About Me and a Taste of My Work... 1/26/2010

[DrawnToArt]

Hello all! I'm so very happy to be here, and I just know I'm going to meet so many nice people! I just thought I'd do a little post about myself and give everyone a little taste of my work. I hope this post isn't sleep inducing! :)

I'm currently 16 years old and home schooled, but I've been engrossed in linguistics for most of my life. I was in a gifted pull out program in kindergarten for reading, and when I was later tested in fourth grade because my teacher thought I couldn't read, it was determined that I was reading on a seventh grade level.

Long story short, my school never did anything to support me and thus, I had to endure many years of boredom before I started home schooling in seventh grade. Now, I have the freedom to read whatever, whenever, and I feel this to be a great blessing. My favorite authors are Tana French, David Baldacci, Michael Connelly, and James Patterson.

I can't complete grade level math problems, I can't read sheet music. But I love reading, and I want others to feel the power of the written word just as I have. This is why I started writing my first detective thriller for adults a few months ago. I want to change other's lives through my writing.

I will be querying some of the biggest names in the industry this spring (without mentioning my age), and I hope with all of my heart that someone will be interested in my work. It would mean the world to me if I could change just one person's life through writing.


I have posted the first two chapters of my work below for your criticism/comments. As longs as it's constructive, I'm fine with it. Please be honest. I am not giving any background here because I want to see what you think without any information.




Chapter 1



The mere thought of what he was about to do made Adam’s heart pound. He was driving devastatingly fast in the black Mercedes that belonged to his passenger, Jason White, and his speed was ever increasing, but he was too enthralled in the moment to concern himself with such worldly matters. If he crashed and killed the both of them, that was just as well. He couldn’t tolerate anything for much longer.

His clearest reminder of what he once was began to flicker at the surface of the pond of his memories, as he skipped a rock across the cool water, just to watch the resulting ripples with the intent, innocent stare of a child, as they traced the timeline of his life.

The July heat played across his eleven year old face as he did his best to shield his eyes, but he knew it wasn’t the Georgia sunlight he was protecting them from. It was the tears they were producing at the loss of his beloved confidant, his grandmother, which he was trying to hide. Men don’t cry, his father had once told him.

“Don’t squirm, son.” His father pressed a firm hand into the shoulder of his suit jacket as the pole bearers appeared.

“Yes father.”

As the young boy’s solemn eyes met the passing casket, his thoughts turned to what it contained, the aspiring doctor’s wheels spinning wildly as he flipped through pages of well read medical journals in his mind.

He knew the body had been defiled by a medical examiner only days earlier, that it was nestled inside with the typical ‘Y’ incision on its chest, that the organs had been removed, weighed and thoroughly examined, and various tests had been run, but he didn’t have the one piece of knowledge he yearned for: why did she die?

In the scribbled penmanship of the coroner, she had died of unknown causes. The autopsy was inconclusive, and this made him wonder. How could anyone die for no reason at all? Shouldn’t everyone die for a reason? A worthwhile cause of much merit?

Flowers adorned the lid, never once sliding during the course of travel.

Just as easily and quickly as the memory came, it dissipated, leaving him to contend with the reality at hand once more.

“I am bringing you justice, my loves.” He whispered, as a handcuffed Jason swallowed carefully, deliberately, afraid the slightest false move would result in the loss of his balding head. Lethal fear pulsed through his being with every tense breath, his lungs shrinking with every passing second, losing capacity.

“Why are you doing this to me?” White had finally mustered the courage to ask the obvious. A frail man, forty seven years old, White was well dressed; an obvious businessman. “If you want my paycheck, take it. Just don’t hurt me or my family. Take the car, anything you want.” He was babbling through quivering lips, tears suspended on the tips of his eyelashes.

They all do this, Adam thought, a smirk crossing his stubbled face. They try to bribe him out of his search for justice every time. He would never allow it. This was the only way he could save his family!

“It won’t be long before you’re going to be a hero.” He smiled at the pools of raw fear in Jason’s eyes.
A wave of nausea crept over Jason, snagging him by the throat when he realized where he’d been taken. It was the place where he once felt secure: his home. He could only think of his family.

“Please, don’t hurt them.” It was the only thing he could think to say, one last plea, as Adam pulled him from the car, replacing the handcuffs with a Smith and Wesson between the shoulder blades.

“I won’t.” Adam smiled, with a spat. “You will.”

Sunlight reflected in Jason’s glasses as the words sank in. What was this world coming to?

That fear was still in the businessman’s eyes when he took his last breath moments later. “Why,” He choked, as blood bubbled up through the gaping hole in his throat, and tears traveled the topography of his face, “did you-” Mr. White was gone before he could finish.

“That’s my boy.” Adam whispered, breaking the man’s neck just to hear the crack on his way out. He abandoned a pair of latex gloves in a neighbor’s garbage can, hands lost in the fabric of his pockets as he walked away.




Chapter 2

On the rare occasion that I find myself alone, I can still see his face, no matter where I may be. His hands are strong as an ox, but somehow vulnerable from endless years of drug use, muscles flexing beneath tattooed arms. I hear his sneakers behind me as I walk, splintered sound waves reverberating off the floor, a ghost haunting me exclusively.

Finally, I can feel the cold rim of the pistol against the base of my skull, as my knees meet painfully with the puddle-ridden pavement of the parking lot, as he pushes me down, all over again.

Police work, like life in general, is a constant struggle betwixt good and evil, a quandary. You could catch a killer one day, but lose another the next, one even more sinister than the one you apprehended. It’s a deadly game of chance that no one should have to play, and we are the only referees, putting ourselves in harm’s way every day, to protect the innocent.

Blossoms of crimson showed through the victims clothing, a woman, a young boy, and two teenage girls, all stabbed too many times to count, as they lay on their stomachs in a circle. They were holding hands, if could call it that now, with their limp fingers in loose fists.
The once beige carpet was now covered in a thick, dark red, and held the changing shoeprints of different authorities as they came and went.

Detective Jamie Briggs and I were crouched near the bodies, as uniforms dotted the hallways and front lawn. He was to my left, dark hair cut close, dress shirt ironed and tucked into khaki Dockers. A veteran homicide detective, this was the man who showed me the ropes, and had taken me under his wing. He still does from time to time, at the expense of my embarrassment.

One of the teenage girls was at my feet, a life snuffed out prematurely. I wasn't looking forward to attending the autopsy. I could already picture her on the steel table, naked beneath a sheet, rigor mortis having already released its hold on her young muscles.

Her small frame was obviously lifeless, but there was an air about her that lit a flame of hope inside me, the hope that she wake up any minute, and tell me who did this.

In the middle of the horrid circle was a middle aged male; we believed suicide had taken him, the blade still loose in his hand. There was a gaping, blood encrusted hole in his throat, which no doubt harbored a severed esophagus.

An unlit, artificial Christmas tree was erect in a corner of the room, by the fireplace.

Wrapped presents were huddled around its base, waiting patiently for their recipients on a morning that, for them, would never come. Stockings were hung from the mantelpiece, not yet stuffed; it was a mere week before the holiday.

Crime scene photographs had already been snapped, yellow, numbered evidence markers still in various places throughout.
Was he their father? Could he have been a friend, neighbor, or coworker? Or was he a complete stranger?
Labs and the coroner would reveal the reality, but until then, everything was up in the air, and that didn’t sit well with me. Naturally curious, I yearned for the truth. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a BAU profiler.