FIRST FRIDAY! 3 AUTHORS, 1 IMAGE

I gave three outstanding authors this photograph and asked each to write about it in 150 words or less. Three very different visions of the same thing came back. Amazing how imagination works!

DAVIS

Anger churned in my chest when I saw Jason standing in the doorway of the barn wearing that insipid mask. Twenty-five-years old and he hadn’t any sense. The night before he had tried on different masks, like a child effecting poses and attitudes of Halloween spirits. Now, he wasted time when he should have been completing chores.

“Jason, what are you doing?” I said, approaching him. He peered from the mask. Was that outrage in his eyes? He manipulated something. “What are you fiddling with?” 

“You criminally stupid hag,” he said. He grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, clamped a wire around my neck and squeezed. I fought, knowing I would lose. Perhaps stealing the boy twenty years ago hadn’t been my best decision. I’d raised him, instilling fear when he asked too many questions. Had he learned the truth? How could I know his real parents were billionaires?  

GALLACHER

Hello my dear Mary, I knew you wouldn't disappear completely from me without at least one more meeting to say goodbye properly. I've waited here on every anniversary of your passing.

I was sure you'd come. You'll notice the cottage is not as it was. I never cared to tend to it after your murder. I want you to know that the madman who killed you is also now dead.

I expect some day the police will come and ask me about that, but I don't care. What he took from me can never be replaced. What I took from him goes some way to paying for that. I still miss you.

LOVELY

At first glance, the crumbling stucco building proposed by Mark as a setting for a Halloween Haunted House held little promise. Too small to set up multiple jack-in-the-box thrills for kiddies. A weed-choked field separated the yawning black entryway from the nearest road. Getting people here would be a bigger nightmare than any jangling skeletons or severed heads rigged inside.

I stumbled over a half-buried car door. The field was a dumping ground. Great. I looked up. A man blocked the doorway. Jeans, black hoodie, white drama mask. Was Mark trying to scare me? Same height, same build. Why did he pick a woman’s face as a mask? “Nice try, Mark,” I called, “but you’d frighten me more wearing a Tricky Dick mask.”

No answer. I noticed his hands. All ten fingers. Mark had nine—a missing index finger. My heart shifted into overdrive. “Who are you?”    

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

E.B. DAVIS

At Amazon

E.B. Davis’s lives in the Washington, D. C. Virginia suburbs and longs to live at the beach. She is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Sisters in Crime and its Guppy and Chesapeake chapters. Her short stories have appeared in online magazines and in print, including the Shaker of Margarita anthologies. “Lucky In Death” appeared in Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder, and “The Acidic Solution” was published in He Had It Coming http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008STR0G2 in August. Fishnets, a Guppy anthology, will include her short story, “The Runaway.” She blogs at http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com.

At Amazon UK  and US

SEUMAS GALLACHER

Seumas Gallacher lives in Abu Dhabi and has two crime thrillers on Kindle now, THE VIOLIN MAN'S LEGACY and VENGEANCE  WEARS BLACK, the first two in a series. The novels spin around  three former SAS commandos, owners of a specialist security firm that tackles major crime gangs using their black operations expertise to deadly effect.

The latest book VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK can be found on these links :

UK  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B008H45KJC/ref=rdr_kindle_ext_tmb

USA  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008H45KJC

Amazon Author Page

LINDA LOVELY

Linda Lovely writes mysteries and romantic thrillers. Her Marley Clark series features a 52-year-old retired military intelligence officer. DEAR KILLER is set in the South Carolina Lowcountry where Marley works as a private island security guard. NO WAKE ZONE moves the action to Lake Okoboji, Iowa. In the next installment, Marley returns to the Carolina Coast.

FINAL ACCOUNTING, a romantic thriller set in Atlanta and Jamaica, is set for release in late October.

Lovely is a member of Sisters in Crime, Romance Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and the South Carolina Writers Workshop. Click on book covers on Lovely’s Amazon author page—https://www.amazon.com/author/lindalovely–or visit her website—www.lindalovely.com—for buy links.

Join in! Add your vision in 150 words or less. After a taste of these authors, check out their books for some good reading.

                 

CODY. WYLIE. IDEN. 3 Views, 3 Authors

Photo 123rf

It’s FIRST FRIDAY! Three amazing authors give their takes on one picture in 150 words or less. Their genres, voices, and visions are wonderfully different.

