Thursday, September 17, 2015

THE COLLECTOR




A flash fiction challenge of 100 words or less

The photo prompt copyright to David Stewart.



© David Stewart

THE COLLECTOR

In the salvage yard, Carey found a claw foot tub, several cast iron side tables, and reclaimed wood to build the door for her new office. In the back, she noticed an old gate, the perfect finish for her new privacy fence. A little sanding and a new coat of paint meant excellence.

Anxious to get all her finds to the truck, she yanked the gate loose, then screamed. Attached to the fence, by the sleeve of a shirt was a skeleton, and beyond that were dozens more.

The Junkman happily added Carey to his collection of salvage hunter bones!

*****
100 words
Yolanda Renee © 2015


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*****





Wednesday, September 16, 2015

CHEMO ON THE ROCKS


Visiting today is Rebecca Durkin and her latest release

Chemo On The Rocks: My Great Alaskan Misadventure

Please enjoy the introduction to her book and an excerpt!

Chemo on the Rocks is a shoreside seat on Rebecca (Becky) Durkin’s great Alaskan misadventure. It highlights the hilarity and heartache of a young girl who finds herself marooned in Ketchikan—fondly known as “The Rock”—where she remains on her self-imposed Alaskatraz for almost thirty years.

Chemo on the Rocks is witty, inspirational, satirical, and sometimes terrifying. It is a mix of pain and laughter as Becky walks the IV gauntlet, trailing behind the unfettered back end peeking through the drab hospital  gown of the man shuffling before her.  Chemo on the Rocks is a hard-fought battle in the fallopian trenches where Becky wages war on ovarian cancer—the ultimate wedding crasher—as it invites an entire medical team into her honeymoon suite.  She slays the cancer dragon and has two children in defiance of the beast, but just when it seems life has returned to normalcy, she prematurely crashes onto Mount Hysteria and wanders aimlessly through the Hormone War Zone in the Land of the Ovary Snatchers.


Everything about having chemo on the rock was made more difficult by Becky’s fears of boating and flying—the only escape from the island—which became more terrifying with each trip to Seattle for surgery or testing. Chemo on the Rocks showcases the many parallels between sea adventures and cancer adventures, such as doldrums while awaiting diagnosis, the skull and cross bones of chemo, the bitter end of a failed marriage, tying the knot of another, listing dangerously, and perhaps a return to navigable waters.

Excerpt:

Short toddler legs and sharp driftwood slivers slowed me down as I tried to keep up with my older brother Mike as he hopped from log to log in front of our Whidbey Island home. Snow-capped Mount Baker loomed high in the distance, completing the backdrop of our postcard existence. Lazy summer days sipping lemonade with neighbors, playing with cousins and friends, and a friendly black lab named Sam proved the American dream.

Dad’s store, Bill’s Jiffy Mart, was just a few miles away in downtown Oak Harbor. Clad in his green apron, he spent hours arranging perfect rows of canned vegetables and fruit. He always had a pencil tucked behind his ear, a feather duster in his hand, and a pen in the pocket protector of his crisp white shirt. There was nothing better than leaning into the freezer and pulling a crystalized Fudgesicle on a sunny day or trying to decide which box of Cracker Jacks had the best prize. I loved the store and all the promotional gimmicks Dad brought home, like my life-sized green Squirt soda balloon with fuzzy hair, and the greatest prize of all, my bright red two-seated tricycle.

 Bill’s Jiffy Mart had a small home in the back parking lot. When I was about three we left the beach to live closer to the store, substituting convenient downtown living for fresh salty air. We moved from picture-perfect postcard to a postage stamp lot. A public beach was not far from our home but repeated pestering didn’t sway Mom to drive me there any sooner.

 Impatient to play in the water, I planned our beach escape for days. “Hurry up, Sam,” I lisped, as we furiously dug a hole under the fence. We belly-crawled under the fence and I loaded Sam into my powder blue get-away wagon. I tugged at my swimsuit trying to loosen the itchy dirt, as my canine conspirator and I began our trek. Sam’s pink tongue dripped with excitement as I pulled him across the parking lot. I had plans to show Sam Oak Harbor’s Flintstone-mobile and for a dip in City Beach Lagoon, which would wash away all evidence of our escape. We made it all the way to the end of the parking lot and hung a left towards the beach.

