GUEST WRITER - B. R. STATEHAM

Question: How do you create a character who is as ice-cold as a cadaver when it comes to killing someone--yet one who actually posseses a conscience?

Or put it another way, in a sea of hit-men/assassin killer types found floating around face down in the dark waters called hardboiled, how do you create a character who is different. Different--unique--sympathetic.

A challenge. And that's putting it mildly. But one I wanted to try out one day on a kind of a spur-of-the-moment writing exercise. And . . . I'll be go to hell . . .what popped up on the screen was a guy named Smitty. Fully developed. Mean as back alley Wolverine with an aching tooth--with the black eyes of a pit viper who took in everything and anything in one glance. Reticent in speech--yet rather eloquent in his reticence.

One mean sonofabitch. That's Smitty. Yet . . .

Read the stories closely and you discover Smitty only takes out those justly deserving to be taken out. He's like the grim Angel of Death coming to collect his due among the miscreants and sadistic. And he does it spectacularly. Guns, poisons, explosives--even the front end of an F-150 Ford truck. It doesn't matter. When Smitty sets his eyes on you as his next prey--buddy, you're as good as dead.

Ah. But now, how to make him sympathetic? Make him someone from the dark side who you wind up willingly . . . or unwillingly . . . rooting for? Therein lies the McGuffin, as Alfred Hitchock used to say concerning his films. There's the catch that hooks the reader. And the answer is; I haven't a fraken' clue. It just happened.

One day Smitty was born in the back of my subconscious. He came out like some god of Greek mythology; sprung from the sea fully formed and magnificent to behold. But a god clearly hailing form the shadowy lands of Hades.

Take him for what he is, kid. The guy really does get under your skin and makes you want to read more about him.


BIO: B.R. Stateham is a fourteen year old boy trapped in a sixty-one year old body. His enthusiasm and boyish delight in anything mysterious and/or unknown continues.

Writing novels, especially detectives, is just the avenue of escape which keeps the author’s mind sharp and inquisitive. He’s published a ton of short stories in online magazines like Crooked, Darkest Before the Dawn, Abandoned Towers, Pulp Metal Magazine, Suspense Magazine, A Twist of Noir, Angie’s Diary, Power Burn Flash, and Eastern Standard Crime. He writes both detective/mysteries, as well as science-fiction and fantasy.

In 2008 the first book in the series featuring homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales came out, called Murderous Passions. A Taste of Old Revenge is the second book in the series. At the moment we’re in a searching pattern to find a publisher.

In 2009 he created a character named Smitty. In 2010 a collection of Smitty stories, and a two-novella set came out featuring this dark eyed killer.

Married to a long suffering wife for a quarter century, B.R. Stateham is the proud father of three and doting grandfather of five.

* * * * * * * * * *

Thanks so much, B.R. for sharing with us some of Smitty's secrets.

If you would like to learn more about Smitty and B.R.'s other creations, head on over to his blog. You will find terrific stuff over there, including information about writing crime/noir, some of his stories, links to his books, and much more.

Just so you don't miss out on anything, why don't you go ahead and sign on to follow his blog. A few clicks and you will always be in-the-know.

Make sure you don't keep Smitty and the rest of the gang waiting...

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 27: THE TRIAL OF JULIAN CARDEMOND

The theme this week was closing arguments, with a genre of courtroom drama. We had a themed word list as follows: Money, foolish, kneecap, trace and widow, and a word limit of 1,000, and could write from the perspective of the prosecution or the defense.

This was a real challenge for me since I’ve never approached a story from the courtroom side. I’m not sure where this came from, but the idea for this one interested me. Hopefully, you, the reader, will find it enjoyable.

THE TRIAL OF JULIAN CARDEMOND

“Members of the Council, I present to you the case of Julian Cardemond, who stands accused of treason.”

“Treason? Who have I betrayed? Why am I being painfully restrained? Why is this being done to me?” Julian stood and struggled against the ropes binding his hands and ankles.

Imperial Prosecutor, Phillipe Bertrand, placed a hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder, his long, sharp nails piercing the skin on Julian’s upper back.

