A blog for writers who kill their enemies and their darlings. A place to gather and discuss the how, why, and when. A safe neutral location to discuss your killing tendencies without judgement or fear.
Why do you kill? If you’re discussing the real world, this
question is somewhat disturbing, but there are reasons – money, power, love,
revenge, or maybe even for pleasure. The usual suspects. But, why do you kill
as a writer? This might also be disturbing, but it is typically for one reason
– it is part of the story. Every
character I killed I killed for the purpose of telling the story, a story of
the journey into madness.
Imagine you were pursued by an enemy. Imagine, also, you didn’t
even know who this enemy was or why they were after you, but people around you
were being killed. This is the basic scenario of That Which Maddens and Torments. Josephine Black is a young
newspaper journalist when things around her begin to go bad. People she knows
and loves are being killed. Eventually, she slowly starts to follow the path of
Captain Ahab. Armed with the single-mindedness of insanity, she tracks down her
tormenters and goes after them.
All told, eight people are killed during her journey. Some
of them were, quite frankly, a lot of fun. Others, not so much. One character
in particular was placed in the story explicitly to be killed. By the time I
did, I found myself liking her so much I thought about changing the story to
spare her, but decided against it. A couple of other murders were the very
basis of the story. I wrote the ending first and worked everything else to get
to that point.
Was I living out a dark fantasy? No. That doesn’t mean I
can’t enjoy seeing bad guys get what they deserve. Unfortunately, part of being
a bad guy means they did something bad to someone who isn’t. That means you
have to write that part, too. But, that’s okay. Nothing gets the reader more
involved than having something bad happen to someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Besides, it’s not real and you’re doing it all in fun.
With the encouragement of her uncle, a retired professor of geophysics,
Josephine Black, a recent college graduate, begins reporting on the issue of
climate change for a major New York
City newspaper. She quickly discovers that she has a
passion for the subject and a talent for investigative journalism.
It’s not long before Jo’s hard-hitting articles are being noticed. However,
leaders within the powerful fossil fuel industry don’t like what they are
reading. They believe that the information in Jo’s articles could threaten
their profits eventually, and they are also concerned that Jo will uncover a
scientific report written by a friend of her uncle’s that proves the truth
about global warming. The industry’s leaders are ruthless and are willing to
stop at nothing to silence Jo and protect their profits.
Soon, Jo finds herself caught up in a very dangerous high stakes “cat and
mouse game” related to the climate change debate. A game that combines politics
and policy brokering at the highest levels of government with criminality.
However, Jo is determined to outwit her ruthless enemies no matter what it
Full of twists and turns, That Which Maddens and Torments is an
entertaining, page-turning read. However, it also provides readers with
insights into the debate surrounding the issue of global warming and helps to
explain the motivation behind many of the global warming skeptics or deniers we
read about or see on TV.
For More Information
That Which Maddens and
Torments is available at Amazon.
Discuss this book at PUYB
Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
They hadn’t hurt him. In fact, they had treated him quite
well. That didn’t really change things, though. They were waiting for him in
the apartment when he arrived and forced him to sit at the table. One of them
sat with him while the other searched the apartment.
“Are you comfortable, Dr. Chriswald? Can I get you something
to drink? Maybe something to eat?”
The old man shook his head.
“Why are you still in my apartment? I answered all of your
questions. I don’t know anything about this report you keep asking me about.”
“Please, professor. Don’t lie to me. We know that you had
the report. Just give it to us or tell us where we can find it and we’ll leave.
No one is going to hurt you, but I must know where to find that report. You’re
an old man and it wouldn’t take me long to force it out of you, but I don’t
want to do that. Tell me what I want to know and we’ll be on our way.”
He was an intimidating figure. He wasn’t large or muscular,
but there was a look about him that made you think this was someone to avoid,
someone that would make you cross the street so you didn’t have to walk by him.
He was sitting at the table with professor when his
accomplice came in.
