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.”
