#samplesunday Soul Retrieval

Sometimes I enjoy looking back at things I wrote years ago just for fun.  This one still makes me chuckle just a little.  Hope you enjoy a bit of Sunday humor.

Soul Retrieval

Prophetic. The things we say. The things we do. They all move us in a general direction, pushing us toward our final destination.

At ten a.m. this morning, Hon. Jeremiah Sed Mason had opened his mouth and sealed his fate.

Now here I was. Standing on a street corner. Waiting for fate to intervene. Destiny to arrive.

The cigarette tasted kind of strange. Not at all like I'd remembered them. The body was nice though. A real traffic stopper. Not like the last one. Seniority had its benefits.

"Hey, sweetheart, I've got a hundred bucks, if you know what I mean."

Tossing the cigarette I turned toward the voice. I knew exactly what he meant. I even knew who he was. George Chatman. By day a floundering accountant. Tonight a pawn in destiny's plans. He'd been standing across the street for over an hour trying to get up the courage to make this move. Problem was poor Gina had officially retired about ten minutes ago. Letting my gaze move slowly down the oversized, unattractive, virtually repulsive frame, I smiled slowly, coming back to the nondescript beady eyes. "Sorry, I'm busy."

Gina had a nice voice. Deep and rather sultry. She probably had a lot of repeat clientele. Undoubtedly she would be missed.

"Oh, I see, my money's not good enough for you."

Lighting another cigarette I took a deep drag, blowing the smoke in his direction. The taste might have changed, but the world hadn't. Still full of pompous jerks who believed that money was God and bought all things. I'd like to believe that even Gina would have turned this one down.

"That's right, sweetheart, your money isn't good enough, and neither are you."
I could feel the rage growing inside him. One too many rejections in a world full of rejections. And this time by a woman he considered low on the scale of humanity. Someone so beneath him that the mere possibility of rejection had never entered his mind. The beady eyes twitched, hands clenching and unclenching just as the red convertible pulled up to the corner and parked. Right on time.

"Hey gorgeous, you ready?"

Without even a glance at my would-be suitor I let those long, luscious legs carry me towards the car. Throwing in a little extra swing of the hips. After all, Gina had the package. I might as well work it.

I wasn't surprised when the bullets struck, but Jeremiah was. I liked the look of shock and pain that crossed his face right before his soul exited his body. Pain was something he would need to get used to.

Things happened rather fast. People screaming, rushing for safety. The police officer yelling at George to drop his gun. Which of course he did. Putz.
Pushing out of Gina's lifeless body I waltzed over to Jeremiah. Another benefit of seniority. I got to keep Gina's image until the next time.

"Let's go, Jeremiah," I stated in that deep sultry voice taking him by the arm.

"Where are we going? What happened? Are we dead?"

Always the same. "Don't you remember what you said this morning, Jeremiah?"

"What I said this morning?"

Some jerks were worse than others. "Yes, Jeremiah, this morning. When you signed those documents to let an innocent man take the fall for your good friend Judge Lehman. Don't you remember how the two of you laughed, and Judge Lehman asked you where you were going?"

I loved the look on his face as realization slowly dawned. I smiled. Gina's warm, sexy smile.

"You said, 'To hell if I don't change my ways'. "



Love mysteries with great plots and subplots that keep you guessing all the way to the end? Take a moment and download a sample of The Jacody Ives Mysteries or Catherine Mans Psychic Suspense. Not your cozy mysteries. Contains strong adult language and some graphic scenes, so be sure to check out the sample first.

Overnight Success?

Another throw me an opening line suggestion. Titles - Overnight Success? Watch The Money Roll In?



There once was a man from Nantucket….

Damien poured another glass of Kentucky Bourbon, took a sip and stared at the words he'd just written. He'd heard them somewhere before. Where?

Booting up the computer he ran a quick Google search. Crap. Emptying the glass in one quick gulp he shook his head, jerked the paper from the typewriter and tossed it into the trash. He was an idiot. Everyone had used that line. So what now? He'd quit his job, bragging he was going to write a best seller. Be the next Stephen King. Famous. Rich. And he'd failed. He couldn't even come up with an original line.

Pouring another glass of bourbon, Damien stared into the cool amber liquid. What was it Stephen King had said? Something about ideas and writing. There were no new ideas, just new ways of writing old ones. That was it.

Flipping another piece of paper into the typewriter Damien started again.