CODY

"It's the color of a ruby." The child's awe-filled voice broke the eerie silence following the storm. "Just like the Book of Legends says."

Murmurs rose and blended into a single, querulous hum: "That's all it is. Legend. Only part ruby. Rest … black as night. Not exactly a slipper."

An old woman stepped forward. "Might be. Fashions change."

The child reminded them, "The Book says she came on the wind."

The hum countered, "Aye … seven generations ago."

The woman said, "I've heard rumors of ominous weather down there."

The leg twitched, accentuating its unseemly length. The crowd, except for the woman and the child, stepped back. The child cried out, "She needs help."

The hum accelerated to an angry buzz: "She's not our kind. What can we do?"

"Whatever we can."

"There could be consequences."

"There's always risk."

"Not if we don't get involved."

"Unthinkable!"

At Amazon

WYLIE

In the dark shadows of the forest Mira stood out like a psychotic rainbow amongst the bland browns and greens. She had always been different; a bit wild, forever disregarding the rules, particularly when it came to fashion. Her choice of colors had never caused her harm; in fact it would often bring smiles and laughter to those around her.  She loved to smile. She loved to laugh. In the forest, she did both as she skipped and danced along the path in her favorite red and black shoes. The bright pinks, yellows and blues of her outfit swirled around her. It was not, in the end, the colors that killed her, though they did attract the fairies. The creatures didn’t harm her either, though their sudden presence startled her.  Later investigators firmly attributed her demise to the 40 foot fall down the ravine. Cause of death: six inch heels.

IDEN

I had two reactions to this picture the instant I saw it. In both, I sense the wearer of this get-up is a young girl dressed up in atrocious cast-off clothing from the seventies or eighties.

Those ridiculous heels, they’re good for a laugh. All kinds of scenes—right out of any sitcom—spring to mind.

At Amazon

Unfortunately, writing crime fiction gives you a crooked bent of mind. The other reaction? A murder scene. The girl discovers, then dons all of the blinding fuchsia clothes her mother picked up in 1978. By the time she senses the killer, it’s too late: the scene turns from humor to horror in an instant. She runs, but the heels trip her just as she attempts to escape. The picture captures the horrific irony that it was the very costume that led to her demise.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Sandra Carey Cody

Sandra Carey Cody's latest book, Love and Not Destroy, examines the ways in which destiny is shaped by family secrets. An infant is abandoned in a carriage shed on the grounds of a small town museum. Twenty-two years later, the body of a homeless man is discovered in exactly the same spot. The foundling, now an adult working at the museum, is haunted by the coincidence and thus begins a search for identity that explores the nature of family, of loyalty and responsibility. Sandy also writes the Jennie Connors mystery series, published by Avalon Books. Her website is: http://sandracareycody.com/

Book: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007JVAX3C

Jen Wylie

At Amazon

Jen Wylie resides in rural Ontario, Canada with her two boys, Australian shepherd and a disagreeable amount of wildlife. In a cosmic twist of fate she dislikes the snow and cold.

Before settling down to raise a family, she attained a BA from Queens University and worked in retail and sales.

Thanks to her mother she acquired a love of books at an early age and began writing in public school. She constantly has stories floating around in her head, and finds it amazing most people don’t. Jennifer writes various forms of fantasy, both novels and short stories.

book link: http://www.amazon.com/Flashy-Fiction-Other-Insane-ebook/dp/B007Q33YB6

my website: www.jenniferwylie.ca

Matthew Iden

I write fantasy, science fiction, horror, thrillers, crime fiction, and contemporary literary fiction with a psychological twist. A Reason to Live is the first in my debut detective series featuring Marty Singer, a retired DC homicide cop who helps the victims of past crimes while waging his own war with cancer. Marty’s story continues in Blueblood (August, 2012) and Signs (October 2012).

Find out more at my site http://matthew-iden.com and my Goodreads page (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5313211.Matthew_Iden).

Book link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0081MW9LM

Feel free to join in. Add your vision (150 words maximum) in the comments!

One Picture, Three Visions—HALLINAN. LANE. MONAJEM.

Hooray! It's First Friday again, and three great authors have described, in 150 words or less, what they saw in this picture. Each one had an entirely different idea. This is how creativity works. Wonderful examples.