“Sit and be silent,” he said angrily. “You will have a brief opportunity to address this Council in your own defense. You are being restrained to insure your--shall we say, cooperation. If you remain motionless, your pain will lessen. The rope has been soaked in vervain oil and as you have discovered, contact burns the skin. Disrupt these proceedings with your foolish outbursts again, and you will be injected with the extract. Am I clear?”

Julian slowly sat and nodded. What was suddenly crystal clear to him was that he was in a fight for his life.

“Members of the Council, my apologies for the interruption,” Phillippe continued.

Julian hadn’t believed it would be possible, but when Phillippe glared at him, he thought he actually felt a chill run through him.

“The Prosecution affirms that two nights ago, specifically on Friday, the 17th of September, the Defendant did willfully, and without trace of remorse, murder the Widow Fontaine, one of our Protected.

For this Council’s edification, Mrs. Fontaine had been first encountered during her incapacitation due to a shattered kneecap resulting from a fall. During a visit by several of our elders, she expressed great interest in providing assistance to our community by way of donating money for the purchase of clothing and other items necessary for our survival in this area. In exchange for her life, she agreed to maintain our anonymity and thereafter became our ward.

Her desecrated form was crudely displayed in her atrium. The kill was unnecessarily brutal and enacted without first obtaining permission from our elders. Thusly, the Prosecution pleads for a judgment of guilty and a sentence of death, to be carried out immediately.”

“Death?” Julian jumped to his feet, the pain in his hands and feet unbearable. “I didn’t know to ask,” he gasped. “I awoke early and was so hungry. I didn’t know there were protected ones. I didn’t know about the rules. Please give me another chance. I can learn. In the future, I will do right.”

The Council’s Chair addressed him.

“Young Cardemond, stupidity is not a defense. It is your responsibility to seek required knowledge. It is not our responsibility to simply provide it. As a fledgling vampire, you are required to wait until the elders in your pack have fed to their satisfaction. Only then are you allowed to feed on that which may remain. You may not initiate a kill until such time that privilege is granted to you. This Council finds you guilty and sentences you to death. Enforcers, take the defendant to the northernmost field and bury him face downward.”

“No, please,” Julian begged. “I shall be unable to rise. I shall slowly starve and eventually die. Banish me if you must. Mark me such that no other pack shall accept me. Curse me to wander the rest of my days alone and vulnerable. Let my miserable existence be a lesson to others.”

“A lesson you shall be indeed,” the Chair responded. “A permanent one. Chief Enforcer, take this abomination away. Perform your duty.”

The three newest members of the pack watched as Julian was led away. It appeared to them as if tears glistened on his face, but how was that possible? This night, their third without being permitted to feed, would pass unchallenged. They were quick learners.

STOP ME - by Richard Jay Parker - A Review

“howdy doody,

on vacation

slim, attractive dreadlocked babe with a fun sticky-out bellybutton, likes rabbit fur

forward this email to ten friends

each of those friends must forward it to ten friends

maybe one of those friends of friends of friends will be one of my friends

if this email ends up in my inbox within a week I wont slit the bitches throat

can you afford not to send this on to ten friends?

vk”

Ever get an email like the one above? Nonsense, right? Okay, so you delete it and forget about it. Except this time, eight days later, a package arrives at the Wyoming Police Department that contains a rabbit skin scarf and the boiled jawbone of a prostitute with dreadlocks and an inverted navel. Not so funny now, is it.

Emails like the one above aren’t just being sent to a selected few. They appear in home inboxes as well as in business networks and cross international borders. Leo Sharpe finds one in his inbox and gets spooked, so he reports it to the authorities. Of no concern, he is told, just delete it. Problem is, his mentioned capped teeth, and a week later, a package containing the jawbone of a woman is received by the police and, you guessed it, it had capped teeth.

Leo is troubled by these events, but tries to move past them by planning to surprise his wife with a trip for a Christmas present. They meet at their favorite bar and she excuses herself to the ladies’ room. She does not return. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air. Leo searches the building, goes across the way to his wife’s place of employment, but she is nowhere to be found. He receives another email like the one above, only this one mentions a particular scar his wife, Laura, has. Days pass, weeks, months, and no remains of Laura are delivered to the police or are ever found. Did the email end up back in the killer’s inbox? Is Laura still alive?