There once was a man from Nantucket. A different kind of man. One the world had never seen before. A mere glance from his caliginous eyes and you were seized with fear. A fear that froze your limbs and numbed your brain.

Damien sat back, reading the words he'd just written. That was good. Darn good. He counted the words. Forty-three words already. Whoot! He was good. Really good. If he worked really hard he could have 80,000 words in the next few days. Then up on Amazon and he was on his way. All he had to do was sit back and watch the money roll in.

Good Intentions

Started this one as fun, but not sure where I'm going with it. Short story? Novel? All comments welcome.

The Road to Hell is paved with - GOOD INTENTIONS


CHAPTER ONE

You grow up poor you've got to wonder if God's got a sense of humor. All the crap life throws at you. And He gives you mothers. It's kind of like that guy Brandon Lee said in the movie The Crow--"Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children."
He got that right. My momma wasn't just a good woman. She was a Saint. Somehow she managed to raise four kids on a waitress' salary. And three of them turned out pretty good. Or would have. But that's another story.
Sometimes when I'm thinking about momma I have to wonder if she knew about God's sense of humor. She read us the good book every night, but she never said nothing about no sense of humor. Still, she had to know something. I mean, after three girls she got me. She had to figure God was up to something.
I’m Jake Savior, and yeah you might as well go ahead and laugh. Everybody else does. My clients are always telling me God's got a sense of humor. The people looking for me weren't looking for a savior. They were mostly searching the want ads for killer for hire. That's me. For the right price I put a lot of people out of other people's misery. Heck, I even done some for free. Some people deserve to die, and being the nice guy I am, I gladly obliged them.
But I'm digressing. Let's get back to God's sense of humor.
I'd had a pretty good day. Won a few bucks on the horse races. Did a little charity work by ridding the world of one more piece of garbage. The courts seen fit to let a pedophile go--I didn't. So I was feeling pretty good about myself, except I was out of cigarettes.
Now anyone that knows me knows I love a good smoke. Last count I was up to five packs a day. Momma always said those thing were going to kill me. Turns out she was right.
Only a die-hard smoker goes out at 2:00 a.m. for smokes. Especially since all the safe places close down early, leaving only a few gas stations and convenience stores open at that hour. Still, I was willing to take my chances. It was too damn cold for thieves to be out and I really, really wanted that last cigarette before I turned the lights out and called it a day.
You've probably already concluded that I'm a smart ass bastard that beats my own drum. Some people will smoke anything. Not me. I'm a strict Kentucky Red's Best smoker. Which means whether I liked it or not I was gonna have to hoof it over to Winchester Road at this time of night. Not everybody carried Red's Best.
Being the cautious person I am, I scouted the parking lot and looked inside for milling customers. No cars and only one customer at the counter. I quickly ascertained he was one of the good guys like me, needing that last deep drag to calm his nerves before he called it a night. Boy was I wrong. Wrong place, wrong time and wrong guy. Five minutes after I entered the door of the Shaky Seven Gas to Go bullets started flying.
I've always heard that your life passes before your eyes when you're dying. Trust me, that's all bull. My last vision was that pack of Red's Best I held in my hand, and my last thought was how good that cigarette was gonna taste as soon as I got outside. Of course, that wouldn't have surprised anyone who really knew me. It wasn't any big surprise to me. I was surprised though. Having listened to momma all those years and growing up with three sisters extolling virtues that I never needed or wanted, I was expecting either that bright light to take me to Heaven, or most likely in my case, a little fire and brimstone trail leading to Hell. That didn't happen either.
# # #
"God, I'd kill for a cigarette."
"You're kidding right?"
I glanced over at the convenience store clerk floating next to me as we both looked down at our bullet ridden bodies. I had to chuckle a little. That pack of Red's Best was still clutched tightly in my outstretched hand.
