Mel RJ Smith
May 5, 2016 | Mystery, 1st pages
Chapter 1 – Sunday 23rd September, 8.00 am
“I say, I'm so awfully sorry,” a female voice said.
Gerry tried to focus on the voice but his vision was blurred as he lay there, stunned.
“Daddy's going to be so angry with me,” the voice said.
As Gerry lifted himself onto one elbow, the image behind the voice became gradually clearer. In her mid to late twenties, she was an attractive young lady with serene blue eyes, soft skin and brunette curls that fell beneath her cloche hat. That's the next thing Gerry noticed – her attire. The pale green frock, stocking legs and golf shoes gave her not only an elegant, classy look but also reminded Gerry of a 1920s flapper.
She looked down at him, lying helpless on the damp, late September grass.
“I – I didn't see you,” she said. “You seemed to appear from nowhere. I did shout but it was too late.”
Gerry winced as he probed the bump that was forming, a reminder of where her ball had hit.
“It's fine,” he said. “Can you help me up?” He extended his arm towards her.
“Oh, of course. I'm so sorry, how rude of me,” she replied, helping Gerry to his feet. “Daddy is going to be so angry,” she said, once again.
“Why?” he asked. “I'm Gerry, by the way.”
Gerry stared at her as she replied. She seemed familiar to him but he couldn't place her.
“Eloise. Eloise Ponsonby,” she replied. “Daddy doesn't like it when I play. That's why I started early, before any of the gentlemen arrived. The other gentlemen, I mean.”
“Oookay,” Gerry said, bemused with her concern. “So why are you dressed like that? Is it a fancy dress competition?”
“I beg your pardon?” she replied, looking Gerry up and down. “One might just say the same about you.”
Disappointed by his comment, she turned her head to one side, then added, “Mr. Bumble Bee.”
“Bumble bee?” he said sharply. “I think my knock was a little more than a sting.”
“Of course but you do look rather bright,” she said with a smile.
Gerry looked down at his own attire and was shocked by what he saw. A two-tone pair of Oxfords, yellow and black argyle socks, checked plus-fours and, to top it off, a yellow and black striped pullover vest. His brand new tailor-made golf clubs had also been replaced and, lying at his feet, there was now a canvas bag containing a set of well-used hickory clubs.
“What the heck?” he said.
Elaine Gonzales
May 4, 2016 | Mystery, 1st pages
I’m eighty-nine years old and I still get butterflies in my stomach.
Veronica couldn’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous how nervous she felt. She stepped out onto the balcony and tapped a cigarette from the box. She glided it under her nose and breathed in its scent. Her wicked senses picked up the rich spices, and they tickled her throat. She lit her smoke and inhaled.
Why did it have to be like this?
Her work rarely made her anxious. She was skilled at keeping her emotions in check, but this was different. There was so much at stake.
A cool gust blew across the terrace. Veronica tilted her head back, allowing her long hair to billow in its current. She closed her eyes, and an image immediately appeared. It was always there, like an old photograph, and she treasured it.
She took a long, last drag off her cigarette, then disposed of it. She went back inside and upstairs to the bathroom, where she washed away the remnants of her habit and tended her hair. She leaned in close to the mirror and searched for a wrinkle, an age spot, or even a gray hair. Nope. Nothing. She could still pass for twenty-nine.
Eat your heart out, Angela Lansbury.
D.J. Williams
Apr 29, 2016 | Mystery, 1st pages
I'm an old woman, sick and tired of the voices rattling in my head. I am ready for this day, my final hours before I disappear into the hereafter.
I didn't always live in this white walled room, away from those I love, watched twenty four hours a day by a Filipino nurse down the hall. Once, life was filled with adventure and purpose. At least that's what everyone has told me. My days have grown faded, blurry, run together in an endless sea of confusion. It's hard to distinguish what is real anymore. There are only a few things I still recognize as reality, things I will take to the grave.
My husband, John, is one. The day after we were married he began building a church in the fields of the Lone Star State. He was a preacher who spoke with fire in his soul. A few years after the church was finished he decided it was time to move west. He was convinced it was God's will, so I followed. In the summer of 1981 we piled everything we owned in the back of our Ford pickup and headed towards California.
From the moment we arrived our lives were filled with hopes and dreams. John poured himself into building another church in Newport Beach. Soon life found a rhythm. I never imagined what would happen in the years that followed. The church grew by the thousands. People flocked to hear John preach. We enjoyed the success in our ministry, along with the unexpected perks: popularity, money, and influence. John wrote a book that skyrocketed to the top of the bestseller list. The church phone rang off the hook with speaking opportunities. We believed it was all part of God's plan.
