Sample Sunday: Excerpt: First Contact in Santa Rage: A Killer Claus Compendium

Normally, I would have been on top of this, but I’m not doing too well. Earlier this month, the anthology, Santa Rage: A Killer Claus Compendium. Edited by Jay Hartman, published by White City Press, it includes my short story, First Contact. It is available at the publisher in both digital and paperback versions and at other platforms.

 

 

First Contact

 

It was 2 A.M. and the blood was still warm because the old AC in the Waffle House was barely working. It had been 112 just hours ago for the official high at the big airport and it was still 97 there this hour. My little part of NE Dallas always ran hotter year-round than DFW Airport, so I was pretty sure we might still be over 100. Summer in Texas, record heat and drought, sucks, and it was doing nothing to help my ever-present insomnia.

 

I’d always had it. But, after the kids moved out, and then a few months later my wife passed, it got way worse. I didn’t want pills as they did not work and made things worse. Years earlier, I had an intense love affair with alcohol and it had helped some, but it also damn near destroyed my marriage. I was not a happy drunk. An ultimatum was laid down and thank god I had the good sense to stop. I also had the good sense that without her, if I started drinking again, I might never to stop.

 

So, on the nights it was really bad when I could not sleep and felt like I was coming out of my own skin, I got in my car and drove around a little while before going to the nearby Waffle House. I’d hang out awhile, eat, and surf on the iPad or bring a print book. This was one of those bad nights. I was a semi regular late-night denizen so my presence did not stir up the regulars or the two employees. Being the middle of the week meant it was also far safer than the Friday and Saturday night crowd, dominated by drunks, and folks who want to fight for no reason at all.

 

Jesse was on the grill, as usual, and had brought me a burger with everything on it and fries earlier which has vanished pretty fast. He was back trying to pick up Shelly, despite the fact that I was pretty sure she played for the other team. It wasn’t ever going to happen. He was in the friend zone and would never get out.

 

The two regulars finished their meals and headed out into the night. A DPD car rolled through the nearby intersection with its flashers going and then they went dark. Anything to not stop for the red light that went far longer than it should. A typical Texas summertime night.

 

I shifted a little more in my usual back booth as the paltry AC wheezed above me spewing what it could to ease the temp downwards. I’d had enough of social media and got off in order to read the latest Terry Shames book. Texas author Bill Crider had Sheriff Dan Rhodes. Shames had Sheriff Samuel Craddock. Both had gotten me through many a dark period. Craddock was out talking a case over with his cows. As usual, they seemed far more interested in eating than helping. It came to mind that maybe I needed some cows to talk to when things were working me over. I doubted that my northeast Dallas neighbors would be too happy with that idea.

 

As I always did, I was sitting facing the door when he walked into the place. Dressed all in black, the man had black sunglasses on over his eyes too. Dressed in a black t-shirt, black pants, and black boots was one thing, but the accompanying black jacket seemed totally ridiculous in this heat. I could barely stand the heat and humidity and I was in a t-shirt and jeans.  

 

Not that I had much time to think about any of it as this guy, who looked like something out of Hollywood casting for a tough guy in a direct to digital release movie, came straight at me. At a little after 2 A.M. in the morning, with the searing drought in full effect and that had meant 70 something plus days in a row with no rain at all, he looked like he was here to rob the place.

 

Or kill me.

 

Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/3ZEZjzV

 

 

Kevin R. Tipple ©2024 

Multiple term past President of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Kevin R. Tipple reviews books and short stories, watches way too much television, and offers unsolicited opinions on anything. His short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Lynx Eye, Starblade, Show and Tell, and The Writer’s Post Journal, among others. Mystery Weekly Magazine published his story, The Damn Rodents Are Everywhere, in May of 2021 and soon had to change their name to Mystery Magazine. His short story, The Beetle’s Last Fifty Grand, appears in the 2022 anthology, Back Road Bobby and His Friends, and everyone involved seems to have survived the experience unscathed. His short story, Visions of Reality, appears in Crimeucopia-Say It Again. Earlier this year, the Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III anthology was released and includes his short story, Whatever Happened To…? Also released earlier this year is the anthology, Larceny & Last Chances: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense, which includes his crime fiction short story, The Hospital Boomerang. Fully trained before marriage, Kevin can work all major appliances and, despite a love of nearly all sports, is able to clean up after himself.

Sample Sunday: Excerpt: Package of Pain in Crimeucopia - Let Me Tell You About...