"Yeah, mom always said those things were gonna kill me. Guess she can say 'I told you so' now."
"So, what do we do now?"
"Beats the hell out of me," I stated turning to really look at the clerk. He was young, probably in his early twenties and looked like he was gonna cry any minute.
"Jake Savior," I stuck out a hand. I sure as hell didn't need someone blubbering all over me.
"Ronnie Smith," he stated, gaze still riveted to his body. "Mom's gonna be really pissed. I don't know how she's gonna pay the rent this month."
"Maybe she'll get lucky. Sue the store and get a million dollars."
Ronnie finally looked at me, took the hand I still had stuck out and shook it heartily. "Really? You think she can do that?"
Truth was I didn't know shit about civil lawsuits. Criminal law, yeah, I could advise you all day long on criminal law, but civil suits were a different animal with a whole new breed of greedy demons. Still, we were dead and what was he gonna do, sue me if I was wrong?
"Sure kid, happens every day."
"That would be nice."
"Hey, look, another late night smoker coming in." We watched as the guy entered the store, took one look at the blood and immediately jerked out a cell phone. A good Samaritan all the way. So what if he loaded up on a few cartons of cigarettes, a couple of gallons of milk, some bread and snacks and three cases of beer while he waited.
Sirens blared away and we watched as the local cops pulled up, followed by paramedics. The good Samaritan stayed just long enough to give a statement before hopping in his now loaded Toyota and hitting the road. He'd be celebrating tonight and nobody the wiser.
I watched as the paramedic leaned over my body, checked for a pulse and shook his head. "This one's dead."
"No, shit, Sherlock. I mean, really, there's a hole right between my eyes."
"Hey, Jake. . ."
"Where the heck are you going?" I yelled. Ronnie was slowly drifting backwards as if drawn by some unseen force. I headed in his direction only to find myself up against an invisible brick wall.
"Well, that sucks," I muttered, kicking the wall only to find another long held belief wasn't true. You could feel pain after death.
Being the naturally curious person I was, and since death so far had held a hell of a lot more surprises than life, I drifted back inside the store.
"We got a pulse."
The kid was still alive. Hallelujah. Hope he doesn't tell his mother about that million dollars. She might really be pissed then.
"Marty, you bag and tag that one when the coroners done."
I'd always had a lot of respect for guys like Marty. The things they had to deal with every day. Bet his friends called him the bag and tag guy. I really wanted to pat him on the back until the fat bastard leaned over and picked up my pack of Red's Best, stowing them in his front pocket. "Don't guess he'll be needing these anymore."
They all laughed. Laughed.
I hope you get lung cancer you son-of-a-bitch and die a long, slow, painful death.
I watched as they loaded the kid into the ambulance, lights flashing, sirens blasting. Might have been happy about that if the fat bastard hadn't chosen that moment to light up one of my Best's. Smoke drifted my way. A tantalizing aroma of pure Heaven.
"Hey, Marty, you got that body bag?"
I watched the red tip as it arced through the air, landing a few feet away. There was still half a cigarette left. Dumb bastard. You don't throw away half of one of Kentucky's best brands. You smoke it slowly, savoring the aroma and taste.
I spent the next five minutes trying to wrap my newly dead fingers around that cigarette. I could see it. Smell it. And if I closed my eyes, I could even taste it. But try as I might I couldn't pick the damn thing up.
Frustrated I sat back down on the curb, listening as the cops made jokes as they loaded my body into the wagon. It wasn't funny. Wasn't funny at all.
So the next time you're sitting around feeling sorry for yourself and you think life ain't fair, try dying at a late-night convenience store for a pack of cigarettes and then find out you've got to sit and watch some other lucky bastard enjoy them.
That's when it hit me. Yep, God's got a real sense of humor. At least if Ronnie was here I'd have somebody to share my misery with.
So this is hell. Stuck here in what I can only describe as grey matter to watch life pass me by, totally unable to intervene or enjoy even the simplest of things. That's what I was beginning to think. But that was before the kid. The kid changed everything and hell started looking pretty good to me.