Ten years later I had my hands full with two young boys while John was busy traveling the world. I went with him on occasion, but for the most part I stayed home and watched my babies grow into young men. At times it was as if I were a single parent. I could've spoken up. I could've objected to the sacrifices we made in the name of God. Maybe I should have, but I didn't. Instead I enjoyed the comforts of being a wife, our beachfront home, a private jet leased by the church, a cabin in Lake Isabella, John's seven figure salary, as well as his book royalties. A bonus was the respect given to us whenever we entered a room by those who didn't know us. It was flattering, and addicting.
This isn't my life anymore.
Mary A Russell
Apr 29, 2016 | Mystery, 1st pages
CHAPTER 1
Bridgetown, New York
Present day
Lee and Miranda stood side by side in a room that only seconds ago seemed to have more air. Taking a deep breath, Lee scanned the den and loosened his shirt collar. He knew their eyes were following him everywhere, but he didn’t know who they were or what they wanted? In one graceful step forward Miranda moved away from Lee, crossed the room and stopped by the door.
“I told you to stay with me.” He whispered.
“I’ll be okay.”
“That free will is going to get you into some real trouble someday.” He took another deep breath. Outside the wind sighed under the eaves, rattling the glass window panes. He shivered, then shoved his hands into his pants pockets, “don’t be afraid Miranda the sounds we hear are the moaning’s of an old house trying to settle into its new body.”
“I hear the noises all the time, they wake me up at night.”
“Are you sure you’re okay over there?”
“Yes, and stop pestering me.” He wondered why he said anything.
“Do you hear the whispering?” He paused to listen, his skin tingled with a pricking sensation before the hair on the back of his neck stood straight.
“No Lee I don’t hear anything except you.”
“I know, they’re close,” Lee said, “they’re always with me looking over my shoulder, examining what I’m learning, leaving clues they know will waste my time and fill my head with useless information.”
“Okay, anything you say, maybe we’re chasing ghosts from the past?
“I’m not sure. What I do know is they won’t stop me.”
“I’m counting on you to help me find the truth,” she said.
He wondered if the constant whispering he heard was real, or his mind eavesdropping on his thoughts, he couldn’t be sure. He wondered if the tell-tale smell of mint could be from them. He didn’t know, and started to believe he could be growing paranoid, or going crazy. Had the good guys become the hunted, being stalked day after day, night after night by apparitions?
“I think they’re trying to discourage me, hoping I’ll give up, stop investigating, pack up everything and run back to South Carolina.”
“Will you?”
“Don’t worry I’ll stay until this is finished.” If Lee realized the danger waiting for him around the next corner he didn’t show it, he refused to be intimidated. He learned about fear in Miami.
“You know how unsolved mysteries get my mind and soul riled up until I solve them one way or the other,” he said.
Glancing across the room, he noticed goose bumps covering her arms, indicating she heard it too. Never mentioning it to him; he assumed she was trying to be brave as he witnessed the dread weave its way up her delicate, graceful, pale cheeks, and into her steady eyes, playing with his emotions. His first thoughts were to cross the room, sweep her into his arms, and tell her she had nothing to fear. He was torn. Asking himself if the price he would have to pay was worth the effort. He had endured more than enough of her caustic remarks. She was his wife’s best friend and confidant and she would never let him forget that Joan died before her time because of him.
He wondered how anyone so beautiful could be as obnoxious and sharp-tongued as she was. He tried many times to remove the soft spot still beating in the corner of his heart for this polished, smart woman whom he loved like a kid sister, and hoped she would someday lose her know-it-all attitude. Instead of moving toward her, he said, “it’s okay, don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll find out who they are.” She turned in Lee’s direction without a word, shot him an icy stare, and nodded. He smiled remembering the many phone conversations after receiving her letter in the mail. She pictured herself an amateur sleuth on the constant hunt for a mystery to solve.
He was persuaded by her many pleas for help eventually convincing him he should want to do this for Joan.
Joan’s memory and the way he treated her, tormented him. He decided this would be his chance to do the right thing and maybe end the mental anguish. Two days into the investigation, Lee said to Miranda. “I’m worried I may have made a mistake getting involved with this and maybe putting our lives in grave danger. When I agreed to help you, it looked like a simple research project, but the deeper we go into this the less I like what I’m learning. Three questions keep rolling around in my mind, keeping me up at night.”