Normally, I would have been on top of this, but between being sick a lot these past months and the new issue with my foot, this got on top of me before I knew it was happening. Last Tuesday was publication day for the new anthology, Crimeucopia - Let Me Tell You About.... Published by Published by Murderous Ink Press, edited by John Connor, the read is available in both print and digital formats at Amazon and other vendors. It also contains my short story, “Package of Pain.”

Written in 2001, my short story is a crime fiction tale featuring a suspended Fort Worth detective. It is an adult orientated story and not designed for kids. A far tamer version of the story appeared a few years later on the long ago discontinued Mouth Full of Bullets website. This full version of the story is also included in my MindSlices short story collection.

 

PACKAGE OF PAIN

Mike Thornstein sat in his truck in front of his own house as a light drizzle coated the windshield.  The package was there again, even though it wasn’t supposed to be.  He had been promised by everyone that it was all over.  The investigation was supposed to have ended months ago.  He had been cleared, publicly exonerated, but nothing changed.

It sat there wrapped in plain brown paper on his stoop.  When they first started showing up every Friday like clockwork, his colleagues had searched for the sender.  Each one had been mailed from a mailbox in Fort Worth.  Television had “Walker,” but all Mike had were bureaucratic bosses who decided the packages weren’t a threat.  When the sender wasn’t identified after a few weeks, manpower and resources were delegated elsewhere.  Mike was still on suspension while awaiting assignment, albeit very unofficially, and the packages were still coming.  Something had to be done to end it.

The windshield wipers slapped across clearing the glass.  Visible again, the package sat there waiting for him.  He turned the engine off and listened to it tick as it cooled.  The glass slowly misted over as the drizzle continued.  The package dissolved from view into globs of water on the glass. Sitting there, watching the mist fall, wasn’t going to solve the problem.

Mike heaved himself out of his old truck and crossed the leaf-strewn yard.  Rain and wind had stripped most of the leaves off the trees, leaving just a few to decorate the leaden sky.  Everything dripped water and matched his mood perfectly.

The package was small and light, just like all the others.  Wrapped in brown paper and twine, it bore the Fort Worth postmark from the downtown office. Beyond that, it was like all the others and would offer up no clues as to the sender.  Mike shook it softly as he looked in vain for a return address.  Nothing rattled, and it fit in the crook of his arm as he fumbled with the door lock.

Mike got the door open, stepped in and back-kicked the door shut.  He wandered into the den and placed the package on the coffee table.  His coat went onto the couch as he headed to the kitchen.

The refrigerator beckoned, and he grabbed a beer made from some river out in the Rockies.  All beer tasted the same, but this one had been on sale.  His only preference was for long-necked bottles.  Beer wasn’t supposed to come any other way.  The top went flying into the sink with a clatter, and Mike chugged the beer down in several large swallows.  One soldier down and into the trash.  A second one was pulled out and popped open.  He took a long swallow and contemplated the job ahead.  Fortified, he headed back for the den.

The bottle went onto a small table next to the recliner.  Mike switched on the reading lamp and used a car key to slit the package open.  Just like the others, there was purple tissue paper inside.  He reached inside past the folds, and there was the expected videotape.  It was labeled “Continued” in block letters.  He popped it into the VCR and, as it began to play, he hit the stop button.  The tabs were snapped out so it couldn’t be recorded over, and he wasn’t ready to watch.  The tapes were a recent addition to the packages and made even less sense than the weird letters.

He sat in the recliner with the package in his lap.  He swallowed some more beer while he contemplated the box.  The bottle went back to the table, making another wet ring to join its companion.  Mike reached deeper into the box and found what he was looking for.  Black lace brushed against his fingers as he pushed the tissue paper back.  Nestled on the panties was one small bullet with a lipstick mark at the tip.  It sounded like some stupid detective novel from the forties, but it was all too real.  It was nice to know that this wasn’t a threat, according to the bigshots downtown.  He wasn’t reassured.

Mike twirled the panties on his finger, whipping them through the air.  Now he had almost half of a month’s worth of panties and they were still coming.  This was the sixth bullet, all sealed with a kiss.  He knew what he was going to see on the tape; it had been a variation on a theme.  He didn’t want to watch, but he had too.  He tossed the empty box and punched the remote.

For the rest of the story, pick up a copy of Crimeucopia - Let Me Tell You About....

