Here are a couple of excerpts from an Ebook that I am working on. It’s about an investigative reporter who is murdered, but quickly becomes an entity that helps detectives solve his murder from the Spirit world. Hope you enjoy!
I quickly turned beside a building on the next block and up a small alley. Maybe he would pass by and I would know that he wasn’t following me. There should be no reason for him to come this way. Nothing back here but posterior doors to greasy restaurants, smelly dumpsters, and alley cats anticipating their next meal. I saw him walk past the alley. I waited a full minute. Nothing. I rapidly walked back toward the street and turned the corner. Instantly I felt a stabbing, sharp pain in my left side. The pain was intense and hot. The wounds were deep. I couldn’t speak, my breathing was suppressed. I met the stranger’s stare. His cold blue eyes pierced me as deep as the blade had. Why would you? How could you? As I crumbled to the pavement, his plain black hat, and a tattoo of a pin-up girl on his neck regulated into my impermanent memory.
I stared into the darkening sky. The rain splattered across my face. The sounds of the city were evanescent. I died at 7:10 pm.
I was conceived out of lust in the back of a soup kitchen in downtown Atlanta. I was born to Mark and Juliet. Yes, my mother was named after Shakespear’s Juliet, mainly because my grandmother, who was of German descent was a lover of classic literature, as well as classical music and fanatical religious clergymen. It has always been rumored that my mother was the love child of one of the clergymen, but one can always assume, as my grandmother accredited, that Juliet was the daughter of an anti-war hippy named Dutch. At the age of twenty, my mother who was an English major quit college to pursue what she called, a lifetime of love and healing. To help the unfortunate, misplaced, and underprivileged. She started work at a bakery, much to the reproach of my grandmother and soon after, started volunteering at the aforementioned soup kitchen. There, she met my father, who was not there of his own accord. His appearance was solely based on community service in which he was obliged to because of a DUI. My father, unfortunately, was also a college drop out. According to him, a psychology degree, would only manage to burden him with other people’s problems and circumstances.
About nine months later and not much time wasted, I entered the world. The first five years of my childhood consisted of constant arguing and fighting between my parents, who seemed to lack self-control with curse words and alcohol. My mother usually worked two jobs, my father rarely worked one. I spent a lot of time with my German grandmother, who by then appeased her lack of social skills with televangelists and romance novels. She taught me to read before I even entered school. I immediately found an escape with words and writing. Around my sixth birthday, my parents entered divorce court. My mother had found that my father was not just an alcoholic who was a leading economic indicator, as he was largely unemployed, but that he was a homosexual as well.