Stop Me is a novel that grabs you right from word one and hangs on tight to the very last word. As Leo tries to find out what happened to his wife, he finds that no one is what they appear to be. Police suspect him naturally, since he is the missing woman’s husband. The strain takes its toll on Leo and he loses his job, and finds that even friends begin to drift away. His family situation is beyond dysfunctional, and Leo finds himself drawn into a twisted cat and mouse game with a cyberspace psychopath.

This is a novel you will begin and seriously be unable to put down until the end, and even then, it will haunt you. What puts genuine fear into you as you read Stop Me is the fact that every event that occurs is possible in the real world. You will be accompanying Leo on his journey down a dark and frightening road seeking the truth, and what he finds will be far beyond anything he could have imagined.

I highly recommend Stop Me. It is a thriller in the true sense of the word. Also, I look forward to reading more by Richard Jay Parker.

Richard’s website can be found here:
http://richardjayparker.com

A great interview with Richard can be found here:
http://www.richardgodwin.net/interviews/chin-wag-at-the-slaughterhouse-interview-with-richard-jay-parker

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 25: FAMILY

This week’s prompt was to write a story about someone who gets caught with their pants down, literally or figuratively. Genre was open. We’re supposed to come up with a good fool for this April Fool’s edition of F3. Enjoy.

FAMILY

I wanted that house ever since the day I watched the Dansons move in--all that expensive artwork and furs. Thinking about the diamonds the missus probably wore with those coats made me salivate. The place was designed to be jacked--set back from the highway at the end of that long driveway on the outskirts of town. No doubt loaded to the brim with items pawnable. I was certain however, that it was also equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system. That’s where Petey comes in.

I believe a bit of background is needed here. Petey is my wife Connie’s brother. Connie likes the finer things in life, which is why I pull the occasional heist. Why I would really like to hit that particular house is because I could get enough from there to be able to get Connie her much-needed surgery. She’s got this dermatological ‘thing’. That’s what the doc called it anyway. What it is though is a bushy mustache. I’m not talking a few stray whiskers either. Creams and ointments don’t do squat except make it stronger like some alien lifeforce, but one of the docs said a quick in-office surgery would rid her of it forever. Problem is, that quick snip costs a hefty chunk of change, but it’ll be worth it for Connie’s sake. I hate to sound like a pig, but it’ll be worth it for me too. She gets it from her mother, and when she comes to visit and plants one on you, for days after, it’s like you’ve been sucking on a hairbrush. Connie’s not quite that bad yet, but I’d like to nip that while she’s young, if you get my drift. Anyway, Petey.

I’m not trying to sound mean, but Petey doesn’t have the brains a footstool was born with. He’s real agreeable and has a memory to beat the band, but no sense whatsoever. Connie had told me when we met that she took responsibility for caring for him. It seems that some uncle of theirs had dropped Petey one time and he was never right again after that. My guess was that it must have been a helluva drop, but Connie’s crazy about him and keeps reminding me that he’s family. He’s harmless and earns his own keep, so it never really bothered me. Thing is, with this new score I’m planning, Petey’s A-plus memory is going to come in real handy. This was going to be my smoothest caper yet, and considering what could be had, possibly my last. You never know.

Petey’s job is as a part-time housecleaner. Three days a week, he goes with Harold Pilner in Harold’s van and helps him out on jobs. Harold pays Petey in cash so he doesn’t have to fill out any papers for the government, but it doesn’t do anybody any harm. Petey does an honest day’s work and ends up with a few bucks in his pocket. It makes him feel real good helping out, so I know he’ll feel terrific about doing me a favor.

I know this sounds nutty, but I look at this like a fate thing. The Dansons put the word out they‘d be gone a few days to an out-of-town wedding. They hired Harold to come in for a couple of days and get the place all tidied up before they left, which means Petey would be able to get in there. All I’m going to have him do is find the control panel of their alarm system and tell me the brand and model number. When he goes back the second day, it will be with instructions from me on how to disable it. I’m going to make it sound exciting, like a spy mission, and he won‘t ask any questions. I’ll tell him how important it is to keep it a secret between us and let him know just how much he’s going to be helping that family by snipping those wires. Petey looks up to me and he’ll buy anything I dish out. Does that make me a jerk? Probably. But no harm, no foul. The Dansons won’t suspect Harold, everything they own is insured, and I’ll be able to stop kissing a Brillo.