Kevin R. Tipple ©2024

In addition to having been the multiple term president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Kevin R. Tipple’s short fiction has appeared in numerous places online and in magazines such as LynxEye, Starblade, Show and Tell, The Writer's Post Journal, Mystery Magazine, and others. His short stories have appeared in the anthologies, Back Road Bobby and His Friends, Crimeucopia-Strictly Off The Record, and Crimeucopia-Say It Again, Larceny & Last Chances: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense, Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries III, among others. His award-winning blog of reviews, guest posts, and more is at: https://kevintipplescorner.blogspot.com/

Sample Sunday: Excerpt from One Of You: A Tower District Mystery by Lorie Lewis Ham

Please welcome author Lorie Lewis Ham to the blog today as she shares an excerpt from her new novel, One Of You: A Tower District Mystery. This is the second book of the series that began with One of Us: A Tower District Mystery.

 

Prologue

 

I’m back! Did you miss me? Boy, do I have some juicy gossip! Spotted: A whole lot of trouble coming your way! Murder, did you say? Why, of course, there will be murder!

 

When I typed “The End” I knew it was just the beginning. They would never expect the trouble I have in store for them! Some surprises are worth waiting for, and some are deadly.

 

Chapter 1

My alarm clock went off at eight a.m. and I groaned. It was way too early for this night owl. I rolled over and looked at my Buffy calendar. October 21. I couldn’t believe I’d been in Fresno for three months. The worst thing so far had been the weather. I survived the brutal heat of the summer, and now I was getting to experience the wonderful Tule fog—so thick I could almost pretend I was in London instead of the San Joaquin Valley of California.

Thankfully, the temps were now in the 60s to low 80s, which made me feel like I was back in Ayr, the California coastal town I’d been forced to leave when my publisher dropped my children’s book series featuring a pet rat—still a very sore subject for me.

At thirty-five, I packed up my life and moved in with my P.I. cousin, Stephen Carlucci. I arrived with everything I owned—being sure to bring in the car with us the things I valued the most—my Sherlock Holmes collection, a replica of Excalibur, and my pet rat, Merlin.

The only bright spot had been that he lived in the cultural oasis of Fresno, the Tower District. It was the hub of all things artsy, and I loved it! He also had a great house. It was a cocoa-colored, early Mediterranean-style place that instantly felt like home. Since my only transportation was my trusty red bike, I seldom ventured beyond the Tower, despite Stephen’s best efforts, which was fine with me.

I’d rented out my house in Ayr for extra income and now worked for Stephen as a part-time P.I.

“Hey there sleepyhead, want coffee?” yelled Stephen from the kitchen, which was close to my bedroom.

“Yes, please! I’ll be out as soon as I feed my bedmates.” 

Reluctantly, I extracted myself from the furry heating pads wrapped around my body under the covers and sat up. Watson, the Pit Bull, and Dan, the black cat, had been left homeless after a murder that had taken place soon after I arrived and were now a part of our family. There was a wonderful rescue in the area for bully-breed dogs and great cat rescues, but I couldn’t bear to let them go to rescue after already losing one owner. It wasn’t a surprise that I’d collected two more animals since moving here; it was something I’d done my whole life.

After feeding them, I went to the large cage on the floor by my desk to feed Merlin, a dumbo rat with big round ears set more to the side like an elephant. He’d been the star of my books. Thankfully, Dan ignored Merlin, and they managed to coexist without any problems. Of course, Merlin never seemed to be scared of anything. Maybe it was because he was a wizard.

When living in Ayr, I’d run a hamster and pet rat rescue. Domestic rats are wonderful pets. They bear little resemblance to their wild counterparts—they’re much smaller, come in many different colors, and are very affectionate.

After the furries were fed, I pulled on jeans and a Supernatural t-shirt, ran a brush through my long black hair, and stumbled into the kitchen.

Stephen was already dressed for the day in perfectly pressed jeans and a t-shirt—his normal non-working garb. When he worked, he wore expensive Italian suits. My handsome cousin with his blond hair and gray eyes was more of a clotheshorse than I would ever be.

“Good morning, Roxi.” He handed me coffee, then shooed me from the kitchen into the living room. I plopped down on the brown faux leather couch, and he sat in one of the comfy brown and red chairs on the other side of an oak coffee table. The house was decorated in earthy tones, except for my bedroom. He had decorated that in purple and black just for me.

The coffee table had a couple of big books on it; one was on Sinatra—a love he and I shared—come on, we're Italian. The other book was about opera. I was grateful Stephen didn't blast his opera music loudly—that was a love we did not share.

I looked at the fireplace. “Can you please light a fire? It’s cold.”

Stephen laughed. “Soon, I promise. The afghan Aunt Carol made is on the back of the couch, grab that.”