“I can’t find anything. It’s not here.”
The professor’s questioner looked at him and said, “We’re
going to have to do this the hard way. You are not going to like this. But,
don’t worry; you’ll give in quickly enough.”
He was surprised at how fast the old professor could move
and was caught off guard. Before he could do anything Chriswald jumped up from
his chair was racing across the room - not towards the locked door, but to the
window behind him. Without uttering a sound he went head first through the
The second man started to run after him before the first man
“No! Someone might see you. Its five stories to the
sidewalk. He’s done.”
“Oh, man! This place is going to be crawling with people. We
need to get out of here.”
Seth Kern agreed. He could already hear the screams outside.
“Did you leave any evidence?”
“No. I was careful.”
Kern calmly nodded his head, “Good. Did he have some kind of
list of contacts? He knew he would be forced to talk and he was willing to die
instead. That means he had some secret he didn’t want to tell us. My guess is
he did something with the report. He might have sent it to someone he knows for
“Yeah, I saw an address book. I’ll get it.”
They took the address book and quickly let themselves out,
leaving the building before anyone had a chance to see them. The clamor out
front helped cover their escape. People were looking to see what the fuss was
all about and weren’t in the hallway.
Once clear of the building Conrad Holiday asked, “Did you
mean it? Were you going to just let him go?”
“Sure. I wasn’t paid to kill him, just to recover the
report, and a dead body always results in an investigation. Besides, what was he
going to do? Tell people about the report? Even if he did talk, people would
have ignored him. It would have been just another crazy conspiracy theory with
no proof or evidence. No, he wasn’t a threat to us.”
He wasn’t concerned about the dead professor. They had been
careful breaking in and had made sure to not leave any evidence of their
presence as they searched the apartment. He had no idea what kind of
explanation the police would come up with, but he was sure it wouldn’t involve
the two of them.
He was more concerned with what to tell his client. The
professor was dead and the only lead they had was an address book. But, he had
been in bad situations before and he would explain it somehow. Besides, he knew
his client wanted that report too badly. He would let some things slide, as
long as Kern was making progress.
“I wonder. If he had the report, why didn’t he take it to
Holiday shrugged his
shoulders. “Maybe he was trying some blackmail?”
Kern shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything like that.
Besides, the people involved would have just paid and moved on. It would be
pocket change to them. No, I have a feeling there is more to this than we know
With a sigh he pulled out the address book and began looking
“Hopefully, one of these people knows something,” he
Chris Keating had his first story published when he was just seven years old
and in second grade. He has been writing both fiction and nonfiction ever
He wrote his first book, Dialogues on 2012: Why the World Will Not End,
while he was a professor of physics at the U.SNavalAcademy. He was inspired to write it
because of continually being questioned on all walks of life about the myth the
world was going to end on December
21, 2012 according to the Mayan calendar.
After the world didn’t end, Chris decided to tackle the controversial topic
of climate change by writing Undeniable! Dialogues on Global Warming,
which was published in 2014. He also began the online Global Warming Skeptic
Challenge, offering $10,000 to the first person who could prove the fallacy of
global warming. His challenge quickly went viral and Chris spent his entire
summer that year responding to submissions. He later published a compilation of
the submissions and his responses, which can be purchased at Amazon.com or
downloaded as a free PDF at ChrisKeatingAuthor.com.
Chris also writes the blog, Dialogues on Global
Warming, which is devoted to climate change issues.
Chris most recent book is the thriller, That Which Maddens and Torments. It
pits an ambitious, hard-hitting young newspaper journalist writing about global
warming against villainous denier lobbyists in Washington, D.C.,
who are working for the fossil fuel industry. At the behest of their clients,
the lobbyists will stop at nothing to protect the industry’s profits and to
ensure that a scientific study proving the truth of global warming does not
become public. Chris hopes that by tackling the issue of global warming via a
work of fiction, he will engage a broader cross section of people in the issue.
successful careers as an Intelligence Officer in the U.S. Navy and the Navy
Reserve and then as a professor of physics, Chris now lives in the Texas Hill
Country, where he continues to focus on climate change research and to write.
