Just completed a new short story called "Passage to Fortune" and have submitted it for publication in a printed magazine. It is a detective story which focuses on character development and attaining an immersive atmosphere.
Here is a sample of the story:
Garret knew they were on a cold streak. Or a train wreck. It was hard to be sure where they were headed. He downed the remainder of the rum and as it smoldered he eyed the old green leather couch adjacent to the desk. He was surprised he actually volunteered to stay because, as he well knew, the couch was as uncomfortable as it looked. Besides, cold streaks were meant to be broken.
Half asleep, he awoke to a noise. He glanced at the clock. Faintly lit by the glow from the wood burning stove, he saw it was 1:32am.
Thump. Thump.
It was a peculiar, disjointed beating at the tower door. The rain had lightened and the tower flexed in the sea air, creaking and moaning. Perhaps it was the storm, he thought, and settled back to sleep.
Garret sat up, awakened a second time, and reached for his desk chair, slowly gripping his hand around his colt python revolver in his holster. He slid off the couch and stood by the door. Behind the tacking rain he thought he heard a yawning voice, or a murmuring noise, and with the barrel of his python he bent down the blinds.
A dark figure stood in the churning fog. The outline of shoulders and part of a head was clear but the rest was shrouded in the foggy darkness. Garret flipped on the outside light. Soaked, it was a slouching man with short dark hair wearing a green rain coat that was long, extending to his knees. Garret’s jeep, scarcely visible, was the only vehicle parked in front of the tower.
He recognized him as one of the shady dockworkers at the harbor by the name of Tim Reese.
Garret cracked the door open to Reese’s profiled, pale face. His wide eyes, unblinking, stared forward as if drugged or inebriated.
“What do you want, Reese? You woke me up.” Garret glared at him. “Just go sleep it off.”
Streaks of thinned blood ran down Reese’s face and neck.
Garret opened the door and walked him to the couch. His comatose eyes were inert and he was unspoken. Blood trickled, dropping to the leather couch.
Garret snapped his fingers in front of Reese’s face.
“Reese, its Sheriff Finney. You want to tell me what the hell you are on and what happened to you?”
Reese leaned, and then collapsed off the couch, knocking over the table and lamp. Garret hovered over him and shined a small flashlight into his eyes. His dilated pupils were stale and depressed. An emerging puddle of blood touched Garret’s hand and as Garret turned Reese’s head he found the bullet wound.
“Jesus Tim. What in the hell happened to you?”
No shot had been heard and Garret was astonished that Reese, with a critical injury to his head, had evidently walked a distance to the tower on some sort of internal auto-pilot. Garret picked up the phone. The line was dead except for a buzzing. He flipped his cell phone and found zero bars when Reese’s strong grip pulled him closer. A ghost whisper seeped passed Reese’s crooked teeth.
“Th-th-th-shhhh.”
Without a sound, Reese’s bloody mouth moved strangely, his toxic breath, vile and dense. His grip on Garret’s arm became tighter and tighter.
Garret propped up his limp, bleeding head.
“That’s it, Reese. Keep trying.”
“Th-th-th-sh.” Reese gasped, choking on his own breath, and finally whispered, “Ship.”
Garret held Reese by the shoulders and resisted the urge to shake him.
“The ship? What in the hell happened over there?”
Gurgling blood pulsed out the side of Reese’s mouth and his eyes rolled over white.
“What happened on the ship? God-damn-it, Reese, talk to me!”
Setting his finger on Reese’s neck and then his wrist indicated the worst. Reese’s sinister grip loosened as his arm dropped.
Time of death was 1:41am.
There were no answers in Reese’s pockets. Cigarettes, a ring of keys, and what appeared to be a large eye dropper. Reese’s wet leather wallet had a few hundred dollars in it. Full name: Timothy Jackson Reese. 5’11”, 160 pounds. DOB 5/11/1978. A business card was in his wallet. Reese’s parole officer by the name of Kathleen Mathews in Bethaven. Garret would inform her in the morning not to expect him for his future appointments.