I glared at him as I grabbed the brown and tan afghan and wrapped it around me. I had to admit I loved this place. The living room was perfectly cozy, like the rest of the house. It wasn’t big, but it was big enough. The walls were decorated with beautiful paintings of horses. Stephen used to own several, which he bred and raced, but the corruption in the industry led him to get out of the business. He kept his two favorites so we could go riding. At his mother Maria’s urging, he had reluctantly stabled them at his parent’s ranch just outside of Donlyn.

Stephen’s father, Antonio, was again involved with the local Mafia, after having supposedly retired, so Stephen’s relationship with him had gotten even worse than it already was. Originally, becoming a P.I. had been as much to piss off his father as it had been an outlet for his sense of justice. He ended up being very good at it.

Not only did Stephen hate what his father did, but he blamed him for his brother’s death. Stephen had been at Julliard studying piano when his brother was killed by the Mafia. He left school and became a police officer and later a P.I. He still played the piano, but it had taken him a long time to return to it.

Though we were both raised in a Mafia family, mine hadn’t been involved in the illegal side of the family business. They ran the family winery in Paso Robles on the coast until their deaths.

“What are you up to today?” he asked.

I took a sip of the heavenly coffee—Stephen only bought the best—and sighed. “I need to meet with Clark around ten to finish everything for Mysteryfest.”

Soon after arriving in Fresno, I was persuaded to volunteer for a community theatre production and was shocked when a crew member was murdered. It led to all sorts of adventures, and I’d gotten to know some wonderful people. One of them, playwright Clark Halliwell, had become a dear friend. Clark recently purchased the local bookstore Walt’s Book Nook and renamed it Halliwell’s Book Haven.

About a month ago, Clark decided Halloween would be a perfect time for a mystery event. The Tower Halloween Mysteryfest was this weekend. With my and Stephen’s help, along with several volunteers, he’d managed to pull it all together. He’d even done an adaptation of Edgar Allen Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue to be performed as part of the event. His connections as a BookTuber, and now a bookstore owner, made getting local authors for the event easy. He even managed to get the reigning Queen of Cozy Mysteries, Marilyn Bradford.

When I first met Clark, I knew he looked familiar, but it took me forever to figure out why. I later realized he was a BookTuber, and an extremely successful one. His YouTube channel was called Halliwell Reads—which always made me think of the show Charmed. Clark was amazing. If I were to decide I was ready for a relationship, maybe…but not now. He was also attractive. At six feet, he was a little taller than me, slender, and had shoulder-length dark brown hair and expressive brown eyes.

Stephen flicked a lock of hair from his eyes—something he’d done since we were teenagers. “Mysteryfest opens on Friday evening, doesn’t it? How’s it going?”

I took another sip of my coffee before answering. “Good. I never dreamed it would be so much work. If it wasn’t for the volunteers, it would never happen.”

“You have a heavy contingent of volunteers from the theatre community, don’t you?”

“Well, they do make up a good percentage of the population around here.”

Most of the friends I’d made over the past three months came from volunteering with that theatre production when I first arrived—so they were mostly theatre people. I still didn’t know much about Clark, but I knew he loved books, Sherlock Holmes, old movies, and animals, so that was a great start. Oh, and most importantly, Star Trek and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. After my parents were killed in a car accident when I was thirteen, TV had been a faithful companion, providing hope and inspiration in an often dark world.

“I imagine Tabitha has been a big help,” said Stephen. “There’s nothing that woman can’t do.”

Tabitha O’Reilly was another person I’d gotten to know. Not only was she the owner of a local tea shop, she ran her own theatre company, and helped run Happy Paws. Happy Paws rescued dogs and trained them to be emotional support animals.

Dan jumped in Stephen’s lap and he nearly spilled his coffee. That cat wasn’t shy. “How’s the podcast going?” Stephen asked after he averted disaster.

Three months ago I started a podcast called Tower Talk. I covered local arts and entertainment and interviewed pillars of the community like Marcel Nunes, who created the Rogue Festival—a local Fringe festival that happened in the Tower every spring.

“Great! The coverage the podcast got in the local media after the murder was a huge boost. It didn’t hurt that it took up the slack left behind by Tower Gossip either.” Tower Gossip had been a local gossip website like the one on the TV show Gossip Girl. It revealed secrets everyone would have preferred to leave hidden. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when solving the murder led to the end of Tower Gossip.

“I need to edit the Zoom interview I did yesterday with Marilyn Bradford and get that up. I can’t believe how nervous I was. I hope I did okay.”

“Considering you’ve been a fan of her mystery novels since you were a teenager, I’m not surprised. I’m sure you were fine,” reassured Stephen.

Marilyn was the biggest name coming to Mysteryfest. The authors were all published by Bradford Publishing, owned by Marilyn’s husband Edward, who was also a local actor.