Attack is a
collection of short stories, flash fiction, and poetry with over thirty
individual pieces. Starting with zombies and ending with a flesh eater. There
is horror, romance, murder, and mystery, a little for every reader.
Can a survivalist survive a zombie
Can an angel in training beat the
Would you voluntarily jump into the
fires of hell?
Is murder ever forgivable?
Will love finally triumph over death!
On Halloween night, a sexy witch gets
more than she
Attack is a fun romp through all things forbidden, love with a touch of horror,
and all those things that scare us!
Today I welcome author, Martina McAtee, for a guest post and to discuss her latest release
Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things!
Take it away Martina!
Killing My Darlings
it. I like killing people. In fact, people have told me I may be a little bit
of a psychopath. I can’t help it though. As a writer, there is something deeply
satisfying when you turn your audience into a sobbing mess with a perfectly
timed character death. Does that make me a sadist? A narcissist? Maybe a bit of
don’t think a writer should pick off their beloved characters one by one-I’m
looking at you George R.R. Martin-I do think using a well-timed, well-written
death can increase the tension and put your audience on the knife’s edge. Once
they know you’re crazy enough to kill off a character they love, they get just
a little bit nervous. I admit, this is a gamble. If you do it wrong, your
audience will never trust you again. But if you do it right…it can be amazing.
that I’ve given you my motive, let me tell you about my weapons of choice. My
books take place in a supernatural world where wolves, demons, zombies and any
other number of creatures roam free with little adult supervision. Really, when
it comes to danger, any number of things could kill them at any moment. Perhaps
that is why I prefer to use such simple ways of killing and torturing my
characters? I find it a bit like being doused with ice water when a
supernatural creature somehow becomes victim to a car accident or a bullet. It
makes your audience remember that supernatural doesn’t always mean invincible.
Or it makes them hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. It could go either
your character is invincible, they aren’t immune to torture and no matter how
many supernatural ways there are to make your characters miserable, I find that
when it comes to tormenting your characters psychological torture is still the
most effective way of breaking them. If that doesn’t work might I suggest the
four elements; earth (burying them alive), air (suffocation) fire (the
possibilities are limitless, really) or water (drowning). It doesn’t really
matter whether your character is human or super-human, those five go to torture
devices never fail.
love murder and mayhem, tread lightly. If you kill off a character but don’t
give your audience-especially a teen audience-an ending that leaves them satisfied
but wanting more, it will more than likely be your writing career that is
17 year old
Ember Denning has made an art of isolating herself. She prefers the dead. She
spends her days skipping school in old cemeteries and her nights hiding from
her alcoholic father at the funeral home where she works. When her own father
dies, Ember learns her whole life is a lie. Standing in the cemetery that’s been
her sanctuary, she’s threatened by the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen and
rescued by two people who claim to be her family. They say she’s special, that
she has a supernatural gift like them…they just don’t know exactly what it is.
They take her to a small Florida town, where Ember’s life takes a
turn for the weird. She’s living with her reaper cousins, an orphaned werewolf
pack, a faery and a human genius. Ember’s powers are growing stronger, morphing
into something bigger than anything anybody anticipated. Ember has questions
but nobody has answers. Nobody knows what she is. They only know her mysterious
magical gift is trying to kill them and that beautiful dangerous boy from the
cemetery may be the only thing standing between her and death.
As Ember’s talents are revealed so are the
secrets her father hid and those in power who would seek to destroy her. What’s
worse, saving Ember has put her cousins in danger and turned her friend’s lives
upside down. Ember must learn to embrace her magic or risk losing the family
she’s pieced together.
For More Information
Children Shouldn’t Play
With Dead Things is available at Amazon.