 “Becky! Sam!” Mom’s voice, shrill above the busy traffic, brought everything to an abrupt halt. Sam abandoned me on the side of the road and went skulking back to Mom as she bustled across the parking lot. The whole town heard my wails as she spanked me in front of the busy intersection, loaded my downtrodden dog and me into the wagon, and pulled us back to my backyard prison. My tears stained the brown floor tiles inside Bill’s Jiffy Mart as Mom reported my crime to Dad. After careful consideration, he gave me a Canada Dry Ginger Ale, his feather duster, and put me to work in the canned goods section
.
A year or so later we’d outgrown our humble abode behind the store and moved to a larger home with a neighborhood filled with friends for Mike and me. Mike had a tree house high up in a backyard tree, with a strategically absent rung to keep his sister from infiltrating the fort. Sam had free run on the grassy lawn, and I spent hours playing hide and seek in the forest just beyond our property line. My all-time favorite activity was pushing my two-seater trike to the top of the hill for the exhilarating ride back down, stopping only by the skin of my shoes. I got in big trouble from a friend’s mother when her daughter hopped on behind me and set her barefoot brakes—Fred Flintstone style.

As our house size grew, so did our family, and Mom’s tummy expanded by the minute. A tiny baby was getting ready to join the Holman clan, and I had plans for my new sister. I would dress her up in fluffy dresses and push her around the neighborhood in my doll stroller. I was anxious to have a real live doll and after what seemed like forever the big day finally arrived. Dad drove Mom across Deception Pass Bridge to the hospital in Anacortes, while Mike and I stayed home with Grandma Chesley.
It seemed Mom had been gone for days. When the phone jangled, I pounced at the first ring.

“Hello?”

 “We have a new baby.”

 “What’s her name?”

 “Curt.”

 It took a minute before the meaning behind the name dawned on me. How could Mom ruin my months of planning in one phone call? There was nothing more to say, so I hung up on her and tried to figure out what I’d do with a baby brother.

 Curt grew from a robust baby to a darling brown-eyed imp whose summertime tans set off his shaggy blond hair, and even though he shunned pink dresses, he was a fun playmate. In contrast, Mom says I was puny. I had straight brown helmet hair, deep blue eyes, colorless lips, a crooked smile, freckles, knobby knees, and a lisp. I wanted long pigtails with ribbons, but Mom had no desire to fight my fine locks. Every few months she drove her stringy-haired daughter to downtown Oak Harbor for a visit to the beauty parlor where purple-tinged, pin-curled Betty and Evelyn waited for their next victim. Permanent wave solution and cigarette smoke burned my nose as I turned page after page of glossy picture books and smiled back at the little girls sporting beautiful curls. The pink-smocked gals gently set the impossible styles aside, pulled out a black padded bench, laid it over the salon chair, and pumped it up to haircut height. Betty attempted to hold me while Evelyn wielded scissors dangerously close to my ears, promising me a lollipop if I held still. I jumped out of the chair as a Peter Pan pixie. I loved the pink ladies. I hated the haircuts.

 Afterwards Mom tried to make amends for my hair loss with a trip to the shoe store next door. Mousy locks for Mary Janes. My hair looked ridiculous but my feet were always well-clad.

I endured stupid haircuts well into grade school, but my pixie looks were not a problem when Clover Valley Elementary School cast me to deliver the leading line in the Spring Concert. Our first grade class had been practicing silly barnyard songs for weeks. On the evening of the big event, Mom pinned a giant blue bow to my slippery locks, completely dwarfing my head. The tiny singers passed the microphone around as the bevy of children bellowed a barnyard bleat, moo or quack, much to the delight of their proud parents. At the end of each animal utterance, I stood tall at the center microphone and belted out And the Cat Goeth Fiddle I Fee. I was confused when the entire audience roared each time I sang my part. Whether because they thought I was adorable in my oversized bow and pronounced lisp, or hilarious, I’ll never know, but my blue bow sunk lower behind the students after each Fiddle I Fee.

*****

Rebecca Durkin, author of Chemo on the Rocks: My Great Alaskan Misadventure, and her short story, Behind the Smile, is known for her candor and sense of humor.

Rebecca is a featured speaker/creative trainer for an annual women’s retreat in California, where she shares her experiences and provides writing ideas. She is also a volunteer for the Survivors Teaching Students: Saving Women's Lives ® program for the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance. The program brings ovarian cancer survivors into the classroom where they present their unique stories along with facts about the disease to future physicians, nurse practitioners, nurses and physicians assistants.