“I heard Nathan is doing a one-man show of Edgar Allan Poe for Mysteryfest. Have you seen much of him lately?” asked Stephen, a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes.

I wadded up a napkin and threw it at him, but he ducked. If I were looking for a relationship, the dreamy Nathan Gilmore would be another option. Not only was he a talented local actor, but he worked in the library at Fresno State University, was an environmentalist, Master Gardener, vegan, and just too good to be real. I had failed to find a fault in him, yet. The only thing I could say, was that he was too busy to be human. Perhaps he was from another planet, or maybe an android, though his heart was way too big for that. But Data from Next Generation had a big heart, so I couldn’t rule that out.

My phone dinged. It was a text from Clark. “When can you get here? I really need your help!!!” The exclamation marks were a concern. He never used exclamation marks.

I jumped up. “Duty calls. Sounds like Clark may have an emergency, and since he never freaks out, I’m guessing it’s bad. You off today, or do you have a case?”

“I have a client meeting in about an hour, guess I’d better change and get going. Good luck. If it has to do with Alec again and you need help, let me know.”

Alec Dunne and his husband Matt Freeman were two more theatre people I’d gotten to know. Alec had been the director of that first show and could be a bit difficult in that role. As a friend, he was a delight and a great source of gossip. Matt was a successful realtor and the total opposite of Alec in personality, a great big teddy bear. Alec was directing Murders in the Rue Morgue.

He and Clark had butted heads before, so it was definitely a possibility that he was the urgent problem. “Will do.” 

Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/3xWJxqy 

 

Lorie Lewis Ham ©2024

 

Lorie Lewis Ham lives in Reedley, California and has been writing most of her life. She has published numerous articles, short stories, and poems, has written for a local newspaper, and published 7 mystery novels. For the past 14 years, Lorie has been editor-in-chief and publisher of Kings River Life Magazine, and she produces Mysteryrat’s Maze Podcast, where you can hear an excerpt of her new book One of You, book 2 in The Tower District Mystery series. You can learn more about Lorie on her website mysteryrat.com and find her on Facebook, BookBub, Goodreads, and Instagram @krlmagazine & @lorielewishamauthor.

Sample Sunday: Excerpt: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO…? in Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries III

For this first Sunday of May 2024, I thought I would offer you a small excerpt from my story, Whatever Happened To….?, as seen in the recently released anthology, Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries III. Published by the Sisters in Crime North Dallas chapter, edited by Michael Bracken, the book has 12 stories. My story is set in my part of NE Dallas and is current, though the past is never far away, everywhere I look.

 

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO…? by Kevin R. Tipple

 

It all began with a power outage.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the Texas heat was not quitting. Once one gets past the State Fair of Texas over in Fair Park, one can count on the heat dialing it way back. Not this year. It wasn’t backing off much at all and power outages were a constant worry. It had gone out just after two and the old family home had heated up quickly.

I finally gave up, grabbed my keys, the not-so-cold bottle of water I had been drinking, and my library copy of the latest Craig Johnson novel, and headed out. My initial plan was to hit the closest fast-food joint, but just maybe, the nearby library still had power and would probably be quieter.

There was an anxious moment as the starter ground on my late wife’s car., a baby blue PT Cruiser. It had seen quite a few miles when she was commuting back and forth to TWU and chasing her degree in Education and her teaching certificate. Finally, the old car came to life with a roar. I had not driven it in several days and the rough idle made that clear.

I took the long way to Lochwood Library, working my way through my aging NE Dallas neighborhood past the homes of high school classmates who had long ago left the neighborhood. After a few minutes, I hit Jupiter Road, turned south, and kept an eye out for red-light runners and other traveling idiots. Saturday afternoon was not my preferred time to go anywhere……

 

Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/3ydE1iL

 

Kevin R. Tipple ©2024

In addition to having been the multiple term president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Kevin R. Tipple’s short fiction has appeared in numerous places online and in magazines such as LynxEye, Starblade, Show and Tell, The Writer's Post Journal, Mystery Magazine, and others. His short stories have appeared in the anthologies, Back Road Bobby and His Friends, Crimeucopia-Strictly Off The Record, and Crimeucopia-Say It Again. His award winning blog of reviews, guest posts, and more is at: https://kevintipplescorner.blogspot.com/

Sample Sunday: Excerpt: By The Light Of The Moon

 

Before there was my short story collection, Mind Slices, there was Carpathian Shadows Volume 2. The anthology, published several years ago by BooksforaBuck.com, contains a number of stories, including mine.