Discuss this book at PUYB
Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
About the Author
lives in Jupiter, Florida
with her teenage daughter, her best friend, two attack Chihuahua’s and two shady looking cats. By
day she is a registered nurse but by night she writes young adult books about
reapers, zombies, werewolves and other supernatural creatures. When she isn’t
working, teaching or writing she's reading or watching shows that involve
reapers, zombies, werewolves and other supernatural creatures. Her debut novel Children
Shouldn't Play with Dead Things is set to release on August 31st, 2015. She is
currently working on the second book in the series, Your Soul to Take,
due to release in 2016.
She went lightheaded as the enormity of her words hit her,
“Oh, God. This is like the part in the movie where you try to kill me, right?
You are going to try to kill me and I feel too crappy to even try to run.”
She was talking more to herself now. She leaned back against
the rusted mausoleum gates behind her, enjoying the cool metal against her
skin. Her head was swimming, the stars above blurring in the sky. No, not now,
she thought. It was happening again. Whatever had happened earlier in the
cemetery was happening again. She could feel it rising up in her, that weird
feeling like her insides were melting and liquefying while she could do nothing
to stop it. Was this a panic attack? Could a panic attack cause what happened
in the cemetery earlier? Maybe this was some kind of fight or flight adrenaline
She felt caged, trapped by her own body. It was all in her
head. The ground wasn’t vibrating at her feet. There was no way she was really
burning up in forty-degree weather. Even in her haze she could see him watching
her. Maybe if she just held still, he would be quick about it.
Her head lulled on her shoulders. She was going to pass out.
It would serve him right. Then he was just there, in her space, fingers cupping
her face. She moaned at the feel of his cold hands against her overheated
flesh. “And if it is, Luv? If this is the part where I try to kill you? What
then? Are you going to pass out and take all the fun out of it? Or will you
There was no mistaking the threat of his words, but he was
close enough to whisper them against her skin like a promise. She couldn’t
think straight. Her head filled with a sound like angry bees. She pitched
forward, dropping her forehead to his shoulder, eyes drifting closed.
He was so cold; even through the layers of his clothes; his
body seemed to emit this pleasant icy radiance that soothed her feverish skin.
She wrapped herself around him, locking her arms. She buried her face against
his throat, nose rubbing against his skin.
She felt his body go rigid in her arms. She didn’t blame
him, on some level she understood sane girls didn’t try to cuddle their
killers. But nobody ever accused her of being sane. She was the girl who played
in cemeteries and talked to the dead. She was the girl with three therapists
before she was twelve. She was the girl in flames and he was ice water; if she
was going to die, she was going to have this first.
They stood there, bound together by her forced embrace.
Those strange vibrations increased, building inside her like a living thing, a
burning energy trying to melt her from the inside out. She could hear his
ragged breath panting against her ear, could feel him writhing in her grasp,
but she refused to let go. Could he feel it too?
She clung to him, knowing if she let go this peculiar energy
would overwhelm her. She breathed him in, letting him anchor her as it kept
building and burning, growing until it thrust from her with the force of a
sledgehammer. He groaned like he’d received the physical blow, he may have
fallen had she not been holding him to her. Finally, the world seemed to right
itself. Her blood ceased to boil and the vibrations stopped. When her mind
quieted, she became very aware of what she was doing.
She let go, shoving him back. Despite his size, he stumbled,
blinking hard. They stared at each other, his confusion mirroring her own.
“What are you?” she whispered.
“What are you doing to me?”
He rushed her, shoving her against the concrete hard enough
to knock her teeth together, “What did I do to you? What game are you playing?
What are you? What was that? What did you do?”
She whimpered, feet scrambling for purchase as she realized
he’d lifted her from the ground. Her heart thundered in her chest. He was fit
but not big enough to haul her off her feet like that. She shoved at him
uselessly. “Put me down.”
Her descent was abrupt, her heart lodging in her throat. His
eyes narrowed, his hands tangling in her messy hair, tilting her head to the
side. “Come on, Luv, you can tell me. I’m sure it’s eating at you, keeping this
He was insane. She opened her mouth to say so but her brain
short-circuited as his nose traced along the column of her throat. “I promise,
things will be so much easier if you just tell me,” he purred, his lips
pressing the words into her skin. She moved closer to him. In her defense,
she’d never been this close to a boy before; especially not one who looked like
“We can do this one of two ways,” He inhaled her scent,
pressing his mouth to the shell of her ear as he said, “I promise one is
infinitely more pleasurable than the other,”
Ew. Oh, God. What was she doing? What was he doing? Seducing
her for information? Threatening her? It really bothered her that she didn’t
know the difference.
She needed to get it together. Her breath hitched in her
chest. This was not how she saw herself dying. She’d had a plan. She’d written
it down obituary style for a morbid ninth grade English assignment. She was
supposed to die of obscenely old age in her enormous but tastefully decorated
plantation home surrounded by her beautiful and ungrateful grandchildren.
He huffed out a laugh and she realized she’d said all that
aloud. She was too scared to be embarrassed. Instead, she slapped at his hands
He stepped away so abruptly she staggered, pacing before
her, “You’re seriously not going to tell me? You’re only hurting yourself on
“I don’t know what
you are talking about,” she told him, “You’re crazy.”
He sighed heavily, his tone shifting as if speaking to a
rather stupid child, “I’ll figure it out eventually.” He told her, pointing at
her, “You don’t smell like a witch. You certainly aren’t a shifter.” Then he
was back before her, gripping her chin, turning her head side to side, like he
was examining livestock, “But you most definitely aren’t human.” Tiny hairs
rose along her skin at his touch,
“You’re trying my patience. What the hell are
She pushed away from him, head throbbing with his words.
“Stop with the grabby hands,”
She needed to think. He was clearly unhinged. She had very
few options. She could run but she doubted she could outrun him. Her gaze raked
across broad shoulders and a flat stomach, he looked like he did a lot of
cardio. She could scream but there wasn’t anybody to hear her. Instead, she did
what she always did when she was nervous…she babbled.
She’d watched a million documentaries on serial killers and
the mentally ill. She could figure this out. Netflix was her friend. She
wracked her brain, if he was a killer she had to make him see her as a person,
tell him about her life, say her name a lot, make him believe people cared if
she died, even if it was a lie.
But what if he was schizophrenic? He thought she wasn’t
human. What was she supposed to do? Orient him to reality? Play along with his
fantasy? She should have paid more attention.
“What’s your name?” she heard herself say, voice breathless.
He arched his brow, tsking softly, expression bored. “I’m
asking the questions here,”
“Just tell me your name,” she demanded, panic creeping back
“Mace,” the answer tumbled from his lips unbidden. He looked
mystified, like his own mouth had betrayed him. He absently rubbed a spot on
“Mace,” she repeated, with a nod. Okay, it was a start. “So
um, here’s the thing, Mace. I’m only seventeen and I don’t want to die.”
He gave her a look and a ‘fair enough’ shrug and gestured
for her to continue, clearly amused by this turn of events.
She frowned, but soldiered on, “You can’t be much older than
me so let’s just think about this for a minute, okay?” She raked a hand through
her damp hair, “I’m not really sure why you want to kill me but my life has
pretty much sucked up until now. Like so much suckage. I can’t even explain the
level of suck, but I feel like, statistically speaking, that’s gotta change.
I’m not trying to sound like a motivational poster but it’s supposed to get
better. I’d very much like to have a pulse when it does,”
He narrowed his eyes at her, brow furrowed. He stepped
“Stop,” she held up her hand, palm out, “Just listen,”
He stopped, looking at his feet then at her again.
“I’m a nice girl,” she told him, before frowning, “but maybe
you don’t care about that. I mean, if you’re, like, a murderous psychopath, you
probably aren’t super interested in my feelings, but what about yourself?” She
reasoned, gesturing spastically to all of his…self, “You seem like the kind of
guy who thinks a lot of himself.”
He cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. She was in turbo
babble mode now, “If you kill me your life is over. You will definitely go to
jail. I mean, look at me.” She gestured to her face, “I look like an ad for
facial cleanser and girls who eat yogurt. Juries eat that stuff up. You’d
probably get the chair.”
He looked a little dazed. “You make a passionate yet
confusing plea, Luv,”
Her heart sank as he took a tentative step towards her, then
another. He grinned as he advanced.
“Come on. I’m sure you don’t want to go to prison.” She
whined, “You are way too pretty for prison. You’d make a lot of the wrong kind
of friends in prison.” Stop saying prison, Ember, she begged herself. “Do you
want those kind of friends? Of course, you don’t. We could be friends?” she
finished lamely, face flushing with shame. Maybe he should just kill her. It
would be less embarrassing.
He blinked at her, cheek twitching, “Aw, are you asking me
to be your friend? One might question your judgment.”
Her hands fell to her hips, swaying on her feet. “Wow, not
to put too fine a point on it, but I’ve only seen you twice and both times you
were here,” she gestured to their surroundings. “You hang out in cemeteries
because you have so many friends? Is this were your book club meets?”
“I can see why you have no friends,” he told her drolly.
She squinted as something glinted in the air above his head.
“I-” was all he managed before the object made contact with
his head, sounding like a hammer hitting an overripe melon. He hit his knees
with a groan, whatever he was going to say dying on his lips.
She looked at his crumpled form, unreasonably disappointed.
She’d really wanted to know what he was going to say.
Martina will be giving away a sugar skull coffee mug with
Day of the Dead tea and sugar skull shaped sugar cubes! Enter below!
Home from their trip to Paris, Sheila's mom, Darla, was still mourning. She couldn't
move back into the house where her husband had died. She put it on the market.
Sheila suggested she buy a penthouse, but
Darla claimed there were too many memories.
Darla had decided to move to Florida. Sheila argued
that she wasn't ready for retirement; she was still
in her twenties. Her mother told her it was time to cut the umbilical
cord. Sheila needed get on with her life. Darla promised to buy Sheila her own
condominium, but not a penthouse.
Sheila, stinging from her mother's rejection,
took a walk in Central Park. Hurting, sad, and trying to figure out her next
step she came across a young man. His bike had a flat, and he was bemoaning his
luck when she passed him.
She didn't know why, but she picked up a
large rock, just off the path and hit him in the back of the head. He went
down. She lifted his head and placed the
rock under it. Then she dropped his head with a thud, bone crunched, and blood
sprayed. Sheila took a tissue from her pocket and cleaned the mess off her legs
and shoes. She wadded the bloody tissue in a ball and threw it into the bushes.
Before returning to her mother's temporary
home, the Hilton Hotel, she bought pizza for dinner and ice cream for dessert.
Sheila was having a hard time coping. Her
boyfriend and her best friend were dead. She'd just lost her job due to budget
cuts and now she lived at home with her mother and stepfather, a man she hated.
He never had a kind thing to say. What her mother saw in the bloated,
overconfident blowhard she didn't know and honestly didn't care.
One night she overheard a discussion and she was the subject.
"Why don't we help set her up in her own
apartment?" George asked.
"No, not yet. She's still too fragile.
She just lost the love of her life, and before that her closest friend. She
needs family George, at least until we get back from Australia."
Sheila was pleased. Her mother wouldn't be
bullied, and while she hated living in a house with two oversexed middle-aged
roommates, she wasn't ready to leave, yet.
"I don't know Darla, but it's been a year,
she needs to bite the bullet and make a life for herself."
"Please Georgie, just a few more months.
She and I have never been closer. Pretty please, I'll do that special thing you
Her mother came to her rescue, as always, and
Sheila had to admit she did love their weekly shopping and spa excursions. Shopping therapy her mother called
it, besides, George was loaded. After Sheila had moved in, he'd paid off her car loan and all her credit cards. She
was debt free. Still, she couldn't stand the man.
George's money was all Sheila's mom talked
about, that and the next vacation they were planning. Sheila's
eavesdropping paid off. She heard her mother ask about the new will, had George made the changes he'd promised. Sheila moved closer to hear the answer.
"Of course, Darla, just as agreed. A
sizable sum for each kid upon my passing, but for you, all the rest. Now come
on over here and give me some sugar, you know what Daddy likes."
Darla giggled and Sheila almost gagged at the
sounds she heard coming from her parents.
Several months later, just weeks before their
trip to Australia, George had a heart attack. They cancelled the trip and
Sheila became nursemaid to a very cranky man. Darla took over the management of
George's holdings, restaurants, bowling alleys, and movie theaters and relied
on her daughter to keep George happy at home. Sheila hated the job, but
pretended otherwise, and waited on George as a doting daughter should.
Just one week after George got home from the
hospital, he was dead.
"Myocardial Infarction, not
unusual," the coroner said, "even after a mild heart attack."
The statistics bore him out. No autopsy
Sheila was thrilled. But just in case, she'd
made sure all evidence of the foxglove she'd used to prepare George's tea with
had been cleared, cleaned, and burned. She cried at George's funeral, but later
she drank a champagne toast to her ingenuity.
Now $100,000 dollars richer, she took her
mother to Paris to cheer her up.
since Lydia's death and things hadn't
changed for Sheila. She was almost certain Carey was cheating again, but she had no real proof, just suspicion.
almost Christmas and she'd made up her mind to do something drastic if Carey
didn't propose over the holiday. She baked all his favorite cookies and pies,
saving one batch of snickerdoodles heavily spiced with nutmeg, in the freezer if that engagement
ring did not appear.
On Christmas day, Carey hadn't given her a ring. In fact, his gift, a new set
of pots and pans, made her angrier. She asked for the new Cuisinart's Pro Stainless Steel Set; instead, he'd gone to Kmart. Sheila
seethed but refused to show her displeasure. She had something else in mind,
and to achieve her goal, she gave Carey one last gift. Through one of his friends, she'd gotten him a package of blunts,
marijuana cigars. Something she knew he couldn't resist while on holiday from work. Carey had two full weeks off. Usually a conscientious guy, he'd partake of weed as
long as it didn't interfere with his job. He lit one up right away.
smiled. Several hours later, Carey was wasted and hungry. She made sure the
cupboards were almost bare, but she had Snickerdoodles, his favorite. She gave him a full plate, two dozen cookies, and a
glass of beer.
have to go to mom and dads for dinner, but you're too wasted, you show up like
that and dad'll kill you."
me a plate. Your mom makes the best garlic mashed potatoes. Honestly, I'm just
happy to veg but I might go to Tom's later. He has a new PlayStation
4." He told her without looking up from the football game he was watching.
He'd already consumed half a dozen Snickerdoodles. "Be careful. I don't
think it's a good idea for you drive high," she warned him but knew he'd do what he wanted.
eating dinner with her parents when she got the phone call. Carey had died in a
freak accident. Apparently, he'd tried to walk to Tom's house several blocks down the road. The driver, his best friend, had been on the way to pick him
because Carey had told him he was too wasted to drive. His friend, Tom, had told Carey to walk. He thought better of it and jumped in his car
to pick Carey up when he realized the roads were dangerous with ice, and the
night pitch black. He failed to see Carey in time and even though he'd hit the
brakes; his car slid head-on into his best
that right folks, nutmeg can kill. Want to know more just Google it.
I pulled the information for this
post from a Book of Poisons: A Guide for
Writers written by Serita Stevens and Ann Bannon.
What do you think? Is Sheila guilty of murder, or was Carey responsible?
Next Monday a new post will tell us whether or not Sheila has changed her
ways or if success has gone to her head.