Rebecca spent the majority of her life living on the edge of the shore, first on Whidbey Island, Washington and then in rainy Ketchikan, Alaska where she lived a waterlogged existence for almost thirty years. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys road trips with her husband, hanging with her adult children, playing with her three Bichons, and finding the humor in everyday life.


Thank you Rebecca!

*****



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Tuesday, September 15, 2015

HER SMILE


Our host Barbara W Beacham provides the challenge. All you have to do is finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided. 

Don’t forget to use the opening sentence… This challenge runs from Monday to Sunday!

Get creative and have fun finishing the story!

Please include the photo with your bit of flash and a link back to the original post. 

Now have some fun!

Today's finish the story begins with:

“From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by.”




HER SMILE


“From her small balcony, the witch watches the world go by.”

     You think you're safe, bitch! Not from me. Mark watched as the object of his lust enjoyed coffee on the balcony of her family's house.

     She'd met him for coffee, but the date ended suddenly when he told her he thought their children would be exceptionally good looking, after all, they were both perfect specimens.

     She'd refused to consider another meeting. He apologized, tried to laugh off his comment, but she wouldn't listen.

     Mark fiddled with the guns scope, but soon he had her sighted. She looked right at him and smiled. Mark hesitated.

     At that same moment, another driver lost control of his vehicle taking Mark's option from him.

*****

     A nurse wiped the spittle from his chin and wheeled him into the sunshine. Paralyzed from the neck down, Mark can only watch, but all he sees is that smile. Her smile haunts his every conscious and unconscious moment.



*****
150 words
Yolanda Renée © 2015

*****

Please feel free to upload your story by clicking on the little blue frog to add your story to the list!


*****






Monday, September 14, 2015

A PEACH OF A PAIR

Introducing author, Kim Boykin, she's here to introduce and discuss her latest release
A Peach of a Pair.

AND IT ALL STARTED WITH A BUS TRIP

Last year, I was having a glass of wine with my editor who wanted to know what was next for me.  I told her, I’d thought about writing a sequel to The Wisdom of Hair, but I wasn’t thrilled with the storyline that had my protagonist barefoot and pregnant when the first novel had ended when she’d just had her first child. “So, what else do you have?” my editor asked.

I wanted to wow her with another quirky tale and a great original title, so I pitched a story I’d started several years ago about two elderly spinster sisters called A Peach of a Pair. The idea for the story came from my great great aunt who traveled from the bottom of southwest Georgia to Arkansas to see a faith healer in the late 1940’s. Women didn’t travel alone, and there weren’t a lot of women on the busses. So, to be on the safe side, she rode the whole way to Little Rock with her arms crossed and a hatpin under each arm. If a man got too close to her or fell asleep and his head flopped onto her shoulder, she’d jab him with the pin. Unfortunately, when she got to her destination, she found out the faith healer had been run out of the state, and she got back on the bus and went home.

While the hatpin incident isn’t in A Peach of a Pair, the idea of traveling a great distance for healing is. I loved the idea of setting out on an arduous journey full of hope and faith that there is healing on the other end. That’s what happens to poor Lurleen, the eldest sister, who is dying of congestive heart failure, but not because she wants to go on this trip. Her sister Emily, took something from her when they were barely twenty.

As Emily says, “What happened to Teddy was Emily’s fault, and she’d paid for it a thousand times over, losing her mother to a broken heart. And the seven years Lurleen lived in the same house as Emily but didn’t speak to her, didn’t take anything from her hand. The shunning wasn’t a religious edict. Goodness no, they were raised Presbyterian. But Lurleen had taken right to the practice. Even with the gravity of events, Emily was sure it couldn’t last, but she’d been wrong.” Even fifty years later, Emily wants to right the scales so badly, she badgers poor Lurleen into getting on a Greyhound bus and riding all the way from Camden, South Carolina to Palestine, Texas to see a faith healer.

My editor loved the title, loved the story so much, I thought she would buy it on the spot, but then she said, “Where’s your young protagonist?” The truth is, when you publish you’re put into a box. All authors are because it’s easier for publishers to sell us that way. We can’t just be storytellers, which is what I wanted to be. I was so excited about my pitch to her, I’d forgotten Penguin put me in the sweet Southern box complete with a young protagonist.

So I did what every author does; I made her up on the fly. “Uh. Her name is Nettie Gilbert and she’s a ‘Bama belle in her last semester at Columbia College, and, uh, she receives an invitation to her baby sister’s wedding back home. BUT her own fiancé is the groom. So she quits school and goes to work for two old maids in Camden, South Carolina and the bus trip for healing ensues.” 


