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A reporter, recently relocated from New York to Wilmington, North Carolina, and researching the fact that Willie Mosconi once played pool in a local bar, comes across a ghost story about three patrons who died in a fire at the Hotel Orton in 1949 and reportedly still haunt the bar (now called Orton's) that was in its basement. He discovers, though, that newspaper reports on the fire show no indication of any deaths in the fire and wonders about the validity of the ghost story. Shooting pool at Orton's one night, the reporter is physically approached by the Ghost of the Hotel Orton, who proceeds to tell him the story of what really happened that night, asking the reporter to more or less set the record straight.

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2nd in a series. **************** This is not a supernatural tale, but an attempt at police procedural in which lycanthropy is a mental condition - the plot centres more on the chaos caused by the werewolf sightings than the wolf itself. ********** plot: Something dark and hairy roams the steep parklands that flank the suburbs of Alcove. A mauled body is found in the crawlspace of an abandoned house. Young DC Cal Dion, recovering from car crash injuries and newly reinstated in his home office, is set upon a trail that zigzags between murky dangers, howlings in the night, peculiar coworkers, and an edgy romance.

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I am adding to my collection of reject slips on this one. I posted first draft chapters a while ago but I guess I need to re-write the re-written version. All comments suggestions and edits gratefully accepted. I will be posting chapters at one or two per week (not to bump others) for the next 20 or so weeks.

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Mr. Sick is about a very sick man.

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Allie Carpenter, a rising young pianist goes missing during a celebratory evening with friends at a nightclub. I would be most grateful for feedback on mistakes in everything from typos to chronology, things which don't "gel" This is the umpteenth edit and as I need to get it BACK on the site as FAST as possible, I am going to double-bunk chapters where they fit inside the 5000 word limit and try to post once every 24 hours.) THE FIRST POSTING IS CHAPTERS 1-2

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A dark flash inspired by Wolfstar's essay on rape and abused women. Written straight from mind and hart to the keyboard, all comments will be appreciated.

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A small-town college community is turned upside down when an anthropologist on the national lecture circuit comes to town to dispel racial myths.

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“Incident at Doubletree” is a riveting murder mystery of the disappearance and death of a young lady (Mary Bodeen). Poke Bodeen, the victim’s brother, turns detective in this fast moving story of who-done-it suspense. Poke encounters a community (Doubletree) of indifferent citizens and a manipulative, hypocritical sheriff is more of a hindrance than lawful assistance. Could his sister have came across some destructive information during her relationship with certain criminal elements have been the cause for her death?

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When Mike Foley arrives at his San Diego home to find the police ransacking it because his former lover implicated him in a murder, he and Rosemary Sanchez, his ex-girlfriend and current partner, are plunged into an adrenalin-charged odyssey filled with dirty money, high comedy and low characters. Can they stay alive and clear Foley's name while grappling with their own complicated relationship and the re-emergence of Clare Rousseau, the woman who tore them apart?

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A strange phone call brings even stranger results. This is written in all dialog.

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Working title- Hyper-rich- pronounced like the french 'ee- pair- reesh'- meaning so filthy rich it is beyond comprehension:) This is the story of Rich Contreras, who is a twice divorced, middle aged guy that is tired of working for the man, tired of getting screwed over by women, and determined to live a simpler life listening to Bob Marley and enjoying the sun. Contrary to popular belief this is not my memoir:) lol

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An odd 'ting, ting, ting' coming through the woods draws a passerby to have a closer look at an abandoned homestead. A woman's brooch causes the reader to say, "Hmmmmm."

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Doing your business can be more deadly than you think.