 

The gist of the setting is that deep in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, in Transylvania, lies a castle. This castle was once home to a nobleman who, it is claimed, warred with the church, bound his servants with a curse of silence, and ruled his lands with a grip of iron. Fortunately for modern-day visitors, Lord John Erdely has been dead for centuries and his castle now a haven for tourists. Or so, at least, is the claim.

 

 

Each visitor to a local hotel receives a fancy invitation--they're invited on a free tour and paranormal investigation. When a freak storm hits, forcing the visitors to overnight in Lord Erdely's castle, the tourists learn that Erdely's power is not limited merely to ancient fairy tales.

 

My story, By The Light Of The Moon, explains what happens to those who learn too much of the Carpathian castle's secrets. If you are intrigued by the sample below ordering is easy. Available in print and e-book forms at the publisher, Amazon, and elsewhere. 

 

By The Light Of The Moon

 

"Is he here?"

 

"Yes, Commander."

 

"How is he?"

 

What he was asking was whether or not the suspect had made it alive into his station. He should have but sometimes accidents happened in the field. The young officer stepped a little ways into the room. New to his job, he was working hard to impress, which is why the Commander had chosen him. Things had to be contained, and he knew he could keep the man, more like a boy at twenty, in line.

 

"Typical American." The young officer couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice, "Very emotional. Fits of screaming and crying when we placed the cuffs on him. He's sitting quietly in Interrogation 4 now."

 

"Good. That will be all."

 

The young man saluted, swiveled in his black spit-polished boots, and strode confidently out of the office. The Commander sat back and smiled to himself while he listened to the pleasurable sound of the boots striking the floor fade away down the long hall. To be young again and so sure of righteousness, of purpose. Not that it really mattered, as fate ordained everything.  His die was cast long ago, as was my own, he thought, and the idea depressed him as it had the last few months.

 

He stood and stretched, feeling his spine pop before he walked down the same hall. Unlike the young man before him who had turned right so that he could pass the front desk and go back out on patrol, the Commander turned left and, with a few steps, began to feel like the walls were closing in on him. The truth was, they were as he journeyed deeper into the old section of the garrison. This part had been built into the mountain long ago, and the Commander secretly suspected that there had to be a tunnel from here up to the castle far above. He suspected it but had never tried to find out because he knew that in such matters, a lack of knowledge was safer than knowing the truth…. 

 

 

Kevin R. Tipple ©2008, 2024

Sample Sunday: Excerpt from "Visions of Reality" in Crimeucopia-Say It Again

Back a month ago, Mysterious Ink Press released the anthology, Crimeucopia-Say It Again. The book includes my short story, Visions of Reality. The story is based on an idea I came up with while working at Bookstop back in the late 80s. I thought I would give you a small sample of the tale today. If you like what you read, and I hope you do, you can get the book from Mysterious Press Ink, Amazon, and other vendors.

 

 

 

VISIONS OF REALITY

 

“Look, John, I just want you to shelve the product.” Mr. Phillpots, the store manager, pointed with his black pen, jabbing the air for emphasis as he added, “A book is a book. Nothing more. No deep meanings. Just get them out there. Got it?"

“Books aren’t a product like a sack of potatoes, Mr. Phillpots. They mean much more. All books aren’t equal. Some of that stuff is just trash.”

This was a losing proposition because the man had no soul. How do you explain such a concept to a non-book lover?  It was hopeless, and instead of being a good and loyal yes man, I had tilted at the windmill again.

In annoyance, Phillpots tossed the pen down on the desk and rocked back in his expensive orthopedic chair.  A chair that he wouldn't need if he actually did something useful and worked the sales floor like the rest of us. The money saved could have been used to fix the aging air conditioning system that was losing the ongoing war with the brutal Texas summer heat. After staring at me for what seemed forever, he started shaking his head like I was a bad dog that had made a mess on the carpet.

“Listen, I know you’ve been having,” his pudgy fingers made the obligatory quotation marks, “some emotional problems lately.” He paused for a moment, his beady little eyes gauging my reaction. My face burned in embarrassment and I shifted slightly in the chair. Phillpots lowered his voice in an attempt to be comforting and supportive; reminding me of how my calls to the employee hotline had been handled. “It’s okay, really. I’ve thought for a long time you needed help. I’m very glad you’re getting it. So, let’s make this simple.” He paused and then did that stupid little nod he always did right before he issued one of his edicts. “While you’re here at work, I just want you to do what you’re told. Just put the product on the shelf. Don’t think about it. The books aren't alive or anything. They are just product. They can’t hurt you at all. All you have to do is put the books on the shelf. Just do it.”