The interesting thing about this is, in the original version of the story, Nettie was a young girl on the bus, but she was also a plot device to hear the sister’s stories, to understand the riff, and their complex sisterhood. When I started to write, I was a little concerned that Nettie would be overpowered by Emily and Lurleen’s great big voices, but it turned out Nettie held her own and then some, even though Emily and Lurleen do hijack the story from time to time. But the story worked and turned out to be an examination of an indestructible sisterhood and a wild ride to forgiveness.


"Palmetto Moon" inspired "The Huffington Post" to rave, It is always nice to discover a new talented author and Kim Boykin is quite a find. Now, she delivers a novel of a woman picking up the pieces of her life with the help of two spirited, elderly sisters in South Carolina.

April, 1953. Nettie Gilbert has cherished her time studying to be a music teacher at Columbia College in South Carolina, but as graduation approaches, she can’t wait to return to her family and her childhood sweetheart, Brooks, in Alabama. But just days before her senior recital, she gets a letter from her mama telling her that Brooks is getting married . . . to her own sister.

Devastated, Nettie drops out of school and takes a job as live-in help for two old-maid sisters, Emily and Lurleen Eldridge. Emily is fiercely protective of the ailing Lurleen, but their sisterhood has weathered many storms. And as Nettie learns more about their lives on a trip to see a faith healer halfway across the country, she’ll discover that love and forgiveness will one day lead her home.
 Excerpt:


Dear Nettie,

It might seem cruel to send this letter along with a proper invitation, but I couldn’t bring myself to call you, and I wasn’t given much notice regarding this matter. I also know you well enough to know you would have to see the invitation to truly believe it. Although I do regret not having enough time to have them engraved.

I’m sorry to be the one to give you the news about Brooks and Sissy. I love you, Nettie, and I love your sister. I’m not condoning her behavior or the fact that she is in the family way, but you are blood. You are sisters. No man can break that bond, not even Brooks.

There’s money and a bus ticket paper-clipped to the invitation. I’ve checked the schedules. You should be able to leave Columbia on Thursday the week of the wedding after your morning classes and get back by Sunday night. I know how you hate to miss class, and if you are also missing some wonderful end-of-the-year party, I’m sorry. So very sorry.

But the milk has been spilled, Nettie. Come home and stand up with your sister. She needs you. She’s a wreck, and it makes me worry about the baby.

Just come home.

Love,

Mother

*****

Almost everything she learned about writing, she learned from her grandpa, an oral storyteller, who was a master teacher of pacing and sensory detail. He held court under an old mimosa tree on the family farm, and people used to come from all around to hear him tell stories about growing up in rural Georgia and share his unique take on the world.

As a stay-at-home mom, Kim started writing, grabbing snip-its of time in the car rider line or on the bleachers at swim practice. After her kids left the nest, she started submitting her work, sold her first novel at 53, and has been writing like crazy ever since. While her heart is always in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, she lives in Charlotte and has a heart for hairstylist, librarians, and book junkies like herself.


Friday, September 11, 2015

AN EMOTIONAL TORRENT


Brought to you by Priceless Joy!

Flash Fiction of 100 to 175 words based on the photo

provided by and copyright to Priceless Joy.

Don't forget to add your story to the

InLinkz Link-up via the

(Blue Froggy button).




AN EMOTIONAL TORRENT


It's drizzling today. I love when it rains.

Rain turns the brown grass green, 

clears the air of pollutants, 

and feeds thirsty roots.

It's inclement again. I hate rain.

Rain shields the sun, limits fun, 

and when the clouds go dark, 

my mind follows.

It's pouring today. I love the rain.

Rain washes away blood,

 leaves my soul shiny and new, 

and promises forgiveness.

It's still damp. I hate rain.

Rain creates a gloomy day,

the mind wanders, 

and memories of murder 

haunt with desires for more.

It's storming now. 

I love a tempest,

 especially when

 I've murder in mind.

100 words
Yolanda Renee © 2015

*****









Thursday, September 10, 2015

LAKE VIEW

A flash fiction challenge of 100 words or less

The photo prompt copyright to Jennifer Pendergast.




© Jennifer Pendergast


LAKE VIEW

Gagged and tightly bound, I can see my final resting place, Deep Lake. I notice the rocks he's neatly stacked and will use to keep me weighted. Will the truth ever surface? Will anyone question my disappearance or just go about their lives as they are now, ignorant of the evil in their midst?