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-Summary- "Get a Clue" Madelyn Berichon, (or if you'd rather not risk bodily injury you can call her Maddi) an accomplished Paralegal/Criminal Profiler in Atlanta, moved to Seagate Island for a fresh start, leaving behind a shattered relationship and taking with her some old emotional baggage and a cat named Orphan Annie. Maddi is what you might call a powerful petite. At first glance she is five feet three inches of slim, blond, blue eyed cuteness (never let her hear you call her cute). After getting to know her a little better, you'll find that she's a compact package of dyno'mite'. On assignment on Seagate Island, Maddi embarks on an exciting and overtly dangerous roller coaster ride to find a vicious killer and prove the innocence of the law firm’s client, while covertly carrying out her mission. Along the way she meets her match in Mac Adams, a freelance investigative journalist. Of course there comes into play the inevitable conflict between paralegal/client confidentiality and the journalistic need for information, but they handle it in a mature adult manner (most of the time). Maddi is undercover as a Paralegal with, Mathews, Rickert and Lyndel, Attorneys at Law. Robert Mathews, the only living member left in the firm and one of two lawyers on the Island, desperately needed the help of a sharp, intelligent paralegal like Maddi. He had been commissioned by millionaire humanitarian William Patterson to defend his son Josh who was charged with the murder of Deborah Jennings, the owner of a local Import/Export business. She was found bludgeoned on the floor of her shop among the artifacts that she had been unpacking. It seems that Josh was found by the police standing over the body with the murder weapon in his hand. Maddi finds herself questioning people such as, Senatorial candidate Rodney Maten and his wife Vallerie, son Nick and Daughter Laurel. They seem to be friendly and cooperative on the surface, yet there is an undercurrent of trepidation. She finds that many of the upper crust "Native Islanders" have more than their share of skeletons in their closets and their lives are full of secrets that they will do almost anything to keep private. In the course of their investigation Mac and Maddi uncover a plot that reaches to the very core of the elite society of the Island and abroad. It's an abhorrent situation that involves drug cartels and politicians and cold blooded murder. It is a conspiracy so intriguingly incredible that she has difficulty convincing authorities and even her own boss that it actually exists. While putting her own life in danger Maddi must make sense of it all, complete her assignment, clear Josh and deal with a budding romance with Mac. She does all this and more in that engagingly funny, candid, one-of-a-kind Maddi way.