HALLINAN

For thirty years, Andres played his guitar in the corner of the little Barcelona bar as the clientele changed from working-class people to thugs and gangsters from the wharves, to slumming aristocrats, and finally to gay men and women. But Andres played on: seguedillas, flamenco, classical.  On the night Andres didn't show up for work, the bartender went to his one-room apartment and found it empty, except for his guitar.  No effects of any kind.  The bartender brought the guitar back and leaned it against Andres' chair.  In the 1990s the bar was closed and shuttered for the last time.  A year ago, the building was scheduled for demolition, and the workmen found a room rotten with damp, the walls cracked and peeling, everything shrouded in plaster dust.  But the guitar leaning against the chair in the back corner: it looked like someone had dusted it every night for years.

LANE

“Thank you . . . thank you.” He nodded to the enthusiastic crowd that overflowed the smoky basement club. Breathing in the sweet smell of weed, he flashed his best boyish grin at the table nearest the stage. Three sexy chicks, all giving him the eye.  He’d go home with at least one of them – shit, maybe all three.  If a good looking guitar player couldn’t get laid…

He shifted his butt on the stingy-seated folding chair and struck a tentative chord…

His wife’s voice shrilled down the stairs. “Damn it, Mort, can’t you shut the basement door?  You couldn’t play guitar fifty years ago; you can’t play it now, you old fool.”

         The door slammed; the nightclub disappeared. Alone in the dank, mildewed basement, Morton sighed and watched another leaf of paint peel loose and drift, like a discarded dream, to join the others littering the floor.

MONAJEM

Rafaela DaVinci bared her fangs. “You put my guitar in the dungeon?” 

“Strictly speaking, it’s a cellar,” I said mildly. Damp, with peeling paint and fractured linoleum, sure—but it was also the closest time portal. “I propped it against a chair.”

She snarled, all flying hair and furious eyes.  “That guitar cost ten thousand bucks!”

“So it’s the perfect bait,” I said. “Titus can smell an antique from eons away, and if he opens the portal to take it…”

“I can get back to the future.” Where she wouldn’t have to hide her fangs.  “Where I’ll have to buy back my own damned guitar!”

“That’s where my brilliance comes in,” I said. “I’ve rigged the pickup inside the guitar. Any noise in there and we’ll hear it. You’ll have ten seconds  to cross the portal, snatch the guitar—

The portal opened, squawking a warning through the pickup. Rafaela ran.

The Fear Artist - Amazon

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Timothy Hallinan

Timothy Hallinan is the Edgar-nominated author of the Poke Rafferty Bangkok thrillers, the Junior Bender Mysteries, and the 1990s cult-favorite PI novels featuring Simeon Grist.  His newest Poke Rafferty novel, THE FEAR ARTIST, received stars from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal.  Hallinan also edited SHAKEN, an ebook anthology of stories, with 100% of the proceeds going to Japan tsunami relief, will soon release an ebook called MAKING STORY: 21 WRITERS ON HOW THEY PLOT.

Hallinan wishes to acknowledge that the Barcelona bar was stolen, or rather inspired, by the bar in GITANA by Sam Reaves, masquerading as Dominic Martell. http://www.timothyhallinan.com/ His blog is in his website.

Under the Skin--Amazon

Vicki Lane

Vicki Lane is the author of the critically acclaimed Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mysteries from Bantam Dell -- Signs in the Blood, Art's Blood, Old Wounds, Anthony- nominated In a Dark Season, and the recent Under the Skin, as well as The Day of Small Things, a standalone.  Vicki draws her inspiration from the past and present of rural North Carolina where she and her family have tended a mountainside farm since 1975. Learn more about Vicki and her books at http://vickilanemysteries.com/ .  There is also a daily blog with lots of pictures ... http://vickilanemysteries.blogspot.com/ . . .

Barbara Monajem

To Rescue or Ravish?--Amazon

When Arabella Wilbanks flees a forced betrothal, the last person she expects to find at the reins of her getaway hackney is Matthew Worcester. It’s been seven long years since they gave in to their mutual desire, but Matt still burns with regret for leaving her without a word. He should escort her to safety, but the chance to reclaim her proves impossible to resist...

   Barbara Monajem started writing at eight years old. She has wandered from children’s fantasy through mystery to paranormal and now historical romance. Today’s little effort is her first stab at science fiction.

www.BarbaraMonajem.com  http://www.facebook.com/barbara.monajem On Twitter: @BarbaraMonajem

Stop and say hi to these super authors. Tell us what you think or join in. We'd love to hear from you.

