Tag: News/Misc Page 11 of 26

This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice.

RULES:
Grab a book, any book.
Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
Find a snippet, short and sweet.
Post it.

from Page 56 of:

The Cartographers by Peng Shepherd

<it’s me. I know it’s been a long time,> she had written and deleted about fifty times. Finally, she just sent:

<Dr. Young died.>

Then:

<Swann asked me for help. I know I have no right, but it’s in your specialty, Just one last favor.>

She didn’t even know for sure if he had the same number. But a few long minutes later, her phone buzzed.

<I can stop by tonight.> Then: <For Swann.>

This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice.

RULES:
Grab a book, any book.
Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
Find a snippet, short and sweet.
Post it

from Page 56 of:

A Mint Condition Corpse by Duncan MacMaster

Molly Garret had to get out of that hotel room.

Air laden with car exhaust and tobacco smoke from Toronto’s furtive fugitive smokers was an improvement from the little two bed hotel room that was currently housing Molly and six other female artists, writers and editors. It could have been okay, Molly had survived it before, even enjoyed it as a form of urban camping, but Emma, a junior editor pushed Molly over the edge. Emma had purchased, then broken, a bottle of perfume that claimed to be Chanel, but smelled more like it washed ashore out of the English Channel. The lesson learned by everyone staying in that room was that the products sold by street vendors never matched what the labels said, in quality or odour.

(just not enough authors give attention to this sense, it’s really effective in creating a scene, right?)

This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice.

RULES:
Grab a book, any book.
Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
Find a snippet, short and sweet.
Post it.

from Page 56 of:

The Cutting Season by M.W. Craven

Poe was dragged feet first out of the van. His skull cracked against the wet concrete. He ran his tongue across his teeth. One of his fillings had come loose.

Great, he thought.

He was pulled to his feet and pushed into a building. It immediately got colder. He was still wearing a hood and his nose felt like it was full of broken glass, but Poe knew where he was. The smell of raw meat and the sudden drop in temperature meant he was in the meat warehouse the Hole in the Wall Gang had bought twenty years earlier. It was where they cured and air-dried the pork and beef and game meats they served in Battista’s Bar and Grill and the other restaurants they owned. It was where the sausages were made.

Poe knew it was also where the gang disposed of anyone who bothered them. The turf wars of the eighties were long over, but all gangs squabbled from time to time. A building whose only purpose was the processing of meat was also perfect for making humans disappear without a trace.