The room spun and then steadied shakily as I realized he knew about me seeing the doctor. He probably knew all about the dreams and everything else. My life was not my own or private.

When the dreams started I tried to ignore them. That just made everything worse. They got more and more vivid, so real that it was as if I was living them. Then something happened and I started seeing things when I was awake—or, at least, when I thought I was awake. I wasn't sure anymore when I was awake and when I was asleep. Everyone else swore they didn’t see what I did.

Finally, my primary doctor had insurance approval and sent me to a therapist. I didn’t get better. I just quit talking to people about what I saw. They all thought I was crazy. Why give them proof?

Everything was supposed to be covered by patient/doctor confidentiality. If Phillpots knew, who else did?  It would have been cheaper to advertise my mental state in the paper.

“Well?” he asked.

Oh, great. Not only was I classified as a nut job in his mind and no doubt by now in the employee records, but now he also knew I hadn’t been listening. Playing for time, I shrugged.

“Well, okay then.”

Phillpots shifted through his papers, picked up his pen, and went back to work.  After about half a minute or so, he stopped and stared at me. He blinked twice as if he thought his beady little eyes were lying to him. He pulled off his glasses and leaned forward, being sure to make eye contact just like the employee manual said on page nine. His voice was angry calm but one could hear the traces of New England in it which always came through when he was stressed.

Moving to Texas had been a culture shock in more ways than one for him. I wasn't sure if it was because Texas wasn't as it was portrayed in the media, or that those of us who were native Texans saw the world differently than a transplanted Yankee. Sometimes I felt a little sorry for him. Those moments were fleeting and far between, as I had been called into his office way too often since he took over seven weeks ago. The man certainly did like to hear himself talk.

“So, John, go out there and shelve Romance and Horror. Alphabetize them while you’re at it. You’re one of the few people I’ve got who can read and knows the alphabet. Such a rarity here. Remember to police and face out any title that has four copies or more. Not three. Four.” He tried for a half-smile that once again reminded me of a constipated rat with a load of cheese. “Make it look good out there.”

I stiffened in my seat and swallowed hard. He knew how I felt about those books. There was something wrong with them. They had a power over me. I gulped for air and tried to speak, but he wasn’t going to give me the chance.

“Do it or quit,” boomed Phillpots. "Get out of here and decide while you work."

Quitting wasn’t an option.  I nodded and got myself together enough to rise from the chair and stumble out of his office, pulling the door shut behind me. Kathy was waiting outside in the short hallway. She smirked at me while I moved by her. I wondered how much she had overheard and then realized it really didn’t matter because she did all the records for him.

Horror and Romance—the twin seducers—and I had to shelve them. It was as if those books spoke to me, pulling me in. The therapist said there was a simple explanation. I was disassociating from the real world or some such nonsense. The answer was, of course, medication. Take the little happy pill and all would be fine. I hadn’t noticed any difference. Maybe I needed the large-sized happy pill.

 

Kevin R. Tipple ©2024

Sample Sunday: Excerpt from "By The Light Of The Moon" in Carpathian Shadows Volume 2

Before there was my short story collection, Mind Slices, there was Carpathian Shadows Volume 2. The anthology, published several years ago by BooksforaBuck.com, contains a number of stories, including mine.

The gist of the setting is that deep in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, in Transylvania, lies a castle. This castle was once home to a nobleman who, it is claimed, warred with the church, bound his servants with a curse of silence, and ruled his lands with a grip of iron. Fortunately for modern-day visitors, Lord John Erdely has been dead for centuries and his castle now a haven for tourists. Or so, at least, is the claim.

Each visitor to a local hotel receives a fancy invitation--they're invited on a free tour and paranormal investigation. When a freak storm hits, forcing the visitors to overnight in Lord Erdely's castle, the tourists learn that Erdely's power is not limited merely to ancient fairy tales.

My story, "By The Light Of The Moon," explains what happens to those who learn too much of the Carpathian castle's secrets. If you are intrigued by the sample below ordering is easy. Available in print and e-book forms at the publisher, Amazon, and elsewhere.

 

“By The Light Of The Moon”

"Is he here?"

"Yes, Commander."

"How is he?"

What he was asking was whether or not the suspect had made it alive into his station. He should have but sometimes accidents happened in the field. The young officer stepped a little ways into the room. New to his job, he was working hard to impress, which is why the Commander had chosen him. Things had to be contained, and he knew he could keep the man, more like a boy at twenty, in line.

