I had the 'fortunate' experience of staying in a 'wonderful' motel and it got my creative side on a strange tangent. At times I write short-shorts, novellas, novels, and poems. I am thinking of finding a site that I can post my writings to and have people pay to enter. This is the first chapter of my recent ramblings. What do you think - keep going or destroy? Thanks

________________________________________________________________________________________________


She sat on the edge of the bed, slouched back against the cold white wall. The flea bitten duvet cover was in a heap by the door. The threadbare sheet was covering her dirty toes.
Next to her
Next to her lay her choice.
Her decision.
Beside her the oxford dictionaries picture of abyss.
She picked up the syringe and nervously touched the silver foil.
A months honest wage for an easy painless escape to the other side. To another place.
The screaming in the adjacent room crescendo into a howl. The howl reverberated into the cacophony of chaos outside the tiny motel. The female listened as society bashed against the inner cubicles of the pay-by-hour motel. The dredges of the forgotten, the lost, the cliches of an over technological world droned on culling their own. She had paid for the night.
Enough time. Enough time to pass to something else.
Something better.
Something different.
She wrapped the thin rubber tourniquet around her arm and saw the spoon on the chipped particle board dresser. Groaning, she raised herself from the creaky mattress that was flat on the floor. No bed frame meant no place to hide a body. She wanted the bed frame for herself.
Reaching for the spoon and lighter, a crash startled her senses to the cool cinder block prison she had checked herself into. The white paint was flecking the gray beneath. It was like a petridish exploding from the inside out. A bang on the door made her drop the spoon. She looked to the foil and tequila. She saw the gun by the pillow and reached for it. She wanted to die, not be raped. A third clash on the hollow door jolted the brunette female into a defensive stance.
A faint voice sought her. Addled she threw the deadbolt and raised the 32 caliber. Opening the door slightly she peered forward into the mustard colored hallway. A fatless female with black circles around her sepia eyes shouldered the door the rest of the way open and thrust a wailing sickly babe into the room. The brunette held the gun firm with wide russet hued eyes. The other female placed the babe on the floor with an envelope. The brunette refused to budge. The other woman then turned and fled into the room across the stained hall trailing blood as she went. A virile male with black slanted eyes appeared in the door that the mother had fled to. He looked to the babe and humphed. Slamming the door, the screaming returned from the room. The clock of the building reset, droning onward with the sirens outside.

The brunette female, looked down at the shivering mocha hued boy and then to the foil under the pillow.

@gypsymonkey: You definitely are talented! If this is your dream and if writing makes you happy, you can figure out how to make it work in your life.

Good luck!

(heart)

You have a creative mind which is vital for novelist. Finish some pieces and research how you can find an agent.

Kudos. Another option is createspace.com [a division of Amazon]. I self-published a cookbook there. I try to hit 1 or 2 local talkradio shows each month to talk about it for 5-10 minutes...I've been averaging $700 or so a year in royalties.

I wish I had your drive, gypsy.

@James Bond 007.5 - Well? You're not gonna leave us hanging are you? What's the name of the book? Can I buy it on Amazon? Is it e-book only? Hardcover versions? Trade paperback? Autographed copies? What, what, what?

I love reading about your mystery shopping experiences. They crack me up.

Okay, I understand if you don't want to "advertise" your book here and risk being called a spammer, but can you at least PM the info?

Maybe he didn't write the book under an alias, but under his real name?

Maybe. I forget that some people don't want us to know their real names.

Like you?

Yes, I did write the book under my real name, not the alias I use here. It's a railroad dining car cookbook from the region of the country where I live.

Like me? I don't care who knows my real name. I've given enough information over the years that I've been here it would be easy to figure it out. In fact, in some of my posts, you can see my real name with one click. What is someone going to do with my name? Read about me online? Check out my Pinterest boards? MSCs knowing which shopper I am? Okay. I've got nothing to hide there and I'm not narcissistic enough to think anyone would want to stalk me.

The video MSCs just about all know who I am. Most of the other MSCs don't. If I were not writing for Mystery Shopper Magazine, I would be more likely not to care who knew my real name.

Traditionally most members have chosen to be anonymous. I've never considered them to be narcissists or trying to hide from anyone and don't judge them on their choice. In many cases it is the same reason people do not associate their social media accounts with mystery shopping.

Gypsy...thanks for the inspiration.

Remington Reese looked at the pictures of the wreck. The blue Porsche 914 that his twin brother and sister-in-law had been in was virtually unrecognizable. He looked at the sheriff. “How did it happen?”

“The way I figure it, Mr. Reese, is that your brother just took a corner on the Blue Ridge Parkway too fast, lost control, and ran off the road.”

Remington shook his head. “No. My brother was never that careless. He and his wife had just renewed their wedding vows and were heading to Lake Toxaway for a second honeymoon. He asked to use my car and I didn't have a problem with that. I have a collection of a dozen Porsche's and each is professionally maintained and road worthy.”

“What do you think happened?”

He knew, but couldn't say. Not to the sheriff. He had left the CIA five years earlier and moved to Maine to run a country inn and restaurant. “I don't know. Where do you have the wreck stored?”

“Our impound lot. We can release it anytime or scrap it for you.”

“John Anderson Restoration will be by to pick it up.. Probably take them three or four days to get here.”

Fred left the Buncombe County Sheriff's Office in Asheville, NC. Even though it was two in the morning, he wasn't tired. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. The night was pleasant, on the cool side but not unbearable. It was 470 miles to the CIA headquarters in Virginia. He lowered the convertible top on his 911. Traffic was light on the interstate. “What the hell,” he thought. I can make it to Langley in about five hours. In well under a minute he was cruising the interstate at 130mph.

@ James Bond that is a great excerpt. You write very well. I wonder what will come with the plot.

Thank you for the tip about the website. I am going to look into it. I have another story that is 90% complete and would love to get that in the mill first. It is more generic and not so Robert Frost meets Edgar Allan Poe not to mention that this one has me stumped on how to flesh out the bones I created.

So does anyone want the second chapter?

Please.

(heart)

since you asked nicely - lol - sorry here ya go. Please let me know what you think. - Thank you! Enjoy!!

The premature infant was in the way of closing the yellowing door. The brunette grabbed her cobalt fleece sweater off the edge of the makeshift bed and wrapped it around the confused babe. Gingerly the brunette walked to the far corner of the boxy room and slung her light purse onto her rounded left shoulder.
The sound of amplified pop rocks began echoing off the hollow hotel, punctuated by only splintering doors. Eight splintered crashes. Hers would be the twelfth. Caught like a deer in a hunting preserve, she stood bone chilled still. The crash happened. Slowly. With the boy clutched to her chest. Her russet hued eyes widening as recognition settled in.
Dull black helmet.
Sweaty black Kevlar jumper.
Second skin gloves cradling an M23.
Oak brown eyes wide with recognition.
“Nara?!” The onyx clad male breathed.
The brunette backed closer to the edge of the corner. She lifted the 32 shakily. “Victor,” she whispered in return, her voice catching on the word of her husband.
Victor raised the rifle and let off a series of shots. He did a military about face, squeezed the walky and gave the command to set the building ablaze. He threw his gaze behind his right square shoulder and glared at his ex-wife. He unzipped his Kevlar onesy and took a deep breath. Turning slightly, he placed an envelope on the ground. He clenched his jaw and trotted down the blood splattered hall.

It not a genre I would normally read and, quite frankly, Gypsy, you do such a convincing paint-us-a-picture narrative (sorry) that it sends shivers down my spine. I think that is a good thing?

(heart)



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 03/28/2015 10:29PM by stilllearning.