3 Approaches, 1 Subject: Toussaint. Iyer. Staggs.

Salvatore Vuono, http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

I asked three excellent but very different authors to write a description of this picture. It's fascinating what they saw in the same face. Read them and enjoy the different styles. I think they're terrific.

TOUSSAINT

Riker ducked under the tiki hut overhang. “Barkeep. A beer.”

He slumped into a wobbly chair and took a drag on his cig, willing the nicotene to slow his racing heart.

A mug of beer appeared on the table. “Can’t smoke in here. You know that.”

Darby’s voice had the rasp of a two-pack a day habit, but she was right. He did know better. Leaning over, he stubbed it out on the dirt floor, pocketing the butt.

“You ever thought of walking out of this hellhole and never coming back?” he asked.

“Only about every minute of the day. You wanna be my Sugar Daddy?”

He barked out a laugh, sure an ex-con wasn’t anyone’s idea of a keeper. “You’re all right, Darb.”

She leaned in, expectation brightening her worried face. “Did you do it?”

“I did.” A boom rocked the island. Grinning, he reached for the beer.

IYER

The ballroom crackled with silence when he entered, a standout in his black shirt and jeans among the tuxedo-clad gents and polished ladies. A cigarette with a precariously long ash dangled from his lip, breaking hotel rules, I was sure. Something wild flickered in his weary eyes as he scanned the room, settling his gaze on the party’s hostess. Her spine straightened, and she sucked in a breath without expelling it.

I watched. So did everyone else as the lithe stranger strode to stand in front of her. Without a word, he removed the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it on the Persian carpet, and ground out the lighted end with his shoe. The audible intake of breaths increased when he swept her into his arms and kissed her with unrestrained passion. She didn’t resist. The host, who stood silently observing until this minute, stepped forward, then retreated.

STAGGS

He didn’t look much like the picture she gave me, but I knew it was him. The thin, sculpted face in the picture must have seemed handsome to her in a classic Greek way. Now, his skin, blanched of color, seemed stretched over sharpened cheekbones. His dark hair was neatly combed and parted then. Now his overgrown hair flopped like tossed salad, and he had the look of a man who slept in alleys. His sunken, dark-rimmed eyes told me he hadn’t found an alley for several days. I almost felt sorry for him until I looked in those eyes. They still had the sharpness of a predator, one who would focus in on a prey and take whatever he wanted, leaving the remains naked and stripped. He stripped her of everything and she wanted him dead. That’s what she paid me to do. That’s why I was there.

_____________________

ABOUT MAGGIE TOUSSAINT

Formerly an aquatic toxicologist contracted to the U.S. Army and currently a freelance reporter, Southern author Maggie Toussaint loves writing mysteries. She’s published four romantic suspenses and four mysteries, with Death, Island Style and Murder in the Buff her most recent releases. Her debut release, House of Lies, won Best Romantic Suspense in the 2007 National Readers Choice Awards. She’s a board member for Southeastern Mystery Writers of America.

Visit her at www.maggietoussaint.com, http://mudpiesandmagnolias.blogspot.com/, and http://facebook.com/MaggieToussaintAuthor#.

           

ABOUT POLLY IYER

Polly Iyer lives in the upstate of South Carolina with her husband, a timid cat, and a drooling mutt who rules the household. Her books always have a murder or two―or three―romance, and at least one character who treads ethical lines. The titles are Hooked, InSight, Mind Games, and Murder Déjà Vu, and they can be found on Amazon. You can find Polly at http://www.pollyiyer.com

ABOUT EARL STAGGS 

Mystery author Earl Staggs recently received his second Derringer Award for Best Short Story of the Year. His novel MEMORY OF A MURDER earned a long list of Five Star reviews. He served as Managing Editor of Futures Mystery Magazine and as President of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and has seen many of his short stories published in magazines and anthologies. He is a contributing blog member of Murderous Musings and Make Mine Mystery and a frequent speaker at conferences and seminars. Email: earlstaggs@sbcglobal.net Website: http://earlwstaggs.wordpress.com

Finding Those Dead Spots

When I get seriously into revising something, I dig out the highlighters to help me find the dead spots, the ones that put the reader to sleep. I work on a chapter at a time and read, looking for a specific element in the story. Backstory is usually my first element. I highlight everything that's backstory in that chapter with a yellow marker.