"Typical American." The young officer couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice, "Very emotional. Fits of screaming and crying when we placed the cuffs on him. He's sitting quietly in Interrogation 4 now."

"Good. That will be all."

The young man saluted, swiveled in his black spit-polished boots, and strode confidently out of the office. The Commander sat back and smiled to himself while he listened to the pleasurable sound of the boots striking the floor fade away down the long hall. To be young again and so sure of righteousness, of purpose. Not that it really mattered, as fate ordained everything.  His die was cast long ago, as was my own, he thought, and the idea depressed him as it had the last few months.

He stood and stretched, feeling his spine pop before he walked down the same hall. Unlike the young man before him who had turned right so that he could pass the front desk and go back out on patrol, the Commander turned left and, with a few steps, began to feel like the walls were closing in on him. The truth was, they were as he journeyed deeper into the old section of the garrison. This part had been built into the mountain long ago, and the Commander secretly suspected that there had to be a tunnel from here up to the castle far above. He suspected it but had never tried to find out because he knew that in such matters, a lack of knowledge was safer than knowing the truth….

Kevin R. Tipple ©2008, 2022

Sample Sunday: Excerpt: STITCHED IN CRIME by Emmie Caldwell aka Mary Ellen Hughes

Please welcome Emmie Caldwell, aka Mary Ellen Hughes, to the blog today.

 

Excerpt: STITCHED IN CRIME by Emmie Caldwell aka Mary Ellen Hughes

 

Cory Littlefield has taken a booth at the Crandalsburg Craft Fair next to Lia Geiger.  While Lia offers beautiful handmade knits, Cory makes wonderfully creative crochet art, though her anxiety problem makes dealing with the public a challenge. Though sympathetic, Lia can’t know what Cory’s problem stems from—nor the malevolence it will eventually lead to.

 

It was the dream again. Cori could only watch as Jessica walked away. She wanted to call out, "No! Stay here!" But she couldn't. She could only follow. As she did every time.

Jessica had always been her favorite babysitter. She made her laugh and played games with her. And she read to her better than anyone. She'd do funny voices and make up things that Cori knew weren't really in the story. They made the story so much better!

But Jessica didn't come to babysit anymore. She told Cori she was getting too busy. She was in college, now, and she had a boyfriend. Was that where she was going? To see her boyfriend? That was why Cori followed. She was curious.

At first, Jessica caught her following and told her to go home. "You can't come with me, Cori," she said, her hands sternly on her hips.

"Why not!"

"Because you can't. Now go back!"

But Cori didn't want to go back. She started to cry.

Jessica hesitated, and Cori thought she might relent and let her come with her, until Jessica said, "I'll come see you another time."

"When?" Cori asked.

Jessica looked impatient, but she said. "Tomorrow. Okay?"

Cori sniffed hard. "Promise."

"I promise. Now, go home."

Cori turned around, but after a few steps she stopped and looked back. She saw Jessica walking again, and she hid behind a tree until Jessica got far ahead. Then Cori followed.

She wasn't supposed to go there, she knew that. There were lots of trees that made it dark and places where you could fall down real far. Her mother told Cori not to ever go there unless she or someone big was with her. But Jessica was a big person, wasn't she? She didn't know Cori was there, but that didn't matter, did it? It only meant she wouldn't tell Cori's mom, but that made it even better.

It was a long walk, a lot of it was uphill, and Cori got tired. She had to sit down. Jessica kept walking, but she wasn't going very fast and there was the path to stay on. Cori could catch up. When she felt better, Cori ran up the path but stopped when she heard voices. She hid behind a clump of bushes and crouched way down. She recognized Jessica's voice, but she didn't know the other one. Jessica was talking the most, so Cori listened to her. She liked listening to Jessica, and after a while Cori decided to come out. Maybe Jessica would tell her a story—like the ones she used to read aloud to Cori. Jessica would be so surprised to see her, but she wouldn't mind. It would be such a good joke!

The sun blinded Cori when she came out from her hiding place, shining right into her eyes. She put her hands up to shade them, but it didn't help. She was standing still and blinking from the sun when she heard Jessica scream.

"Jessica!" Cori cried, and she ran blindly toward the scream—until she saw the big, dark figure. It wasn't Jessica. It was the other voice. It started to come toward her, and Cori screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Until she woke up. 

Emmie Caldwell ©2021

Emmie Caldwell is the author of the Craft Fair Knitters Mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime, which begins with A WICKED YARN. As Mary Ellen Hughes, she’s written four cozy mystery series, the most recent being the Keepsake Cove Mysteries. Find out more at http://emmiecaldwell.com/ and http://maryellenhughes.com/