Snapshot /ˈsnapˌSHät/ n. A brief look or summary.
From time to time, I’ll write a short story when I’m not fleshing out a scene or researching a future plot. Very little ever becomes of these stories, until now. This section will be updated from time to time with free short stories for your enjoyment. Well, maybe not you but, you know…
KELLY OLMSTEAD HAD NEVER BEEN accustomed to wealth or the privileges it afforded. Growing up in a barely-blue collar home, she often went days without seeing her father, who worked two jobs to keep food on the table. Her mother always hoped her daughter would do well, but neither of them could have imagined a night or a life like this.
Wearing a gown which cost more than her first car, Kelly stood surrounded by some of New York’s most elite movers and shakers. She felt a cool droplet of sweat race down the small of her back and she frowned as she worried that it might seep through the fabric. For one night, these powerful people seemed to hang on her every word.
An auburn haired beauty with long, slender facial features, she hid a slight overbite behind curled fingers as the soft glow of light sparkled in almost transparent blue eyes. Her smile, despite her own reservations, was one of her best features and one that made people warm up to her. Eyeing the smiling faces encircling her, she responded to the question on all of their minds.
To continue reading Operator click here. (This will launch a PDF file of the complete snapshot.)
ANDREW WORRELL, 38, HAD WORKED FOR THE Sheriff’s Department of Sumner County, Tennessee, for three years before he broke protocol to qualm a nagging hunch. His gut feeling led to the arrest of the Blue Springs Strangler, landing him both commendations and the attention of Doctor Kurt Presley. Presley, a professor of criminal psychology at Quantico, had been brought in to catch the serial rapist and asphyxia fetishist, a man named Harold David Harlan. Four months later, Worrell left Tennessee for Virginia and the Sheriff’s Department for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Cutting his teeth under Presley in the Violent Crimes Unit, it was a short leap to the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Washington, D.C., where Worrell took work as a profiler. At the height of his career, the special agent received an offer from the doctor to join a special test-unit he had been authorized to oversee. Based upon Presley’s own theories, the unit sounded fringe to Worrell, but he was unsettled by the idea of an outsider discrediting and disrespecting his mentor.
To continue reading Monster click here. (This will launch a PDF file of the complete snapshot.)
“THE ERIC KADE JOURNEYS: THE TOBIN MANIFEST”
THE CHILL OF NIGHT CLUNG heavily to the moist air but was no match for the flood of heat billowing from a bedside space heater. A hospice nurse adjusted the pillows behind the frail shoulders of her sole patient and exited the bedroom of a dimly lit apartment somewhere in Manitoba, Canada. On her way out, she smiled respectfully to the young guest occupying the claustrophobic room’s southwest corner. None had visited her patient, Markus Tobin, even though he was well into the last days of life on this earth.
Now seventy-eight years old, Tobin’s wiry body contorted like a wire tie around a plastic bag each time he coughed. His eyes, brown and yellow, rolled sickly and kept a strict gaze on the visitor who sat upon a wooden chair with a broken spindle. Though a decade had passed since he had seen his visitor, Tobin remembered him from their time with The Progeny, a powerful sect of demon hunters, and laughed at the memory of the hot-tempered teenager now pretending to be a peaceable man. That laugh generated another bout of coughing and his bony hands refused to let loose of the comforters that smothered him.
To continue reading The Tobin Manifest click here. (This will launch a PDF file of the complete snapshot.)
“THE ERIC KADE JOURNEYS: FRYHET”
THE RAIN FELL GENTLY with a sweet fragrance that tickled the pallet and was masked by the dustiness of a softly lit chamber. A rippling wave of thunder caused the pipes of organs to hum from the opposite side of the innermost chamber wall, creating a numbing, albeit harmonious, ambiance. Upon uneven faces of stone, laid centuries before, the shadows took on shapes that moved from stone to stone as though they were alive. To the weary eye, those same shadows crept as though to lead the eye toward slumber.
Occupied by a man and woman whose families had been connected since the American post-Civil War era, it was the type of surroundings to which only one of them was accustomed. Fighting a desire for rest, Eric Kade exhaled and shook his head free of distractions. In his ear, the woman’s voice flowed like the rain trickling down the outer wall. His eyes roamed toward her colorlessly pale hands that gripped a hard-shell courier’s tube, its skin gleaming like drawn blood. Hearing her scraping at the tube, Eric’s mind began to drift toward thoughts that fell between the woman’s words.
To continue reading Fryhet click here. (This will launch a PDF file of the complete snapshot.)