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This is a mystery/thriller. A second novel utilizing the same protagonists is almost complete, and a third has been outlined. I have two offers of publication with small presses, one a POD internet publisher. I would appreciate your feedback. Golden Conspiracy: Synopsis In 1503, a Spanish castaway washes up on the island of Molokai, thousands of miles from where any European has ever sailed. His crescent-shaped gold medallion is inscribed with a riddle pointing the way to plundered gold. Captured by a young warrior, he must fight a new battle for survival. Five centuries later, Spanish historian Ricardo Montoya is contracted to translate the recently discovered log of the Columbus-era guardian ship Santa Ynez, which he then compares with the navigator’s diary from the treasure ship Solitario. Both documents report that the Solitario burned and sank off the Florida-Georgia coast in 1501 after “the devil’s minions” possessed the crew. Confirming his employer’s suspicion of a long-ago conspiracy to plunder the gold, Montoya discovers an article in the New York Times reporting the recent find of a Spanish gold cross, circa early sixteenth century, in an excavation on Molokai, and believes it could be a link to the Solitario’s gold. In hock to dangerous people for his huge gambling losses, Montoya sells Jacsen Kidd and Pericles Schmoond’s confidential information to Louis Damia, a ruthless antiquities collector and the nemesis of Jac’s father, Mandrago Kidd. Kidd, descendant of the infamous Scots pirate, and his partner, gastronome Pericles Schmoond, begin to unravel the deception. In a north Florida coastal village, they are covertly followed by an old enemy of Jac’s, long thought dead. Then, in the Hawaiian Islands, Peri’s nephew, archeologist Michael Schmoond, finds a revelation in a traditional chant. This leads him to excavate a petroglyph depicting an encounter on Molokai between a warrior named Liko and a white “god” wearing the sun around his neck. Michael believes that the depiction of the sun is a gold medallion that may contain a clue to the gold’s location. Nicole Thomas, Damia’s comely operative, is sent to uncover information from Jac, but passion sparks between them, and before Nikki can disclose her deception, she finds her boss murdered. Near an ancient village in Molokai’s Halawa Valley, Jac and Peri enter a savage past as they trace the stranger’s footsteps using clues from the chant. Lurking nearby is former KGB operative Garth Moska, who has vowed to kill Jac and take the gold. After a harrowing struggle while swimming through a maze of lava tubes and caverns, Jac uncovers the Spaniard’s remains and unearths the inscribed medallion. Moska kidnaps Nicole and Kimo, the party’s local Hawaiian guide, and though Jac and Peri manage to free her, Moska gets away. With Moska in relentless pursuit, Peri, Michael, Jac, and Jac’s, father Mandrago Kidd, find themselves entangled in a maze of treachery and murder. Following the clues in the riddle, they sail to the Brazilian island of Fernando de Norhona, where Jac begins to unravel the mystery. Soon, though, he faces daunting odds to save his friends’ lives. In an encounter with Moska, Peri is gravely wounded while trying to save Jac’s life. Jac and Moska drop from a cliff into the sea, and in what seems a final dead end, a simple gust of wind provides the final clue, leading the survivors to the gold. Two hundred miles away, near Recife on the Brazilian mainland, a light plane lands with another survivor of the ordeal on Fernando de Norhona. Moska must wait for another day to kill the hated Jacsen Kidd. Golden Conspiracy(excerpt) Prologue November 1503 Molokai, Hawaiian Islands Felipe de Córdoba groaned, feeling as if someone had poured hot gravel under his eyelids. He tried to blink away the salty crust that stuck to his lashes and blurred his vision. He could hear the muted crash of waves. Was he still in the cursed sea, floundering and gasping for air? Or perhaps he was already dead. But then, the dead didn’t feel pain like this . . . unless he had been cast into the inferno. And yet, he saw colors—blue, green, and . . . what was this? White sand . . . “Gracias . . . mi . . . Sal . . . vador . . .” Just saying the words aloud made his cracked lips sting. Gagging and coughing, he retched clear bile and seawater onto the sand. He had never felt such thirst. If the devil should appear to him, he would sell his soul this instant for a bellyful of water. He rolled over, feeling the solid beach beneath him. Where . . . ? Birds sang in the deep greenness that stretched away from the sea. There lay salvation, or at least the hope of it . . . shade, and perhaps even water! Felipe pushed up onto his knees, struggling to stand, but tumbled facedown in the sand. Reaching out in front of him, he sank his fingers into the sand and began to claw his way forward. Every beat of his heart pulsed in the jellyfish stings that he felt as meandering lines of pure fire. Ahead, the lush green foliage tantalized him, drawing him on. But his strength was gone. He grew dizzy. . . . And there Felipe de Córdoba collapsed, with one hand barely touching the rough trunk of a coco palm. * * * Liko surveyed the stone fish trap he had built. He was pleased, for it had held together through the high tide. Recalling the days of lugging and placing each lava rock so that it fit together perfectly to catch and hold the sacred moi, he felt proud. His ali’i would be pleased. Having lived through only eighteen great