I have now added the (overdue) previews of The Whisper Kids and Second Chances to the website.
Two free previews added
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Category Archives: Suspense/Thriller
THE WHISPER KIDS is finished.
My latest short story, THE WHISPER KIDS, is a short story about a clique of high school kids harboring a dark secret. Mark, a new transfer to Eastmont High, must unravel that secret lest it threaten his life or the lives of his friends. But things do not turn at all like he expects.
The free preview of this story will be added to the website this weekend.
The full version of the story will be sent out to frequent readers and is available to others upon request.
THE WHISPER KIDS completed first draft.
I have finished the first draft of my latest short story, called THE WHISPER KIDS.
It’s sent in high school from the perspective of your typical “new kid” who gradually learns that a secretive cabal made of only teenagers harbors a dark secret.
I’ll be sending it willing readers after a day or two of polish.
Free Short Story Preview: The bullet from a Glock 17C.
It took 0.0039 seconds for the bullet from a Glock 17C to travel from its firing chamber to David’s skull and silence the world. It took David three weeks to realize that the silence was not complete.
First he heard the Music. Sometimes it was a flute solo, echoing in vast imaginary distances. Sometimes it was an orchestra, complete with the warmth of strings, sharp brass, and a full choir in eight-part harmony. Sometimes it was electric guitar in sweeping arpeggios and triumphant melody. Regardless of the instrument or theme, the Music was always hopeful. Real or imagined, David could have listened forever.
But there were other sounds. At first they were faint, hidden behind the Music. Gradually, David was able to distinguish them.
He expected the beeping of a heart monitor, remembered from television. Instead, he heard many loud hums, layered in subtle discord. These were punctuated by clunks of doors closing, the rapid clatter of typing in the next room, the measured step of hospital staff. Though it was unintelligible at first, David began to comprehend the most welcome sound of all:
Dialog.
“David, can you hear me?”
Yes.
“David, I love you.”
I love you too, Becky.
“Please come back to us, okay?”
I’m trying. God help me, I’m trying.
And then Becky would leave, gone to work or home to return the next day and say much the same thing. He liked it better when she explained things.
“The doctor says we should wait and see. There’s no reason to think you won’t recover.”
But there’s no reason to think I will, is there?
“Your chances of recovery decrease the longer this lasts, so wake up soon. Please? David?”
David ached to answer. It was worst when she cried, because he couldn’t reassure her, couldn’t hug her. All she wanted was for him to sit up and speak. But he couldn’t. He had no sense of his body at all besides the things he could hear.
Sometimes even the Music turned sad.
Free preview: Second Chances, a short story for Halloween
Every Wednesday, I offer a free preview of a current project. The excerpt below is taken from Second Chances, a short story I am writing for Halloween. I am pleased with this project and I believe it represents a leap forward in the quality of my writing.
When the peddler jostled Brian, inflaming his broken arm, Brian wanted to hit him so hard that his rotting teeth skittered across the pavement. It was the man’s face which stopped him. Bloodshot eyes bulged beneath droopy lids, scant strands of colorless hair clung to his scalp. His thin smile was predatory. Brian would probably go to jail for decking this geezer. He stepped away, wincing.
The man snagged Brian’s good arm with a withered claw.
“Wanna buy some souls?” His breath misted in the cold.
“Let me go,” Brian growled, trying to escape the codger and rejoin the throng of downtown Chicago’s pedestrian traffic. The peddler clung fast, his eyes hungry. Continue reading
Sneak Peek: Second Chances
Second Chances
by
Jason R. Peters
First, Brian broke his right arm playing basketball. Then he was fired.
Not in so many words of course, but that’s what it amounted to anyway.
“I’m sorry, but we have to respect the wishes of our client.” That’s what Jennifer, from the temp agency, had said. Brian’s job was to load boxes from a warehouse onto delivery trucks, and a broken arm was no asset. It was, quite literally, adding insult to injury.
Of course, the agency promised to line up another job soon, but Brian had heard that before; he was not anxious to spin that roulette wheel again. Particularly with a broken arm.
The doctor had put him in a cast and seemed optimistic for a full recovery in six weeks. In the meanwhile, Brian had no income.
Because the injury hadn’t happened at work, he couldn’t claim worker’s compensation. And like many, Brian’s temp agency didn’t offer benefits, including short-term disability.
Brian wandered the streets of Chicago with his head down and his collar up, an ineffectual shield against the wind. Keeping your head lowered made it that much easier to avoid eye contact with panhandlers and street peddlers. There were fewer today than usual. It was a bitter cold October day, even for Chicago.
“Wanna buy some souls?”
One enterprising soul was out in spite of the weather, wrapped in multiple layer underneath a fashionable tan trench coat. He sported thin sunglasses, despite the overcast heavens and the late hour.
Caught off guard by the question, Brian stumbled to a halt.
“Do what?” he asked, eyebrows climbing.
“I said, ‘Do you wanna buy some souls?’” the man repeated patiently, emphasizing the last word with relished sibilance.
Brian thought of himself as part of the working class, a salt-of-the-earth guy, in touch with the common man. He’d worked with all races and colors and had picked up cusswords from half a dozen languages, but this pusher’s slang was completely foreign to him. Brian glanced around to see if anyone else understood, but all passersby made a wide circuit around them. Brian envied their distance.
“Look, whatever drugs you’re selling-” he began firmly, but he was cut off.
“Will you shut up with that?” the vender hissed, glancing nervously around. “Did I say drugs? No. I said souls. Mortal souls, brother, like the kind Jesus and the devil use to play chess.”
Though he was amused by the religious imagery, Brian was no closer to understanding. He started to edge away, but then the man said something which hit closer to home.
“Been down on your luck, brother?”
“What?” Brian said, suddenly conscious of his arm aching in the cold.
“What I’m selling is second chances. For example, you know, get your lady-friend back.” Though the peddler’s eyes were hidden beneath his sunglasses, Brian had the impression he winked. Now Brian was sure he was crazy.
“Yeah, my lady-friend is the one thing going for me right now,” he said confidently. “I don’t need whatever you’re selling.”
“Right, right, I forgot,” the man said with a disturbingly knowing smile. “Well, you go run along to her then. Just remember…you can find me here when you need me.”
Brian moved away as quickly as was possible without seeming outright rude, but the peddler’s grin only broadened.
Another submission underway
Since 2 out 3 who answered thought Woman’s Best Friend was good enough for immediate resubmission, I have now sent it on to the Intergalactic Medicine Show, an online magazine owned by Orson Scott Card (one of my three favorite writers).
I put a note on the calendar expecting a reply in three months.