Laurence O'Bryan
Apr 22, 2016 | 1st pages, Mystery, Thriller
1
Prickling moved up Doctor Brandt’s nostrils. He’d been right. It had worked perfectly.
The Plexiglas window was half an inch thick. No sound could be heard from the clean room beyond the glass. There wouldn’t be much noise, anyway. The ten-year-old boy lying on the stainless steel gurney was barely breathing, and the blood oozing from his orifices would create only the faintest dripping noise as it fell on the powder-blue floor tiles.
The boy had pulled at the leather straps holding him down when the doctor entered the room. As he’d stared, owl-eyed, at doctor Brandt he’d whispered the only word in English he seemed to know – father – before the doctor gave him the injection.
Doctor Brandt had whispered in the boy’s ear. He wouldn’t have understood the words, but he’d have understood the bed side tone.
Orphans were easy to fool, and there were so many these days. You could take your pick.
The Russian boy in the next experiment room was sleeping peacefully, his skin pearly white against the green sheet, his blond hair draped over his forehead. The contrast with the boy in the other room was striking. The Syrian boy’s hair was midnight black. Blood matting into it gave it a fiery sheen.
He checked his watch again. It was well over three hours since the boys had been injected. The results were indisputable. Europe’s future was assured.
He walked to the end of the concrete passageway, pressed the switches to pump the air from both experiment rooms. Then he flipped the switches to turn the lights out behind him.
He closed the steel door firmly. There would be no squeamishness.
“Dritten mal glück,” he whispered, to himself. Third time lucky.
He glanced again at his watch. The sweeping silver second hand crawled across the black face. It would take the pumps all of sixty seconds to extract the oxygen from the rooms. Death would come within another five minutes, as the boys’ lungs imploded.
He walked to the glass door that separated the test facility from the production area. There was a lot of work to do. Frau Sheer had requested industrial quantities of the pathogen as soon as the results were in. Targeting genetically modified organisms to specific gene-based subgroups was the cutting edge of 21stcentury cellular level medicine. But he’d achieved it. From this day on Europe could be inoculated against the flood of refugees infesting every city and town and village with ox stubborn, violent stupidity.
Mother nature, with his gentle nudging, would do the clean-up work. And this time the solution would be final.
Ian Kingsley
Apr 18, 2016 | Thriller, 1st pages, Mystery
I PLAN to start with a murder. That should get me noticed. I’m after headlines and television news. Or, to put it more bluntly: fame.
Maybe you think murder is too dangerous for a girl, but I’m dangerous as well. There are dangerous girls in the army; I’m a dangerous girl in civvy-street. Are you shocked? Well, hang on! You’ll guess where I’m going with this when I tell you I was once a journalist and now I’m a television presenter. All I’m really talking about is crafting a dramatic exposé of a murderer.
So, you see, I’m quite a nice girl, really.
Did my first sentence make you think I was planning a murder? Sorry. I was just toying with you. But I wanted to show how easy it is to lead a reader on. Can you imagine what fun journalists have coming up with ways of doing that? Tabloid headlines lead you on all the time. You see a headline, believe there’s a crisis, and buy the paper; later you realise it’s merely talk about something that might happen. Anything might happen. So the story sinks: like my attempts at making Yorkshire pudding without the help of Aunt Bessie.
Words are so powerful. They can make or break someone; praise or nag. They can antagonise to a deadly degree. So use them with care.
I started out as a junior reporter on the local Bournemouth newspaper and I now work as a freelance television presenter.
Don’t you agree that sounds far sexier? Frankly, I’m lucky to have achieved this at a mere 25 years of age. Unusually for me, good fortune gave me a break. I was the first person to respond to a guy who rang the paper from a Christchurch bar saying he had information about a murder. His name was Thomas Black. Over the pint I bought him to lubricate his tonsils, he casually confessed he’d just murdered his cheating girlfriend. The cost of his beer turned out to be the best investment I ever made. It was definitely my most memorable drink in The Ship—although I drank little of my vodka after that admission.
I chatted to him long enough to get a good story, but not the least fearful for my life.
Why? Because I thought he was a nutter. So matter-of-fact. Feeling a bit like a Judas, I walked him round to the police station to give himself up. Turns out he really was a killer. So that added to my life experience, and it taught me to at least consider things at face value.
I made news myself the following day when the nationals and TV news crews caught up with me. I was interviewed on television for BBC news, standing alongside the picturesque River Avon. Ironically, the building where I live was visible over my shoulder on Castle Street. Apparently I came over very well. As a result I was offered a job by an independent company called Broad Brush Media. I was poached. Little me!