storms, already Liko was a prominent warrior who had raised his family’s status. He examined the wall he had built enclosing the stone tide pool. Seeing that none of the rocks had been dislodged by the waves, he stepped out into the limpid, knee-deep water and threw his net. It held two plump moi, fit for the ali’i’s table. He felt the breeze against his wet skin and turned to study the horizon. The wind had kicked up, stinging his face with tiny sand particles, and in the distance he could see a furious little god approaching his island, looking for a quarrel. Fearful of being hit by one of the god’s killing shafts of light, he left the pond for the shelter of the jungle. Liko remembered a similar day, when he was half his present age, playing on the beach, as darkness signaled the coming of another angry god. A warrior had run out from the cover of the palms and onto the open beach to hurry the children to cover, and the god had struck him dead with a bolt of light. Squinting to keep the blowing sand out of his eyes, Liko scanned beyond the long stretch of pale sand for any sign of an invasion from the neighboring islands. Even though the war with the big island had been over for several moons, the peace was a fitful one, and like all the warriors in his clan, Liko remained vigilant. The angry roar of the approaching god’s thunder startled Liko, and he remembered what the elders had told him in his lessons: You must learn many things for yourself, young warrior. Learn from everything you see, hear, and touch—from the sky, the water, and the earth. Listen to your father and your grandfathers, gather all you can from their personal stories, and remember them, for they are the keys to your survival. And how right the elders had been, for already the stories had saved his life. Liko shuddered thinking of the recent war, his ordeal and miraculous survival . . . his immortality. Early one morning, before the sun god’s golden eye peered out above the water, Liko and a dozen other warriors from his island had pushed one of ten canoes out into the surf and paddled to the center of the channel, where their enemies from the big island waited. As the two clans came closer, they taunted and jeered each other. Spears flew. The battle had begun. With his island brothers on either side of him, Liko thrust and parried with his koa-wood spear, when an errant wave made him step out onto the outrigger lashing for balance. He had heard the warrior next to him groan as an enemy’s wooden war club, set with shark teeth, caught him in the ribs. And though unhurt himself, Liko could see trickles and ribbons of blood painting the arms, legs, and bare chests of brother and enemy alike around him. But the Molokai warriors stood fast. Liko pivoted sideways to avoid a spear thrust, when the warrior next to him accidentally bumped him. And before he could so much as cry out, he lost his balance and pitched forward into the maelstrom of paddles and weapons and blood-tinged water between the canoes. He saw the first fin break the surface and glide toward him, and he prepared for the awful, rending bite. But he felt only rough skin bump him aside as the shark homed in on the blood of the wounded. Now he could hear a change in the timber of the shouts and screams as the wounded were hit, and red clouds bloomed out from them in the clear water. Though the battle continued to rage above him, Liko forgot about the clubs and spears of the invaders, for something much more terrible was flashing and ripping in the water around him. And as the sharks began their furious feeding and the shrieks and death wails grew louder, Liko prayed and waited to utter his last sound. Tomorrow, when the great golden eye began its journey across the sky, he wondered which of his body parts would be digesting in a shark’s belly and which would wash up on a beach as pale, bloodless shreds to be picked apart by the crabs. With a cry of desperation, he made one final prayer to Mako, the great shark god, who had led his people to these islands all those thousands of moons ago, and Kauhuhu, the god shark who was cared for by the people of the Halawa. Kauhuhu was a man eating shark only when one of the people committed a wrong, and Liko never committed a wrong. He was a good warrior. “Oh, great Mako and Kauhuhu, please spare Liko. I promise never to kill any of your children for the rest of my life, if you will but spare me. Please, great shark gods, bid your children not to eat me. My family needs me.” Liko pleaded, realizing as he said it that this would be no great compromise. He would gladly worship Mako, and Kauhuhu, along with the only other god he truly feared: the great goddess Pele. Strangely, Liko found himself moving away from the sharks. A current was carrying him toward shore. He cried and laughed in the same breath, rejoicing as he raised his eyes reverently toward the sky. The sharks were now behind him, tearing and ripping, ignoring him as if he were a god. Now he was in the surf, and the wave tossed him over its face, pitching and turning him, making him feel as if he were inside a whirlwind, twisting and turning as it carried him toward the beach. Arching his back, he spread his arms, and his palms hit sand. He stood up in the shallows, free. It was as if the great god had guided him toward his own island to cast him ashore, untouched but for the scrape on his side where the shark’s rough skin had hit him. The great shark gods heard my pleas, he thought, and the story of Liko will forever be told in a chant documenting my greatness. My people