Petey came through with flying colors. Yesterday was their first day cleaning there and Petey told me there was a big box on the wall in their kitchen with pretty colored buttons all over it. He told me what was written across the top and bingo, that was exactly the information I needed. I went to the library in town and did some research on the computers there and sure enough, I found a booklet online that contained the installation instructions for that system. I drew some diagrams that would enable Petey to completely disarm it without leaving any trace that it had been messed with. I went over the diagrams with Petey and you could see in his eyes that he’d remember every minute detail. The guy didn’t know how to put the kettle on for coffee, but he could name every screw, wire and connector of a Firebird’s engine. Life’s funny, huh…

When Petey got home tonight, I asked him how things went on his job and I winked at him. He winked right back and said everything would be okay. He had heard me talking to Connie about going back there early tomorrow morning after the Dansons had left on their trip and Petey asked me if he could come along. He said he had been there twice and knew where all their pretty stuff was. I was going to take the pickup and I knew I’d have time since there wouldn’t be anyone around and there weren’t any neighbors close enough to see anything, but I figured it would go a lot quicker with both of us taking the stuff out. I told him that would be great if he came along because we were planning a surprise for the folks who lived there. But again, it was to be our secret. He was happy to be part of that. Sometimes I really am a jerk, but you do what you gotta do, you know?

It’s still a bit dark out, but that’s alright. I pulled the pickup to the side of the house and Petey and I went around back to go in through the patio door. I shattered the glass by the lock and held my breath, but no siren. I gave Petey my biggest smile and told him I was proud of him for taking care of our little ‘problem’. He grinned from ear to ear and said there was nothing to worry about. Maybe including family in my little enterprises wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

I gave Petey a sack and sent him upstairs to empty the jewelry boxes. I stayed downstairs and looked for the glitter. I couldn’t believe how much bling these people had. Gold this and silver that, and diamond edges on everything else. I started stuffing everything I could grab into my sack when Petey came running down the stairs with his sack overflowing with gem-covered boxes.

“Petey,” I said, “you’re supposed to take the stuff out of the boxes and put the necklaces and such in the sack, not just grab the boxes. But I suppose that’s okay too. Are there any more upstairs? Do you need another sack?”

“Oh no,” Petey grinned. “I got them all. I just came down here to tell you I saw some police cars coming down the driveway with their pretty red and white lights on. Maybe they can help us take the things out to your truck.”

I ran across to the front of the house and saw several squad cars, some pulling off to cover both sides of the house. I looked into the yard and several cops were already coming up to the patio doors. We were surrounded. I dropped the candelabra I had been holding and sat on one of the sofas in the living room. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Petey,” I said quietly. “I told you to disable the alarm and you said you did. How did the police know we were here?”

“I didn‘t say that,” he replied. “I told you everything would be okay. I didn’t do what you told me with the wires in that box because I didn’t have to.”

I had trouble breathing and wondered if I was having some type of an episode.

“See,” Petey continued, “when the lady in the house saw me looking at the box in the kitchen, she told me she was really proud of it. It only had that one box, the colors blended with her kitchen, and the best part of it was that the alarm was silent.”

I could feel myself losing consciousness.

“That’s why I didn’t have to do anything to those wires like you told me to. Nothing to that alarm but a pretty looking box that didn’t make no noise at all. I tried real hard to figure out why anybody would want just a box and then I knew. It was so you could put it up on the wall anywhere and it wasn’t ordinary like a picture and the buttons had much more color than any pictures I ever saw. I told the lady thank you and finished my cleaning. Oh look, the police are coming in the house now.”

The first cop in removed my hands from around Petey’s neck. I told him that I had two tens in my pocket, a twenty in my left shoe and it could all be his if he’d let me have his gun for just one minute. After he sucker punched and cuffed me, we went outside to his car. Petey, being slow, would get his hands slapped. Me? I’d get put away. Plenty of time to think though. Family. Can’t depend on them, can’t kill them, and in 7-½ to 15, won’t be able to kiss them. Life’s funny, huh…

THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEW!