My husband hums as he works, and then smiles. "Hey beautiful, I warned you, told you I'd provide all you needed. A job, I don't think so, it's just an excuse to flirt and cheat. Don't worry; this is my favorite fishing spot. I'll visit often."

100 words
Yolanda Renée © 2015
*****

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*****


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1000 words or less


Wednesday, September 9, 2015

GREY DAZE

Introducing Michael Allan Scott, author of Grey Daze 
a Lance Underphal paranormal mystery. 
I'll let him do the talking. 
Take it away Michael!


I’m Michael Allan Scott, author of the Lance Underphal paranormal mystery/thriller series, and the new kid on the block. (Move over Stephen King.) While I’ve been writing in one form or another most of my life, I didn’t turn pro until 2010. Other endeavors over the years include: musician, salesman, miner, draftsman, construction laborer, SCUBA instructor, and commercial real estate developer, to name but a few.

I have three Lance Underphal Mystery novels available in both paperback and eBook formats, with the first draft of the fourth book in the series nearing completion. Just getting started at age 65, I’m likely to run out of time before I run out of stories to tell.

Responsible for writing, editing, publishing, and marketing (with the help of a great team of indie pros) self-publishing is at least a couple fulltime jobs. I’m like a kid in candy shop—a sweet adventure. Don’t expect to do anything else I’ll enjoy more.

Born and raised at the edge of the high desert in Kingman, Arizona, I currently reside in Scottsdale with my wife, Cynthia and our rescue Doberman, Roxie.  In addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, my interests include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing.  
       
What is your current W. I. P. about?
The next book in the series, Cut-Throat Syndrome is a mystery/thriller with a paranormal twist. It delves into the Deep Web, exposing the hacking subculture, its criminal influences, and its ties to government intelligence agencies. At its core, the unintended consequences of rapid advances in technology outstripping our progress in the humanities. (For entertainment purposes, only.) Did I mention it’s a murder mystery?   
Do you have any advice for novice writers?
If you can do anything else, do that. If you can’t, learn the craft of writing, and learn the business of publishing and marketing. Then write and keep writing, no matter what.
What is your most successful marketing tool?
My 30+ years of business experience.
Have you ever read the last page of a novel first, why, and did you finish the book?
Not only no, but Hell No! I cringe when someone tells me they do this. Yikes! All that work we mystery writers do, down the drain.

If zombies attacked, what would you do, and why?

As close as I can tell the attack is well underway. Take a good look around—OMG! My job as I see it, wake them up with a red hot mystery/thriller, a good cup of joe, and a pat on the back.

If you could be any horror character, or superhero, which would it be and why?

Daracula was always my Halloween fave as a kid. Anymore the vampire thing is done to death. (Okay, not that funny.) In essence, I’ve moved on to ethereal realms beyond the plane of material existence. “Don’t see me.” (Ignore that man behind the curtain and his obscure reference to Bram Stoker’s Daracula, the movie.) 

If you could visit any time period, would you go back or visit the future and why?


Future is the only option. Wide open to creative imagination. The perfect playground for us artist-types.

*****


GREY DAZE descends.  A fresh murder spins out of control, twisting into new realms of paranormal mystery.

Not for the faint of heart, the third in the Lance Underphal Mystery series, is an interplay of corrupt characters immersed in today’s world. Paranormal twists and fast action in movie-like scenes set the story’s mystery/thriller elements apart from the typical whodunit/serial-killer thriller.

Guided by his dead wife, a reluctant psychic finds himself on a wild ride through a criminal underworld, slamming face first into corrupt police, gunrunning bikers, and a drug addicted killer–not to mention confrontations with the dead.

Layers of plots within plots twist this new thriller into a startling climax.

For More Information

Please Note: this book “R” rated and is intended for adult readers.

Excerpt from Grey Daze

Nerves jangling like downed power lines on a storm-soaked street, she turns off the cracked pavement into the rain-slick drive. As she chews her bottom lip, the new Ford Edge glides under the ancient leafless elm at the curb, its gnarled trunk overgrown with ivy fluttering in a gusty wind. Her mind races, fearful of all the things that could go wrong, trying to anticipate every move, grasping at the big score and how it will all be worth it.

          Tires roll up the narrow drive, gently thumping on fractured concrete. They’ve never gone this far before. And that asshole Denny crapped out at the last minute, forcing her to take care of business. As she parks on the side of the dumpy little house, a sneer twists her full lips. She’s not sure why this time would be any different, he always makes her do the dirty work—always there to grab the lion’s share of the score. Him and Moon. Worthless assholes.

