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66 pages
1 hour
Jul 26, 2017


Explore the seven deadly sins as told through modern situations. Each story follows unpleasant circumstances we’ve all been subjected to, either in person or by the recollection of another. Step into a relationship or a heated moment and ask yourself where you would have ended up. The answer might surprise you.

Exalted covers these infamous sins from a different point of view. Domestic violence, gambling, and murder are just a few of the situations contained herein. The difference here is getting to experience these stories through the aggressor's point of view, and not that of the victim(s). Dive into the head of a killer and find out what makes a compulsive gambler give up a comfortable life. You'll find that the people in these situations aren't much different than you.

Jul 26, 2017

About the author

Roy Miller is a Midwestern cinema lover and book fiend residing in Michigan. His work has appeared in Potluck Magazine, Down in the Dirt and Through The Gaps, among others. He also is a contributing editorial writer for his local newspaper.

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Exalted - Roy Miller



Wintercearig, LLC. Midland, Michigan

First published in the United States in May 2017 by CreateSpace, a subsidiary of Amazon, Inc. with permission from Wintercearig, LLC.



Text copyright © Roy Miller 2017

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

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Table of Contents

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I. Lust

II. Gluttony

III. Greed

IV. Sloth

V. Wrath

VI. Envy

VII. Pride

I. Lust

Ever since I was a young teenager I’ve had a thing for women’s undergarments. Not the ones you can see in the store, mind you, the ones that have been worn. Ones that bear the scent of the woman that wore them. I would take them and hold them up to the light and examine closely, looking for signs of the wearer. Sometimes I would wrap them around my head and bite down, and more often than not the intoxication of the ritual would bring me to my knees. I’ve never told anyone about it and fortunately I’ve never been caught. Well, up until last night.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t have a sister.

At two thirty in the morning I decided I was too restless to sleep. Although I had endured a full day of work and cleaning my apartment, by the time I should have been turning in I felt more awake than I did when I first got out of bed. It was a recurring problem. My doctor told me to get more exercise and sleep would come naturally. I told him that I work for a moving company and I spend ten-hour days hauling furniture and boxes. He just kind of shrugged his shoulders and patted my knee.

Before getting out of bed I reached down beside it and pulled my cube storage box out from the cubby hole in my side table. The blue and white box was where I stored all of the garments I’d gathered over the years, either from sexual partners or from less-than-moral means. Habitually, I would grab the box and sift through it a bit before I got up, selecting a pair to examine and take myself back to that point in time. I had grabbed a lacy pair of lavender tangas and quickly remembered the gorgeous brunette they belonged to. She was staying in the room next to me during one of my out-of-state moving jobs. I swiped her key card when she was lying out by the pool and raided her suitcase.

A rumbling in my stomach coaxed me the rest of the way out of bed. I stashed the garment back in the box and headed toward the kitchen with a faint smile, remembering that woman’s plump lips in jungle red. I put on a pot of coffee and dropped some bread in the toaster. It was quiet outside, even for an apartment building; it seemed almost against the rules for me to be awake. I didn’t much like being at home while awake, since the empty apartment was a constant reminder of everything I had missed out on and didn’t have because of the ever-increasing need to fulfill my fetishistic urge. I had learned the hard way in the past that walking around by myself at night made me a target for patrol cars.

With buttered toast in hand I sat at the small kitchen table and looked over a Victoria’s Secret catalogue I had picked up from a neighbor’s mailbox. The images in the magazine didn’t really do much for me since I knew that the models only wore the pieces long enough to take pictures in them, so there would be no scent or remnants for me to enjoy. Their smiles were so fake and artificially whitened in post-processing work. I wondered if they wore those kinds of garments in their real lives since they were so expensive, but I figured since they were models they could afford them. Maybe they got to keep the ones they modeled for the publication.

One woman, from the looks of it a half-black-half-Asian woman in her late twenties, wore a pair of beige-colored hipsters that reminded me of my old neighbor when I was a kid. She used to change in front of her bedroom window and since it faced mine, I routinely got an eyeful. I wondered why she changed there, since the blinds were always up and the hedges weren’t tall enough to cover the glass. Part of me thought that she knew I was watching and liked it. When the time came for me to hit puberty I started watching with more interest, and eventually my curiosity graduated into a legitimate part of who I was growing into.

My first experience with breaking and entering was climbing in through her living room window while she was at work. She had a fake sheep in the garden under the window that I could stand on and boost myself up with. I found her room and stood by the window, looking through to my bedroom and realizing she would be able

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