My goal is to write a thousand words a day. I tried the Stephen King method (2,000 words a day) but needless to say it doesn't work for me. Everything ain't for everybody. But i do try to stick by his message "read alot and write alot" I'm on page 49 of my book, Blood Is Thicker Than Water and am excited to see what unfolds and what my readers will think of it. To give you a taste of what I've been working on, here's a preview.
Maize pulled up to the driveway, stepped out of the car and noticed that the door was cracked. He walked in. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The lights were off. Pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing. He turned on the lights and saw the thing he was most afraid of. My mother. Laying in a pool of her own blood. It had turned black and gooey. He looked at her pale face. Then at the rest of her. Not only was she murdered, but the bastard took it upon himself to mutilate her body. A big K was carved in her. He was horrified at the sight of it. He could only imagine what we were going through. Who would do something like this? He thought.
He noticed the gun next to her body. He glanced at it, picked it up. It looked like his gun but it wasn’t. Someone was out to frame him. But he didn’t know who just yet. Suddenly he turned around and saw us standing in front of him. The sound of police sirens interrupted him before he could say anything. They were coming closer. We looked at him. Saw the blood. Her face. The carving. We were in a state of shock. It was a horrible experience. No child should see what we saw. The kind of thing that could scar someone for life.
Maize was in cuffs. The house was surrounded by police officers. Dusting for fingerprints. Taking snapshots of her from all different angles. Observing the body. Questioning Isobel and I. We stared at her corpse. A single tear trickled down my cheek. One of the officers covered her with a sheet as if that would get the image out of our heads.
“Did you guys happen to see anything?” The rookie asked. He was fresh out of the academy and anxious to dip his toes in the proverbial pond.
I wasn’t talking. To anyone. Neither was Isobel. We had so many things consuming our thoughts, that we couldn’t keep them straight. We blocked him out.
“Did your mom have any enemies? Come on, help me help you.”
“Talk.” He said, frustrated, slapped me across my face.
“Talk.” He slapped me again.
“She’s been through enough.”
Suddenly the detective lifted up the police tape, walked in.
“What do we got?”
“Single black female. Early to late thirties. Shot to death. And the perp was thoughtful enough to send a message.”
He lifted up the sheet, examined the body. He was utterly disgusted. In all his years he spent investigating dead bodies, this was a definite first.
“We got a suspect in custody. Fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. He got motive and opportunity.”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“They were the only ones to see her before she died. They know something, but they’re not talking.” He gestured to us.
“Maybe they don’t like you.”
“Be my guest.”
He approached us, took a seat on the couch. He looked as if he knew what we were going through.
“My name is detective Forrester. I know this is tough on you. I considered your mother a friend. I want to put whoever did this behind bars. But I need your help.”