will sing my story, and pass it on from generation to generation, making me immortal! Many warriors from both islands had perished in the great channel, some from spear thrusts and the crushing, tearing blows of their enemies’ war clubs, but many more had been taken by the ravenous sharks. And on that day of death and mourning, Liko had become immortal. A gust of wind brushed his face, awakening him from his daydream, and he looked up at the black clouds bearing down on him. Slinging the net with the two plump moi over his shoulder, he sang his chant as he ran through the woodrose and palms separating the jungle from the beach. Before taking the jungle path to the village, he would pick some breadfruit melons for his family and his betrothed. “Like a God. Like a God. In the midst of a great war, Liko was thrown into the sea. Terrified warriors screamed as sharks fed on them. Aieee! Aieee! Liko, like a god, was not harmed. Liko, like a god, was not harmed. Mako saved him and let him pass. Kauhuhu, the Halawa god shark saved him and let him pass. A Miracle! A Miracle! Liko is like a God!” *** Awakened by the windblown sand stinging his face, Felipe de Córdoba moaned, “Agua . . .” He had to find water. Though his knee joints ached, he forced his battered body to stand, and just as he turned his grimacing face upward, something smacked against his eye . . . a fat raindrop, followed quickly by several others. He opened his mouth, feeling the blissful wetness on his swollen tongue and parched throat. “Gracias, mi Salvador,” he cried out after gulping down the first thirst-quenching trickle. And even though the liquid stung in the salt-coated cracks of his lips, and every movement of his body sent painful signals to his brain, he didn’t care. Spreading his arms, he cried, “Ya estoy vivo!—I am alive!” The fresh rainwater tasted better than the finest Andalusian wine. He licked his hands, slurping from them, and as the rain’s intensity increased, he faced the storm and leaned forward into the wind, his open mouth catching the drops. *** Liko came to where a coral isthmus rose several feet above the beach, forming a spit where the forest ran to the water’s edge. He crossed the narrow strip of jungle and stopped before venturing onto the open beach. Cautiously he peered out from behind a large fern to make sure no enemies had made land. He was utterly unprepared for the sight he beheld. Liko stared, frozen in awe. He could not believe his eyes. It was a god, leaning forward, provoking the anger of the approaching god’s exhalations, consuming the spears of water sent its way. To Liko’s further amazement, the storm’s rage abated suddenly. Was this an apparition? It was as if this strange god had devoured the demon god’s onslaught. No one, in all the stories he could recount, had ever seen anything like this. This god was tall, with pale skin, and—strangest of all—hair on his face. Liko watched the tall, skinny stranger stretch his arms up toward the sky. But what was that? He seemed to be wearing a band of the golden sun god’s skin around his neck. Surely, Liko thought, it would be another sign of my greatness if I can capture such a god. There was only one way, he decided: charge and subdue him. He recalled, when he was a young boy, his grandfather telling him, Act fierce! Growl like a wild pig, and threaten your adversary while always moving toward him. Scream louder, take command, channel your fear into rage and aggression, and you will make him fear you—and conquer him. Your fear will have made you the stronger. *** Too late, out of the corner of his eye, Felipe saw the lone figure running toward him. And before he could react, he was tackled, crushed to the ground, slamming his head so hard that he almost fainted away. He saw the crude but lethal wooden knife at his throat, felt it puncture his skin. “No!I am a friend! A friend!” Felipe yelled, pleading with his arms outstretched, but the warrior only increased the pressure of his grip. *** “Aaieeee! Aaaaargh!” Liko screamed at the lesser god, hoping he would not vanish. He knew he had to best him with sound—His grandfather had told him it was the way to gain the advantage. Liko was proud that his voice boomed louder than any in his village. But he had never used it in combat with an enemy—or a god. Liko was afraid he would be killed. “I surrender!” the pale god screamed. Liko knew he had won the encounter when he saw the god lie back, unmoving. He breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to kill this god—only to subdue him, prevent his escape, and bring him to the village, where once again the people would know of Liko’s greatness. If he should die, he may come back as a greater god and kill Liko. But take the god to the village, and another chant would be sung to document Liko’s immortality and elevate him to the status of a great leader. Slowly releasing his grip, he motioned the god to get up and move along the jungle path. *** With the savage’s knife at his back, Felipe passed under enormous green fronds and towering trees, stumbling now and again on the uneven ground. Praying that he was not about to be eaten by savages, he reached up to his neck to touch his cross and pray for his life. With a horrified shock, he realized that it was gone. He remembered clutching it when the sea threw him onto the beach. Looking back, he pointed toward the beach. “My crucifix . . . it must have torn loose,” he said to his uncomprehending captor. “I’m lost without it. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a child, and I’ve worn it ever since. I must go back and find it. I must go back,” he said, pointing at the golden crescent moon medallion at his throat. Thinking the native understood, Felipe started back toward the beach. “Arghhhhh!” the savage screamed, and jabbed the knife forward, pricking the skin on Felipe’s back. “Hijo de la . . . !” Felipe shouted, whirling around, but the warrior’s knife was suddenly at his throat. He understood: he must obey or have no chance at survival. Reluctantly, he turned and walked, just ahead of the knife, in the direction the savage pointed. Green and yellow birds, darting from bush to tree, cried shrill warnings of the approaching warrior and his captive. Felipe had no trouble walking where the path was mostly flat, but where he had to ascend muddy inclines, his feet slipped along the wet tree roots and banged against rocks and boulders. He prayed the journey would end soon, and hoped he wouldn’t be sacrificed to some pagan god. Blood oozed from a thousand tiny cuts, and his heavily callused soles, softened from his ordeal in the sea, were raw and bleeding. But he kept moving forward, ever aware of the prodding knife at his back. Certainly his mortal end was near. Sapped of energy, he stumbled dizzily forward. Flecks of light merged and grew into blackness, his vision blurring from the salty, stinging sweat running into his eyes. But still the knife prodded him on. He struggled but missed lifting his leg over a large fallen tree, and fell forward, landing hard. But up he scrambled, just ahead of the relentless poking knife. Just in front of them, Liko heard the familiar trickle of a cool stream that crossed the path. He was thirsty and needed a drink, even if his captive did not. But then again, perhaps he did thirst, since he appeared as a man. Liko tucked the knife into his thong and pushed hard against the god’s back, sending him to his knees at the water’s edge. *** When the native’s right arm pointed toward the water and he cupped his hands and brought them up to his mouth, Felipe understood that he was motioning for him to drink. Merciful God, thank you, he thought, nodding his head vigorously. And when the native nodded likewise, Felipe knew that they had made their first communication. He gulped the water like a man possessed, and at last, his thirst satisfied, he lay back to rest. He closed his eyes to welcome the darkness. *** Liko moved closer and leaned in for a better look at the piece of the sun around the god’s neck. Dare he touch it? Only a great god could do so and not be burned. *** Felipe could feel the savage’s eyes watching him. Cracking one eye open, he caught the native staring at the medallion around his neck. In his exhaustion, he flashed back to when the gold was plundered. Now that my master perished in the storm, the plan will remain a mystery to all but me. The medallion my master entrusted me with gives the location of the gold, and the gold is now mine. I dedicated my life to my master, and the reward of twenty years’ loyal service will make me rich beyond my dreams. But it will all mean nothing if I don’t survive. I must survive. I must! Felipe ’s thoughts drifted back to his harrowing ordeal—and his ship’s fate. . . . *** He looked out through the darkness, sure he had caught sight of land in the distance. Frantic crewmen reefed the sails as the wind screamed with a force that whipped the sea with hell’s own fury. Felipe knew they were doomed. As the wind wailed and the black storm raged, the mainmast splintered, spilling its rigging and killing several sailors. The ship had been moving aimlessly, blind, its floating compass needle washed away by a giant wave. Felipe heard the shrill, screaming voice of the gale and saw terror in the faces of the remaining men, heard their faint screams as, one by one, they were thrown into the sea. He had tried to find his master, but he, too, was gone. Finally, the ship rode up the crest of a colossal wave, which threw it down, splitting it apart like dry leaves in a winter windstorm. Felipe screamed a final prayer when he felt the timber he clung to being ripped away, catapulting him into the mountainous seas. The undulating debris of the ship scattered with each monstrous new wave. Breaking the surface, Felipe spit the choke of salt water from his lungs, fighting to stay afloat, and grasped on to a curved floating timber that looked to be from the ship’s keel. Amazingly, he was not alone, for there, clinging to life on the same timber, was the ship’s first mate. But it was not to be, for after the storm had passed and the elation of their survival was overtaken by exhaustion, a terrified scream pierced the black, moonless night. It was the last earthly sound from his fellow castaway. It was over in seconds, and Felipe knew he would never rid his mind of the image of the severed arm wound in the rigging on the timber. Nor would he ever forget the scream as the great, dark creature brushed past him, carrying away its human meal. Felipe, resigning himself to the same fate, had made peace with his Savior, yet here he was in this savage eden—captured, yes, but miraculously alive. He must try to communicate with the heathen again. And if that failed, perhaps he could tempt him to come closer to examine the medallion. It might present an opportunity to escape. Feeling a surge of strength return to him after drinking the water, Felipe focused his eyes on the savage staring at his medallion. Pointing at the shining disk, he said, “Gold . . . this is precious gold.” ***

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