Then I look for description and mark it in pink. Green is for exposition (explaining something to the reader), another good one to check for.

The object is to see at a glance what you've got. Does it stop the action or slow the story? It may depend on the kind of story you're telling, but I'm aiming for a fairly fast pace, especially in the opening scene. If I see much yellow or pink, indicating backstory and description, I know I have work to do.

Green is another flag—am I teaching the reader how to fly a helicopter or entertaining him? How much does she really want to know? The temptation to share all that valuable research you've done can be irresistible, but be strong. Resist.

All these elements slow the story, so they're included on a need-to-know basis. Does the reader need to know this to understand or follow the story? How does it apply to this scene or this action sequence? Is the information shown in small, bite-sized bits or is it a big chunk all at once? Is it broken up with action? These are things to think about.

What do you look for? Which elements put you to sleep? And how do you locate or mark those slow spots?

Can You Hear Me Now?

An Echelon Press book

My guest is Stephen Brayton, author of Beta, the new Mallory Petersen, PI, novel. Mallory has a fourth degree black belt in Taekwondo. She's almost up with her creator.
Maybe a more appropriate title would be “How do you hear me?” Or maybe, “Sounds like…” with the proper charades gesture.

What I’d like to discuss is how to add voice or sound to your stories. How do characters speak? What do specific noises sound like? Taking the second question first, it’s not enough sometimes just to write something making noise. To add elements such as mood or emotion, you must show the reader how things sound. You do this by relating the particular noise to something recognizable. For instance, “The rain fell hard against the roof.” This can be spiced up depending on what you’re trying to convey. “The rain falling against the metal slats sounded like a hail of machine gun bullets.” “She sat alone in the cabin. The light rain against the screens was as many whispers silently calling to her.”

Wind and rain are fairly easy to bring to life. The wind can moan like a dying asthmatic, cry like ghosts from the past mourning their own passing, sing like a teakettle on full alert, or whine like an injured animal. Other sounds may challenge the writer. I’ve heard the familiar blatting exhaust of a passing bus described as ‘snoring’ and ‘farting.’ Did you know cats doing the courting dance sound exactly like a crying baby? The similarity is downright eerie.

Voices are another area where you can bring the reader closer to your story. In nearly every story I read, I assign a specific voice to each character, sometimes by the author telling me how someone speaks, sometimes with only the character’s description.

I have a friend who suffers from MS and as a result she can’t read a book very long before her mind gets tired. So she listens to audio books. When we dated, I’d spend hours reading aloud to her. She ended up with someone else, but since then, when I discover a book I think she might like, I’ll record it for her. I’ve heard hundreds of audio books and I enjoy them so much more when the narrator uses a different voice for each character. One who reads in a monotone or with no emotion even in the action packed scenes tends to make a good story boring.

I’ve developed a standard set of voices for various types of characters when I read aloud. Unless I’m specifically told the person has a particular voice, I usually rely on past experience and descriptions. With exceptions, of course, see if you hear the same voices.

Attorneys, especially the adversarial ones usually have an aristocratic tone.

Techno geeks and some doctors are nasally.

Military colonels and general will speak in a bass or gravelly voice.

The beat cop or veteran detective talks out of the side of his mouth while their captains are gruff speakers.

Preachers are charismatic with maybe a touch of southern. On the other hand, priests are quiet and subdued.

Unless specifically mentioned, I usually put a little high pitched waver to elderly voices.

Women are of course done in a higher voice except when you have a Lauren Bacall type character. Breathy, perky, whiny, nasally, domineering, seductive, grating…the voice depends on the character.

Accents are fun, too. Does the Irishman have a Dublin or north country accent? Is the British speaking in a London or rural twang? Cockney or House of Lords? Is the Mexican high pitched or raspy? Is the black person speaking in a deep, formal, commanding voice (think James Earl Jones), sassy street slang (think Martin Lawrence or Eddie Murphy), or very distinctive (everybody recognizes Morgan Freeman)? Is the businessman from Mississippi, Alabama, or is he a boisterous Texan with a hat too big to fit inside his pickup truck? Is the Russian a weary ex-KGB officer or his sexy partner (a’la James Bond movies)?

