ADVERTISE!

This Month's Featured Stories...

The Revengeful Crow   by Dennis Vickers.  Sometimes when you are investigating a suspected murder, you take your leads wherever you can get 'em.

It was noon on the third day after Detective Kennedy’s promotion when he stopped to feed the pigeons in Lincoln Park. He bought a bag of popcorn from the vendor outside the zoo entrance, settled himself on a park bench, ate a few kernels himself, scattered a few on the ground, ate a few more. The pigeons gathered around his feet, each one anxious to get his share, but in an orderly way, none of them behaving badly. He still felt like a recruit pretending to be a detective.

The "Write Domain" for YOU

If you don't have a web site, you are missing out on a powerful marketing and communication tool.  And it has become so easy to obtain a domain name and create your website, it's almost criminal NOT to have one!  Crime and Suspense has partnered with Write Domains to provide very reasonably priced domain registration and web hosting—with PLENTY of space and without any of those annoying banner ads or pop-up ads that characterize free web sites.  

Click here to check them out!

A sprout of hatred grows in her heart for which she is entirely unrepentant. In fact, Margaret tends and cares for it each day, just as she would a rare variety of rose growing in her garden, digging, and weeding, and feeding it to keep it alive and make it grow; uprooting carefully every little virtuous shoot of mercy and compassion that tries to choke the life from her hate. Those feelings were cultivated in another time, long past now, when Sunday School played a big part in life, and she was sure that God was on His throne and all just had to be right with her world. No more than empty promises now, weeds to be pulled up by the roots; Kenneth had seen to that.

"Hello, lover."

"Hello, darlin.'" Valentine's voice sounded as though it were coming from underwater, or gargled through Jell-O or seaweed. But it was his own damned blood.  "Lily"

"Yes, lover? How are you feeling?"

"You shot me. You shot–."

"Don’t be a spoiled sport, dearest. It was inevitable. Everything is, right?"

The Oracle of 22nd Street   by C. Rochelle Weidner.  It's great being connected in the right places.  Sometimes, it can even be a lifesaver.

Cassandra Goodnight was at the end of her rope. Literally. She peered through the gloom at the ground below, judging it to be five feet more, maybe six. The drop certainly would not kill her, and there was a distinct chance of twisting an ankle, but a worse fate would be for Marco’s goons to catch her. Above, she heard guttural shouts and curses. They had found the open window. Damn. She let go.

“And now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The winner of the Ms. United States pageant is, Ms. California, Kara Montego.”

Kara waved and smiled at the judges and the huge crowd as they applauded, whistled and cheered. Flashbulbs exploded, like fireworks all around the amphitheater.  The previous winner placed a delicate sparkling crown on her coiffed auburn hair. A beautiful bouquet of roses was presented to her complete with a royal robe draped around her shoulders. Feeling like a queen, Kara glided down the runway, tears sliding down her face. She repeatedly mouthed, “Thank you,” and blew kisses to the enthusiastic audience. This was the grandest moment in Kara’s twenty-three years of life.

While I lay on the floor spitting out blood and a couple teeth from the beating they’d just given me, I kept thinking how brutal the night had been. Brutally hot and humid, even for a Louisiana summer. The room they’d tossed us into was clean but musty, lit only by a single naked bulb dangling overhead. Lying on my stomach, I felt my hands bound so tightly behind my back that I had to wiggle my fingers a bit to coax the blood back into them. I craned my neck to have a look around and saw that we were in one of the food storage rooms. Cans of tomatoes, olive oil and bags of herbs and dry goods were stacked on shelves all around us.

 

Regan woke, gasping for breath.  Her heart was pounding in her chest, but also in the sides of her neck and in her temples. The T-shirt she wore for a nightgown was wet with sweat and clinging to her body. She sat up and groped for the light switch on her bedside lamp. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she did a quick scan of the room. Everything seemed normal. No one was standing at the end of her bed with a hunting knife in their hand.  It was only then she realized she woke up in the middle of a nightmare.

Don't forget the Members' Hall of Fame!

If you are a subscriber to this ezine and have written a crime, mystery or suspense novel, or have been part of a published anthology of such stories, or if you have written a book on the craft of writing, we want to know about it!  Send your information, including your name, book title and ISBN (if available).  We'll give you some free exposure in the Members' Hall of Fame!