Many, many thanks to AJ Hayes for his review and recognition of my work. Also, many, many thanks to Chris Rhatigan for presenting it on his review site. Thanks a ton, guys, you have made my year. I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoy the weekly flash challenges I participate in, specifically on Flash Fiction Friday. They are always challenging, always fun, and so much enjoyment is gained each week when everyone's stories are posted and I can sit back and read all the submissions. There's a ton and a half of talent there, and it's an honor for me to be featured among them.

Following is the review I'd like to share, and it makes me feel so proud. Thanks again to AJ and to Chris. One problem though. I'm hungry for lunch now, but I'm having a hard time getting my big head through the doorway...

http://death-by-killing.blogspot.com/2011/04/joyce-juzwik.html

WHY I LOVE THE DARK SIDE

The darkest of noir and most graphic of horror hold a special fascination for me. This includes both the writing and the reading of such material. Generally viewed as a traditionally male genre, crime fiction and forensics have interested me to quite the compulsive level for some time now. It was very interesting to me to look back to attempt to determine what circumstances or events may have triggered this obsession.

I wrote a non-fiction piece for Pure Slush where I review events from my past to try to find the explanation for my love of the macabre. I should point out that who I was trying to find the explanation for basically was myself. I hope you find it as thought-provoking as I did once it was done. Behavior and opinions are surely potentially influenced by occurrences around us, but how much of what we see and experience has a direct effect, and how strongly does it affect, what we choose to read and if so inclined, what we choose to write.

http://pureslush.webs.com/keepyoursugarplumfairies.htm

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 24: AT THE DROP OF A DIME

This week’s challenge was to create a period fiction piece; a pulp styled story set between 1900 and 1950. The genres would be pulp ones like Adventure, Detective, Fantasy, Horror, Noir, Romance, Science Fiction, War or Western. The word count was to be under 1800 words.

As much as I enjoyed writing this one, I truly hope I’ve set some kind of a mood here for possibly the 1940’s. That’s what I was aiming for and hopefully I’ve hit my target. Please enjoy.

AT THE DROP OF A DIME

Two packs of smokes and a bottle of hooch. My pay for a job well done. Fine by me, sure, but I do believe Betts will blow sky high. Three weeks’ tailing a dame, watching her smooching up her husband, Richie’s best friend, giving the husband proof she’s playing him for a sucker, he decides to forget the mess and takes her back. Most days I wonder why I bother getting out of bed, and today was sure no exception. Betts will be back soon and I have to come up with a plan on how to break it to her. Wait. Let me explain Betts to you so you get my drift.

My name’s Mo. Mo Pollniak. I was christened Maurice, but nobody’s allowed to use that on me. Okay, so it was alright for Ma and the nuns down at The Virgin Mary of the Sacred Woods School, but that’s it. My Pop got runned down by a beer truck one Saturday morning when I was 2, so I don’t really remember what he used on me. But Ma worked on the line over at the bicycle factory right up till the day she died so I’d be able to eat and go to parochial, so it all worked out.

I’m a PI, in case you were wondering, and I’ve been doing this near to 30 years now. I never eat breakfast, I shave at least once a week, I hang my one suit out on the fire escape to air out, and the Chinese lady down the hall washes and irons my shirts out of pity since she thinks that I’m broke and a real loser. Smart lady. Now let’s get back to Betts.

I first opened my business in an abandoned store front, just stood a handmade sign in the window that said ‘Mo Pollniak-Investigations‘; you know, all classy like, and she walked in. Said her name was Betsy Malone, but if I ever didn’t call her just Betts, she’d break my arm. Her man had went out for a shot and a beer three weeks ago, and hasn’t been home since. She needed a job, this was close enough to walk to so she wouldn’t need carfare, she’d work cheap and she made the best sandwiches in the State. She started that afternoon. The best thing about Betts is when a job gets done, she makes sure we get paid. Not sure what I’m going to tell her about our latest though. Gotta think…

When she got back from lunch, slammed the door, and threw a bag with two roast beef on rye and a cream soda on my desk, I wondered how she found out about Richie. Was I ever barking up the wrong alley…

“I knew it. She told me he was going to kill her and now she’s dead. The cops are wandering around in circles as usual and he’s going to get away with it just like she said he would. Mo? You’ve got to do something!”