The point is to make the reader mentally hear the sounds and the voices by giving them life and distinction. How many books have you read where everybody sounds the same, where you don’t here any “grinding metal gates, nerve shattering creaking doors, Armageddon like eruptions, droning insects like miniature model airplanes?” They’re not very exciting, are they?

Give your readers some sound. Their ears will thank you.

Stephen describes himself as a reader, writer, and instructor. He's also a fifth degree black belt in Taekwondo among many other things. For more about Stephen, visit his website at www.stephenbrayton.com or find him on Facebook.

 

 

Berkom, Cody, Diener--Three voices, Three descriptions

This time I've asked three very good authors to share descriptive passages: D.V. Berkom, Sandra Carey Cody, and Michelle Diener. I wanted three different styles and voices. See how they wove characters and action into their description.

D.V. Berkom

D.V. Berkom grew up in the Midwest, received her BA in Political Science from the University of Minnesota, and promptly moved to Mexico to live on a sailboat. Several years and at least a dozen moves later, she now resides outside of Seattle, Washington with her sweetheart Mark, an ex-chef-turned-contractor, and writes the Kate Jones Adventure Series.

In this excerpt from my latest novella, Touring for Death, which takes place in the Arizona high country, my protagonist, Kate Jones has just escaped from a collapsed mine and the man who is trying to kill her. Exhausted, barefoot and alone, it's the middle of the night and she's on an isolated forest service road, trying to make her way back to town and help. Headlights appear on the horizon…

Excerpt:

The vehicle slowed and pulled to a stop a few feet away. I squinted against the glare of the headlights, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. I figured folks in these parts didn't take kindly to being approached by strangers.

"Need a ride?" The voice was like a chain saw sliding over wet gravel.

I nodded.

"C'mon then, git in. I ain't got all night."

I moved to the side of the car and opened the door. An empty can of Rolling Rock bounced onto the road. Leaving it, I climbed in, glancing at the old man behind the wheel as I closed the door against the harsh night. I leaned my head back, thankful to be somewhere warm, with someone other than Sterling.

"Thanks for the ride." A spring poked through the seat. I shifted, trying to get comfortable and took a long look at my rescuer.

His bushy gray hair and beard looked like he hadn't run a comb through them in years. His pants were caked with dirt, and he wore several layers of ancient, long-sleeved flannel shirts. A khaki-colored field vest with every pocket bulging completed the outfit. He smelled like Sunday night at a polka festival; boiled sausage, sauerkraut and beer.  A worn leather cowboy hat took up prime real estate on the front seat.

"What're you doing way out here? Ain't nothing but coyotes and crazy old men." He chuckled, setting off a round of explosive coughing. He hammered on the dash like the phlegm was in the car instead of his lungs.

"Dinner date gone bad. How far am I from Durm?"

Sandra Carey Cody

In Left at Oz, Jennifer Connors's car is stolen while she's shopping at a country flea market. She receives an anonymous message that the car was "left at Oz". She follows instructions given in the message and finds the car - with the body of Robin Langley, a sometime babysitter for her children, in it.  After the initial shock passes, Jennie doubts that this was a random act. Only someone close to her would know that, as a child, she had been obsessed with Frank L. Baum's Oz books. She borrows a car, drives as far as she can, then retraces the path that led to the discovery of the body.

Excerpt:

            A crow on a low-hanging branch screeched a warning.  She ignored him and once again proceeded down the weedy gravel track on foot. The car was gone now.  The space where it had been was marked with yellow plastic ribbon.  Heavy black letters proclaimed “CRIME SCENE - KEEP OUT” interminably along its sagging length.  She hesitated only a few seconds before ducking under the tape and going directly to the area where the car had stood. 

            From there, she saw that old road continued into the meadow and disappeared behind a barn that looked ready to collapse.  The delapidated building stood on the crest of a small knoll, making it impossible to see how much further the road extended or where it went. Grass and weeds stood semi-upright between narrow tracks leading from where the car had been to an area near the barn.  Something about this bothered her.  She studied the road in both directions, until, finally, it hit her:  The way the stalks are bent.  It looks like they drove in from the other side.  She remembered the stiff, unbroken weeds scratching her bare legs as she walked toward the car two days ago and was convinced that's what had happened.  So they didn't pass by Oz.  But they knew about Oz and used it to draw me here.  The thought fed her growing conviction that the terrible event had been directed at her as well as Robin, and was almost enough to make her turn back.  She pushed it away, took a long, slow breath, and faced the crime scene.