Here is a sample of the story:
Garret knew they were on a cold streak. Or a train wreck. It was hard to be sure where they were headed. He downed the remainder of the rum and as it smoldered he eyed the old green leather couch adjacent to the desk. He was surprised he actually volunteered to stay because, as he well knew, the couch was as uncomfortable as it looked. Besides, cold streaks were meant to be broken.
Half asleep, he awoke to a noise. He glanced at the clock. Faintly lit by the glow from the wood burning stove, he saw it was 1:32am.
Thump. Thump.
It was a peculiar, disjointed beating at the tower door. The rain had lightened and the tower flexed in the sea air, creaking and moaning. Perhaps it was the storm, he thought, and settled back to sleep.
Garret sat up, awakened a second time, and reached for his desk chair, slowly gripping his hand around his colt python revolver in his holster. He slid off the couch and stood by the door. Behind the tacking rain he thought he heard a yawning voice, or a murmuring noise, and with the barrel of his python he bent down the blinds.
A dark figure stood in the churning fog. The outline of shoulders and part of a head was clear but the rest was shrouded in the foggy darkness. Garret flipped on the outside light. Soaked, it was a slouching man with short dark hair wearing a green rain coat that was long, extending to his knees. Garret’s jeep, scarcely visible, was the only vehicle parked in front of the tower.
He recognized him as one of the shady dockworkers at the harbor by the name of Tim Reese.
Garret cracked the door open to Reese’s profiled, pale face. His wide eyes, unblinking, stared forward as if drugged or inebriated.
“What do you want, Reese? You woke me up.” Garret glared at him. “Just go sleep it off.”
Streaks of thinned blood ran down Reese’s face and neck.
Garret opened the door and walked him to the couch. His comatose eyes were inert and he was unspoken. Blood trickled, dropping to the leather couch.
Garret snapped his fingers in front of Reese’s face.
“Reese, its Sheriff Finney. You want to tell me what the hell you are on and what happened to you?”
Reese leaned, and then collapsed off the couch, knocking over the table and lamp. Garret hovered over him and shined a small flashlight into his eyes. His dilated pupils were stale and depressed. An emerging puddle of blood touched Garret’s hand and as Garret turned Reese’s head he found the bullet wound.
“Jesus Tim. What in the hell happened to you?”
No shot had been heard and Garret was astonished that Reese, with a critical injury to his head, had evidently walked a distance to the tower on some sort of internal auto-pilot. Garret picked up the phone. The line was dead except for a buzzing. He flipped his cell phone and found zero bars when Reese’s strong grip pulled him closer. A ghost whisper seeped passed Reese’s crooked teeth.
“Th-th-th-shhhh.”
Without a sound, Reese’s bloody mouth moved strangely, his toxic breath, vile and dense. His grip on Garret’s arm became tighter and tighter.
Garret propped up his limp, bleeding head.
“That’s it, Reese. Keep trying.”
“Th-th-th-sh.” Reese gasped, choking on his own breath, and finally whispered, “Ship.”
Garret held Reese by the shoulders and resisted the urge to shake him.
“The ship? What in the hell happened over there?”
Gurgling blood pulsed out the side of Reese’s mouth and his eyes rolled over white.
“What happened on the ship? God-damn-it, Reese, talk to me!”
Setting his finger on Reese’s neck and then his wrist indicated the worst. Reese’s sinister grip loosened as his arm dropped.
Time of death was 1:41am.
There were no answers in Reese’s pockets. Cigarettes, a ring of keys, and what appeared to be a large eye dropper. Reese’s wet leather wallet had a few hundred dollars in it. Full name: Timothy Jackson Reese. 5’11”, 160 pounds. DOB 5/11/1978. A business card was in his wallet. Reese’s parole officer by the name of Kathleen Mathews in Bethaven. Garret would inform her in the morning not to expect him for his future appointments.
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