Derek sprints out the door with a handful of cash. Sweat beads trickle down his forehead. Black glasses fog above the facemask that hugs his chin and shields his mouth. The mask slips down his nose, dangling just over his lips as he hustles to his rusty pickup truck. Police sirens wail inRead it now
Tag - Lincoln Reed
Your murderer wears a green coat.
High collar, turned up. His unwavering eyes lock with yours from across the bar as he discreetly pays the door fee and enters like a kryptonite bullet nobody notices but you. His shadowy fedora is olive-tinted, matching every lime-tinsel and kelly-painted shade in this sweaty watering hole.Read it now
The Colt revolver’s song echoed through the barren terrain as gun smoke mixed with heavy snowfall. Marshal Roland Chadwick holstered his firearm, grimaced, and spat, watching bloody saliva crystalize and disappear into the white earth. The image reminded him of a disfigured candy cane. After all, it was Christmas Eve.Read it now
Marshal Roland Chadwick pressed his nose to the desert floor and sniffed. A whiff of sulfur entered his nostrils, receded, and returned stronger. He snorted and coughed. The smell of hades wasn’t easily dismissed. But it came with the territory. Without it, he’d be out of a job.
He mounted his horse and rode,
“You got the chicken?” Tommy asked, strutting across the outfield grass wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“Gosh sakes, Spitfield,” I whispered. “Keep it down, will ya?”
“You found one, though?”
Tommy raised upturned palms toward the moon. “You had one job, Luis. You buy rotisserie chicken. I bring the jam and jellies. And Roger…”
When the meteorite hits the earth my laptop battery is at ninety-four percent charge. Three hours, four minutes.
Now I’ll never finish my novel.
Obviously, radical seclusion has its pros and cons. No Internet, TV, or people are ideal conditions to focus, write, and conclude a magnum opus novel. Unless the world ends,