I asked her if I could eat my sandwiches while she told me the story, and once the drop-dead look in her eyes passed, I took that as a yes.

On her way back to the office, she passed this town’s only hotel, cops all over it. Betts’ friend, one of the maids, was outside, and told her a man named Howard Marshand had found his wife, Suzanne, strangled in their room.

“What the hell was Suzanne doing here in a hotel anyway?” Betts was boiling mad. “She and I went to St. Mary’s together and her Daddy had some money and when he died, he left her the house and enough cash to get by. I hated it when she married that Marshand character. He’s low-life scum that just lived off her all these years. He’s a lying bum, and the last time I talked to her about 2 months ago, she said she knew he was planning to get rid of her. He had some floozy on the side and wanted the house and the cash. Mo, I’ve never asked you to get involved in my business, but I am this time. I can’t prove it, but I know he killed her. Please?”

First ‘please’ in 30 years. How could I say no.

I got the scoop from one of the uniforms at the scene. The happy couple had booked the weekend to spark their fire, but got into it over something, and he left to spend the night with his part-time gal. Real classy gent. When he got back to the room this afternoon, the poor kid was on the floor with a scarf knotted around her neck. She had an ugly gash in the back of her head too and the desk had blood on a corner. Somebody wanted her real dead.

I went up to the room to have a look-see and my old pal, Lt. Dave Hastings, was finishing up.

“What do you want here, Pollniak? A real crime happened in here.”

I knew he’d be thrilled to see me.

“Just looking around, Dave,” I said. “Can’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes on it, right? Who’s the broad he spent the night with anyway? She alibi him?”

I could tell he wasn’t in a very cooperative mood.

“Not that it’s any of your beeswax, Mo, but her name’s Molly something, and she lives in those rooms in Riverdale. She gave a statement that Marshand ate dinner over there, played some canasta, and he stayed the night, like they were some regular dick and jane. End of story. Let her be, okay? This time, the husband didn’t do it so we gotta start looking somewhere else. Now, beat it, huh? Doc will be here soon to get her out of here.”

For some reason, I didn’t feel quite as good about Molly something’s word as Dave did. I figured it was about time I stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong.

* * * * * * * * * *

A week later, Betts comes in, smiling ear to ear.

“It’s over, Mo. It’s all in this morning’s paper. That son-of-a-bitch confessed and the cops were right there listening. They had it all set up. She got him over to her place and told him she wanted him to take his clothes and scram. She said she knew that he had murdered his wife while he was wearing his brown jacket because she found out what happened to the missing button. He said he didn’t know anything about a damn button, and besides, he had been wearing his blue jacket when he killed her--not the brown one--and she’d better clam up about it or she’d get hers. Well, the cops came out and arrested him right then. Can you believe it?”

Uh-huh. I sure could. All it took to shake his little gal up was a quick phone call one night, letting her know she shouldn’t alibi a murderer since the cops were planning to arrest her too unless she came clean. See, they found the button. When he was choking his wife’s lights out, she pulled a button off his jacket and they found it clenched in her cold dead hand. Molly put the phone down to check the closet, and mumbled something that sounded like ‘lying bastard’ before she hung up.

There wasn’t actually a button found, you know. A wife, she isn’t going to let her man leave the house with a button missing, but a girlfriend? A man doesn’t spend time with a girl like Molly because of her abilities as a seamstress. I knew there had to be at least one button missing from something he stashed at her place.

Betts handed me three roast beefs on rye and two cream sodas. There was a pickle in wax paper and a napkin too. Out loud ‘Thanks’ and ‘You’re Welcome’ would have been sappy and were already understood. I was ready to chow down and grabbed at that pickle when Betts said “By the way, Mo. Did Richie ever stop by to pay us for trailing after that cheating tramp of his?”

Uh-oh…