I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
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Challenge #58
In a place where the guilty look for solace, a silent figure moved through the shadows of the darkened church. As he tried to distract his mind from his racing heart, its relenting pounding hammered all sound of hope.
The church was empty, but for the accusing stares of religious symbols of all he was not. The pressure he felt was astronomical and he would tremble from the power they held.
Wrestling with the need to run, he knelt in defiance of his weakening state. It was always there – the elephant in the room – where he hid the portal to his blackened soul. The whispers shouted past his wall of evil, ripping an anguished cry through his tightened lips.
His league with the devil had no power in this holy place. His choked cries struggled past a larynx closed by a fist of remembered fright. Where was the magic? Where was the comfort of a forgiving heart?
Challenge #59
Tomorrow was the day. With the smooth, automated movements of someone who had done the task a million times, the killer laid out the tools of his trade.
Long, callused fingers stroked the SOG Seal Bowie blade, as if stroking the beast itself. His labored breathing broke the silence; his hands tingling in anticipation of the power that would soon be his.
Soon he would be a legend, a master of his trade, one better than all the rest. His narrow, hard gaze lifted to his walls, plastered with photos of his selected prey. He studied her. He knew her. She was his destiny.
Looking into the cracked dresser mirror, he admired the size of his body he had worked so hard to perfect. His strength and clever mind would inspire a combination of fear and respect. Respect. He smiled at the thought.
Challenge #61
Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, Detective Brett Connors returned to active duty.
He got the word from his lieutenant, and wondered why he had not heard from the precinct’s shrink, Dr. Maggie Sweeney. He pictured her in one of her fancy suits, with those long legs meant for wrapping around a man’s waist.
“Son of a bitch,” he cursed as he nicked his chin with the razor. He’d best get off that line of thought until he was done shaving.
He felt an attack of anxiety he couldn’t quite place. He had been a homicide detective for 25 years. He had never known any other life. And though he had seen more than any man should, he knew he would never neglect his commitment to the job. So why was he feeling so unsettled. Maybe it was because he acted like such a fool with the lady shrink.
Brett took a nimble leap away from those thoughts. God, he was like a man obsessed. Why couldn’t he keep her out of his head – in more ways than one?
Maybe he was just wired about getting back to his shift – a routine to offer an escape. A job that definitely wasn’t for the squeamish, and in that department, Brett felt no threat, and yet, there was something.
Challenge #63
She opened her eyes in darkness. Was she sick? She felt so strange, so disconnected.
Feeling a rush of nausea, she retched at the sour taste of something slicing at her mouth. It did nothing to silence her fear as she suddenly struggled against her bound wrists and feet.
Where was she? Did someone abduct her? Why couldn’t she remember?
The gag mocked her muffled cries for help. Maybe this was a dream or a bad trip from the street drugs she used. It wouldn’t be the first time her addictive behavior had gotten her in trouble.
Here she was, a captive in the darkness, without any idea how she got here. She tried to slow her racing breath as she gasped for air. It was so dark. She strained to identify any kind of detail, praying the darkness was just a mimic of blindness, and not the real thing.
“Think, think, think,” she repeated.
What possible motive could anyone have for kidnapping her? God knew she didn’t have any money or anything else of any value. She hoped that was their reason. It was better than considering something far more frightening.
She ran her fingers across some pattern she couldn’t define. What was that? Again and again her fingers would return to trace over the pattern.
Suddenly, she gasped with recognition – they were letters.
Her less than steady fingers traced the sturdy carvings. She jumped, as if burned, when her mind read the silent message – D-I-E-W-H-O-R-E.
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