          The wipers stop as she shuts off the ignition. She stares through the drizzle streaking the windshield, screwing up her courage, telling herself there’s no way she’ll get caught, the plan is perfect. They’ve been working at it for months, getting everything set up. Now it’s time. Only one thing left to do and they’ll be home free. If only she could get her hands to stop shaking.

          Elbowing the door, she squirms thick hips out of the seat, the new-car smell fading as she climbs out into the cold. She scurries across the drive and up the crumbling concrete steps, thumbing the remote to lock the Edge with a flash and a chirp. Twisting the key, she opens the weather-beaten back door, stepping in out of the swirling rain and into Hell for the last time.

          Dark and close, it hits her like a blast of sewer gas, though she should be used to it by now. Dim in the grey light, the foul reek of decay and excrement is stifling, crinkling her nose. She fumbles with her keys, finally managing to twist the backdoor key off her key ring as she heads for the kitchen sink. Grabbing a dishrag, she wipes down the key. Careful to hold it with the dishrag, she drops it into the disposer. She digs a pair of latex gloves out of her purse, working them on over sweaty fingers, then hits the switch. The disposer jumps, coughing and clattering as she adds water, mangling the key. She knows, one way or another, she’ll never be back.

          She cringes as all the disgusting things she’s had to do twist up in her head. Dirty little thoughts that won’t leave her alone, like the vicious sting from one of her grandfather’s beatings. She’d show that old asshole, if only he could see her now. Stupid little man. But first she has to get through this.

          She turns off the disposer and stumps into the dingy little living room as roaches scuttle for cover. Crossing to the old sofa, she sits gingerly as the ancient vinyl crackles beneath her broad rump. She contemplates the next few minutes, fanning the flames, feeding the beast. The puto has it coming. Fixing his meals, cleaning up his messes, listening to his constant babbling, going on about how smart he is and how she needs to listen, insinuating she’s stupid. Treating her like his slave. The things she did—unspeakable. Her stomach clenches as flickerings fire her mind. Bathing his vile flesh by hand, hairy and wrinkled—disgusting. The horrid stench of excrement on desiccated haunches. The pasty feel of his flaccid penis, even through the gloves . . . watching him writhe as he came, oozing sticky yellowed sperm. She shudders as shivers run down her spine. She’ll show him how stupid she is. She smiles wickedly as her eyes narrow. He still has no idea. Never saw it coming. And now, it’s too late. Muy estupido. 
    
           Fury firing her blood, she pushes off the couch and tromps out of the room, the ancient crusted carpet crunching under her biker boots. Clumping through the short hall and into the back bedroom, she slows, walking quietly as if she’d wake him. What am I doin’? She shakes her head. He’s not waking up any time soon, she made sure of that—he fainted dead away when she tripled his heart meds. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours. Blood levels should be back to near normal, well within limits for any toxicology reports.

          Her broad nose crinkles with disgust, her lips curling into a snarl at the mere sight of him. She’s always hated old men. And with good reason—look at him. Lying there under that ratty old bedspread, too cheap to buy a decent blanket. All that money rat-holed away, rotting like his ancient carcass. His limbs like sticks, tacked onto a distended belly. His eyes pinched shut at the bottoms of deep hollows. His sunken mouth a ragged hole, white spittle crusting thin cracked lips. His head a shrunken skull, wrapped in papery skin stretched tight, dotted with patches of wispy white hair. If it wasn’t for his phlegmy breaths, he could already pass for a corpse.

          She crosses quickly to the bed, gritting her teeth, holding her breath. Jerking the stained pillow out from under his head, she flips it up into both hands, leans over and presses down hard, mashing it on his face. A slight tremor runs through his withered limbs. Cadaverous claws scrabble at her hands, her wrists, her arms. She gasps, horrified, turning her head, pressing down harder. A muffled wail seeps out from behind the pillow—inhuman. She moans as tears leak from her squinted eyes. She can’t take anymore. And just when she starts to lift, he goes limp, his heaving chest stills. She feels what little life he had left rush past her—a final huff of foul breath and he’s dead.
*****



Thanks, Michael!
What an intriguing excerpt. Wow! 
Thanks for the interview, both of them!

Well readers what did you think of the excerpt?
Would your books help defeat a zombie apocalypse?
*****

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