            Inside the cordoned-off area, the vegetation was trampled, not quite uniformly.  The tire marks of Jennie's car were easily discernible.  Just beside them was a similar set of marks.   Maybe they drove the police van out here.  She considered this briefly, then shook her head.  The way the weeds are broken down . . . these tire marks were made by someone coming from the barn. 

Michelle Diener

This is a short excerpt from my historical suspense novel, In a Treacherous Court. My heroine, Susanna Horenbout, who has come to Henry VIII's court by invitation, to paint for the king, has some important information to pass on to him. She has waited for hours to gain a royal audience and is accompanied by one of Henry's courtiers, John Parker, who is one of the Henry's 'new men' – courtiers who were not of noble birth, but to whom Henry gave powerful positions, because of their loyalty and efficiency. Henry wanted to curb the power of his nobles and fostered a meritocracy to some extent, using men like Parker for jobs that required real action and dedication instead of noblemen who were appointed because of their connection to court, rather than any real skill. I don't say all that, though, I try to show it by showing the very real tension between many noble courtiers and the new men Henry relied on. The noblemen were very threatened by these courtiers who worked so hard and earned the King's approval and patronage through their usefulness. I tried to show how, without openly snubbing Parker in front of Henry, the noblemen try to hamper him in any way they can. I also used the scene to show how much Susanna sees everything in terms of her art – I always like to make my scenes work very hard :). My inspiration for this particular scene comes from a genuine charcoal sketch of Henry which art historians have not been able to attribute to anyone. It depicts the exact scene described below, of Henry eating his lunch at a table set for one, with his courtiers milling about behind and to the side of him, in a high-ceilinged privy chamber with tall windows. My inference is obviously that Susanna Horenbout is the artist in question, although I have no evidence of that at all, but it would be fun if it were true.

Excerpt:

She and Parker had waited for the King through 13 dishes, each dish served with the ceremony of a state occasion, but it seemed the meal was at last at an end.

The King rose from the elevated, canopied table set for one, and Susanna noted the conversations of the courtiers who stood on either side and behind him changed in tone.

Their voices faded, and Susanna was struck by the tableau they made, the dark colours of their robes strangely lit by the pale, rain-muted light from the tall windows. The King, by contrast, shone brighter than a fresh-drawn illumination in his scarlet and gold.

Susanna looked down at the charcoal drawing of the scene she’d made to spin out the time, and wished for her paints.

Henry did not approach them. He looked directly at Parker and nodded, then turned and walked through the courtiers to the door leading to his closet.

Moses could not have parted the Red Sea more efficiently than the King of England parted the crowd in the room as he made his way across it.

Parker stood, his frown lifting, and Susanna rose with him. He took her elbow and made to follow in the King’s wake.

But the Red Sea was merging again, determined to see nothing special about Moses’ follower. A wave of bodies crashed back into place, set on being merry, loud, and unseeing

Susanna looked up at Parker, and was surprised to see his mouth twitch in amusement.

A Brief Description

This is an excerpt from Cold Comfort, my new romantic suspense, coming sometime this winter. I was trying to avoid a postcard description and tie it to what was happening in the story. Riley, the main man, is checking out Claire's shop as a favor to a friend. Claire, of course, is the heroine.

I don't know if I accomplished what I wanted, to give the flavor and picture of the shop with a little bit of Riley, but here it is. How do you picture the store? Does it work for you? Is it too much? How about Riley's attitude?

He squeezed the Bronco into a parking space, locked it, and strolled across to the shop. Through the window, he saw hundreds of tiny white lights peeking through the greenery festooned from the ceiling. The warm glow of a village peopled with moving figures showed between the branches of a fir tree, and a little skater twirled on a glass lake. He could see why the kids were fascinated. The scene came straight from a fairy tale. Magic. Geez. Just his kind of case. He'd go in, take a quick look, and get out. For Ray, he'd check out the situation, but he wasn't committing to anything.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. The old nursery rhyme came back to him as he entered the shop and inhaled the tang of fresh evergreens mingled with...cinnamon? It could have been worse—at least some of the trees were real. He sniffed again. Apple cider? Drawn by the scent, he followed his nose.

Next Friday I'll post short excerpts from three other authors.