Some Monday Humor--WIP - More of The Road To Hell

There were a million questions running through my mind, but a subtle kind of peace had settled over me and Jolly, and the thoughts of that pack of Red's Best kept my smart ass mouth closed until we reached the corner.

An old woman was standing there, grey as me, and twice as ugly. If life had been cruel to her, death sure as hell wasn't treating her much better.

"There she blows. So, how do I clean her up?" She sure needed somebody to clean her up.

Now, I knew that last part hadn't been spoken out loud, but the old woman turned to face me.

"Ah, sweet Jesus."

"Where?" Jolly squelched, a look of sheer terror on his face.

"It's a figure of speech dumbass. Look at her. Dammit, Jolly, she's drooling." What a mess. How the hell was I supposed to clean her up?

Jolly recovered quickly, but he seemed to lose some of his bluster. Almost sounded sad, like he was hurting or something.

"That's not your soul. That's Molly."

"So, what's a Molly?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable as those empty sockets continued to stare me down.

"That's what happens to a soul if you fail."

I took a good long look at the old woman. "Shit."

"Exactly, Jake Savior. Fail to deliver your soul on time and he will wind up lost here forever, slowly going insane until he becomes nothing more than a demented drooling mess." Jolly paused for emphasis. "And you will wind up like me."

Now that was a sobering thought and should have been enough to shut me up. Momma always said I was the prettiest one in the family, just not the smartest.

"Well, Jolly," I slapped him on the back in good humor, "looks like my soul is a no-show. What say I clean up old Molly and we all go home?"

Damn, there's those red eyes again. Thankfully Jolly wasn't in the mood to burn me to cinders this time.

"It doesn't work that way. There's rules."

"Rules, huh?" Well that was something to think about. Wherever there were rules there was a way to break the rules. "So, we just gonna leave her here to rot? That don't seem quite fair, does it? I mean it ain't her fault whoever was supposed to clean her up failed."

Jolly didn't answer, but I could tell the thought appealed to him. I was getting to him.

"Your soul is about to arrive."

If you've ever visited Lexington you know that traffic never stops on New Circle. Anytime of night or day you can find a steady stream heading somewhere.

I glanced at the highway expecting to see cars collide any second. Instead what I saw was a kid on a skateboard headed straight for the middle of the street.

"Oh, hell no, Jolly. I don't do kids." Screaming I headed for the street. "Get off the road kid. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Jolly was yelling something behind me, but I couldn't hear him over the old woman's squawks. Wouldn't have made any difference anyway. I kept right on going screaming at the kid and waving my arms at the car. It passed right through me and I heard the sickening sound of metal against flesh, the screeching of wheels on wet pavement and finally total silence except for my own labored breathing. Jolly joined me in the street.

"Rule Number 1, you can't stop it."

"Anybody ever tell you your rules suck, Jolly?

"Rule Number 2, stay on the path. And Rule Number 3, don't lose the manual."

With that Jolly handed me a small leather book with the words Good Intentions burned into the leather binding.

"So what do I. . ." Shit. Jolly pulled a disappearing act right in front of my eyes.

Okie dokie, Jake old man, looks like you're on your own. At least I had the manual to tell me what to do. Opening it I found the first page was a map, golden streets leading straight to the Pearly Gates. Sweet.

The kid looked about six years old so I wasn't totally surprised. I mean, all kids went to Heaven didn't they? This gig was gonna be a piece of cake. Get the kid there quick, find Jolly and get my reward.

Turning the page I couldn't help grinning. Jolly had a sense of humor after all. Rule Number 4, don't break The Rules." Ah, Jolly, and I was just starting to like you.The third page wiped the grin off my face and was the final straw that broke the camel's back in convincing me God really did have a sense of humor. The words seemed to glow on the page, burning with an eerie blue flame. One more mocking reminder that if life ain't fair, death's even worse.

THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS.

Saturday's Satire - Sip Your Numbed Paradise

When I started writing Sacred Secrets, I had found a collection of my oldest son's poetry from earlier days when we both wrote things that we were pretty sure would never see the light of day. Some of those poems were so beautiful, so sad, and so appropriate for the emotions I hoped to inspire in Sacred Secrets that the two of us collaborated on the book. The majority of the poetry in Sacred Secrets was written by Charles. When I started writing Passing Judgment this poem was truly an inspiration for part of that work. A satirical look at drunken days, and the devil's call. I hope you enjoy it. And I hope you'll check out Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery and let us know what you think. Charles and I have talked about writing a story together. Our styles are different, which I think would compliment each other. We'll see.


SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE

Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,
Alcohol burns the throat,
The patter of self-destruction forms,
Cacophony of voices permeate the air,
A den of forgotten dreams,
Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,
Here there are no names,
Faces are all that matter,
Time is merely a formality.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it sit in the corner for a while,
You don’t need to worry about it,
We’ll take away the cause,
Sip your numbed paradise.

Dance away your memories,
Who needs them here,
You are in this moment,
Just let go of your future uncertain,
You can certainly be sure its worthless.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it soak in the view,
A little taint never hurt,
We’ll take away the consequences,
Sip your numbed paradise.

The lights are now less faded,
We’ve got to bid you farewell,
Our time,
Out of time,
So long yet so short,
But come back tomorrow,
A kindred spirit cannot be denied,
Your table will be waiting.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Do you remember where you left it,
We’ll help you find it,
Sip your numbed paradise.

By: Charles W. Prather, Jr.


Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
UK: Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery