TITLE: One Bad Mistake
GENRE: Mystery
The blue and red lights splashed over me, circling the parking lot like a lighthouse beacon. I’d hoped staring at them would soothe me. Instead, my thoughts swirled in rhythm to their motion.
One bad mistake was all it took to destroy plans, dreams, hopes - a lesson I’d learned years ago, the hard way.
Unfortunately, Alicia had learned it now too.
I rubbed my arms briskly to erase the goose bumps prickling my skin. Glancing down, I stopped. The circling lights illuminated the rusty color staining my fingers – Alicia’s blood.
Her lesson had been harder than mine.
Tucking my clenched hands against my body, I closed my eyes, trying to escape the bloody reminder; instead, I gave my mind the opening it was waiting for.
Images in shocking Technicolor of Alicia sprawled out on the shiny tile flooded my mind like a sick slideshow. Blood pooled around her face, blending with her auburn hair before congealing. Her satin blouse partially untucked from her uncharacteristically wrinkled skirt. Her legs bent in motion as if riding a bike. One strappy dress sandal clutched in her right hand, heel facing outward, glistening like a disco ball in the harsh overhead light. Manicured nails now chipped and ragged. Her wide eyes looking upward, fixed on me.
If the memory were in black and white maybe it would be more tolerable - maybe. Trying to focus on the fresh-faced cop’s questions I gulped in the humid night air, but Alicia was all I could see.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
3 Secret Agent
TITLE: DERECHO
GENRE: Thriller
Michael Norton looked at the tangle of blonde hair next to him and a voice in his head asked: are you sure you know what you’re doing? The woman lay on her side, her eyes closed and lips parted. He ignored the urge to wake her and slipped out of bed, snatching his clothes off the floor on the way to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, feeling the stubble under his fingers as he washed. He never worried about shaving on Saturday anymore. He needed something to take away the throbbing in his temples. Wasn’t there a rule against drinking champagne on top of whiskey? She had made him buy a split of the real stuff, not just sparkling wine, before they drove to his apartment. Only then had she told him her name was Sasha.
He walked into the living room, past the red leather Coach purse she had dropped as they had waltzed around before settling on the couch. He squatted and unsnapped the clasp. Inside was the usual feminine detritus: lipstick, facial tissues, a couple of tampons and a wallet. He removed the wallet and stared at it for a minute. Inside was more about her than he had learned in the two hours spent drinking and the next two hours in bed. He knew she liked being fed cocktail olives mouth to mouth and there was a rubbery scar on the back of her right thigh. Well, it was a start.
GENRE: Thriller
Michael Norton looked at the tangle of blonde hair next to him and a voice in his head asked: are you sure you know what you’re doing? The woman lay on her side, her eyes closed and lips parted. He ignored the urge to wake her and slipped out of bed, snatching his clothes off the floor on the way to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, feeling the stubble under his fingers as he washed. He never worried about shaving on Saturday anymore. He needed something to take away the throbbing in his temples. Wasn’t there a rule against drinking champagne on top of whiskey? She had made him buy a split of the real stuff, not just sparkling wine, before they drove to his apartment. Only then had she told him her name was Sasha.
He walked into the living room, past the red leather Coach purse she had dropped as they had waltzed around before settling on the couch. He squatted and unsnapped the clasp. Inside was the usual feminine detritus: lipstick, facial tissues, a couple of tampons and a wallet. He removed the wallet and stared at it for a minute. Inside was more about her than he had learned in the two hours spent drinking and the next two hours in bed. He knew she liked being fed cocktail olives mouth to mouth and there was a rubbery scar on the back of her right thigh. Well, it was a start.
2 Secret Agent
TITLE: Double Agent
GENRE: YA Suspense/ Mystery
Prologue:
A gunshot shattered the stillness of the rocky canyon.
Emma and her friends were at the bottom of the gorge; they'd been hiking along the dry riverbed. Emma heard the bullets exploding into the sandstone around her and instinctively shielded her head and ran for cover. She dropped behind a cluster of boulders and scanned the high walls, squinting toward the disappearing sun, but she couldn't tell where the shots were coming from.
Another boom! Alan screamed and fell to the ground, waves of heat shimmering up around his body.
"Help me!" Emma called to David.
The pair abandoned their cover and dragged Alan behind the high rocks, a low cloud of dust rising around them. Alan was still screaming, clutching his thigh with both hands.
"Stop screaming-- it's just a tranquilizer dart," Emma shouted to him. "It doesn't hurt that much!" She'd learned this the hard way-- just a bee sting, then you wake up with a killer headache.
Tears streaked through the dust that covered Alan's face. He lifted his hands away from his leg and his palms were soaked with blood.
"What happened?" Emma scurried to his side. "You shouldn't be bleeding from a dart-- did you fall?"
"No! I've been shot!" he shouted.
Emma locked her index fingers into the hole in his pants and pulled sharply, ripping the fabric apart. She leaned in for a closer look. She could smell Alan's sweat, metallic and salty, and his blood, like rust.
GENRE: YA Suspense/ Mystery
Prologue:
A gunshot shattered the stillness of the rocky canyon.
Emma and her friends were at the bottom of the gorge; they'd been hiking along the dry riverbed. Emma heard the bullets exploding into the sandstone around her and instinctively shielded her head and ran for cover. She dropped behind a cluster of boulders and scanned the high walls, squinting toward the disappearing sun, but she couldn't tell where the shots were coming from.
Another boom! Alan screamed and fell to the ground, waves of heat shimmering up around his body.
"Help me!" Emma called to David.
The pair abandoned their cover and dragged Alan behind the high rocks, a low cloud of dust rising around them. Alan was still screaming, clutching his thigh with both hands.
"Stop screaming-- it's just a tranquilizer dart," Emma shouted to him. "It doesn't hurt that much!" She'd learned this the hard way-- just a bee sting, then you wake up with a killer headache.
Tears streaked through the dust that covered Alan's face. He lifted his hands away from his leg and his palms were soaked with blood.
"What happened?" Emma scurried to his side. "You shouldn't be bleeding from a dart-- did you fall?"
"No! I've been shot!" he shouted.
Emma locked her index fingers into the hole in his pants and pulled sharply, ripping the fabric apart. She leaned in for a closer look. She could smell Alan's sweat, metallic and salty, and his blood, like rust.
1 Secret Agent
TITLE: WILD FIRE
GENRE: PARANORMAL SUSPENSE
He blended into the cool October night dressed all in black. Puffs of his breath rose like smoke. He stood still, very still, in the shadow of an old, twisted Mesquite tree.
The tip of his cigarette glowed orange within his cupped hands. He held it carefully, drunk on the knowledge that a fire so small could flare up into a dragon within seconds. The dry brush underfoot would catch that spark. Within minutes, goaded by the wind, the fire would run wild. Every bit of dry grass, brittle branch, and dead leaf would smolder and burn.
Fire, the great purifier, the equalizer, turned everything in its path to ashes. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” he whispered into the dark. How poetic. How just. He rubbed the ring on his finger – the only inheritance his mother left him—and stared at the flame. The fire would avenge.
Every time he smelled the acrid smoke, felt the primal heat, his mind reeled at the possibilities. How hot would it blaze? Which direction would it lunge? How far would its sooty claws reach?
He eyed the stone cottage that stood dark and quiet, peacefully unaware. He’d scouted it earlier and noticed the woodpile by the backdoor, the wood railings on the porch, and the dead rose bush clinging to the walls. He could’ve easily started the fire there-- throw some accelerant on the wood, followed by a lighted match, and the dragon would rise again.
The woman who lived there was an artist herself. He imagined her screams.
GENRE: PARANORMAL SUSPENSE
He blended into the cool October night dressed all in black. Puffs of his breath rose like smoke. He stood still, very still, in the shadow of an old, twisted Mesquite tree.
The tip of his cigarette glowed orange within his cupped hands. He held it carefully, drunk on the knowledge that a fire so small could flare up into a dragon within seconds. The dry brush underfoot would catch that spark. Within minutes, goaded by the wind, the fire would run wild. Every bit of dry grass, brittle branch, and dead leaf would smolder and burn.
Fire, the great purifier, the equalizer, turned everything in its path to ashes. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” he whispered into the dark. How poetic. How just. He rubbed the ring on his finger – the only inheritance his mother left him—and stared at the flame. The fire would avenge.
Every time he smelled the acrid smoke, felt the primal heat, his mind reeled at the possibilities. How hot would it blaze? Which direction would it lunge? How far would its sooty claws reach?
He eyed the stone cottage that stood dark and quiet, peacefully unaware. He’d scouted it earlier and noticed the woodpile by the backdoor, the wood railings on the porch, and the dead rose bush clinging to the walls. He could’ve easily started the fire there-- throw some accelerant on the wood, followed by a lighted match, and the dragon would rise again.
The woman who lived there was an artist herself. He imagined her screams.
Secret Agent: Are You Hooked?
Here we go!
All those who have entered the contest are requested to critique a minimum of five other entries.
Grace and tact, kindness with honesty.
Please, no "anonymous" comments. Choose option 3 ("Name/URL") when you leave your comments; type in a screen name.
Have fun! Wish I could serve gourmet finger foods for everyone. And chocolate-covered cashews, naturally.
(And if you notice a formatting error in your entry, PLEASE don't hesitate to email me. I'll fix it for you.)
All those who have entered the contest are requested to critique a minimum of five other entries.
Grace and tact, kindness with honesty.
Please, no "anonymous" comments. Choose option 3 ("Name/URL") when you leave your comments; type in a screen name.
Have fun! Wish I could serve gourmet finger foods for everyone. And chocolate-covered cashews, naturally.
(And if you notice a formatting error in your entry, PLEASE don't hesitate to email me. I'll fix it for you.)
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