? Either way, Eric might be screwed.

First 250 words:

They say the human brain can survive for three seconds after decapitation. I’m talking full-blown cognizant thought, where you can move your mouth and blink your eyes. It makes you wonder what kind of expletives might shoot through your head, especially when you see your body lying on the floor beside you. And hopefully it’s not one of those embarrassing situations where your head goes rolling across the carpet, because then your final moments are nothing but dizziness, trying to puke from a stomach no longer attached to your mouth.

This subject came up a few months ago when one of my psychiatrists asked me what I think about when I have nothing else on my mind, most notably while trying to fall asleep or taking a shower. According to her, low brain activity is a subconscious beehive ready to burst. She believed my inner musings might be to blame for my tipping sanity—at the very least my insomnia—and it was only a matter of time before I was stung by another violent impulse.

“Maybe now we’ll get to the bottom of all your…issues, Eric,” she said at the end of our last meeting while patting me on the knee, laughing.

She was such a bi—…nice lady.

That night they found her bloody corpse sprawled across her living room floor. The reports said her body looked like it was mauled by a giant cat, head ripped off and missing. A week after the investigation, her husband found her stolen head inside their microwave.