27 July, 2013

eBook 'The Shadow and Other Ghost Stories" Now Available from Amazon!

Here is a small except from 'The Shadow', available from my ebook 'The Shadow and other Ghost Stories":


 "The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I looked at the fallen leaves outside collect into a mass as the wind pounded against the house, beating the windows like a battering ram so hard I thought they would shatter into me. I didn’t like the feeling of this at all, something seemed off. The lights inside the house twinkled as they wavered - then silently went out - leaving me standing alone in the shadows, cast by a slight glow through the window from the moon. Goosebumps formed as I gingerly ran my fingers down my neck, as I casually laughed out loud. I hated the dark; I was scared of it. I had never heard the wind like this before, or felt such unease. 

 I decided to call the Trey’s to ask where they kept their candles or flashlights, while the soundtrack of the wind still thrashed against the windows. I felt my way around the living room to the front hall where Mr. Trey left the emergency contact information, bumping myself against the couch or a chair a few times. I grabbed the phone on the way from its cradle and scooped up the paper, holding it up in front of the side-window of the front door to read the number scrawled in ink. I turned the phone on to hear silence – the line was out. I swore out loud as I turned my head to look out the tiny window. The moon lit the driveway as I noticed something being blown outside by the wind, a black cloud. Was that a shadow or an animal? It disappeared as my heart started to race. 

 As I set the phone and card down on the table it caught my eye again, a black shadow being carried by the wind towards the front door. Something was definitely there - it wasn’t a shadow - and I caught a glimpse of what looked like eyes before it dissipated into the howling wind again. I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm my heart now thundering in my chest. “Impossible” I said to myself, the last of the air escaping my lips as I searched for any explanation that came to my head. I backed up into the hall, away from the window as a swelling black mass came up the front steps and onto the porch. The wind screamed and pounded the front door like a rabid animal trying to break in. I jolted farther away from the door, now my slight discomfort had escalated to blinding panic."

You can purchase the collection of short stories here.

22 July, 2013

Submitted 4 Stories to Amazon's Bookstore!

Submitted 4 short stories (in my Ghost Stories Edition 1) to Amazon/Kindle bookstore which were approved this morning. Submitted the bundled edition tonight which should be approved tomorrow AM. I can't make it free apparently, but you will get 4 stories (20 Word doc pages) of ghost stories written by yours truly. Will update you when it's live.

The individual ones are located here (mine are the ugly green-striped images), but I am putting up the bundle and it will be ready tomorrow.

Thanks for everyone's support as I clumsily do this.

18 July, 2013

Invincible - A Short Story

Story idea submitted by: Ryan McGechaen: Apathy and Lethargy


Nord was the best in his class, the best in North America even. Charts and bulletins were sent with the top names – Nord was always number one. People looked up to him as somebody who really contributed to his field. Young kids wanted to be him, others were jealous of his abilities that seemed to pass most by. There was nothing he couldn’t do – he was invincible.

“Nord!” His mom hollered in her southern accent down the rickety stairs into the unfinished concrete walls of his basement hideout. “Do you want mash potatoes with your fried chicken?” Her old voice came through strong, like she lifted wooden beams or hauled machinery around for a living.

“I told you not to bother me after 3pm mom! You know I'm busy!” Nord paused, ear towards the door making sure she was done before returning to the screen. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten today. He had been up since 7pm the night before running through plans with the team. He thought for a second. “Bring it down then if you care that much!”

Nord’s mom came down the stairs slowly carrying a tray full of dishes. Her famous fried crispy chicken, homestyle mashed potatoes, and a piece of deep dish style cornbread cake was laid carefully on aged plates beside the glass of whole milk on the tray. She got to the entrance of his room and looked around.

Plates littered the desk he was sitting at. Half empty cans of pop, bottles of juice and sodas, energy drinks, and wrappers plagued his room enough that the smell of old food assaulted her nose when she stepped inside.

“Oh Nord! What have you done here, this place is a pig pen! I want you to clean this up right this instant, bring those plates upstairs and let them soak. Grab a garbage bag and toss these bottles out.” She picked one up and tilted it, a slurry of congealed sugar juice and mold slushed to the side. Disgust filled her rough face, and she wiped a strand of silver hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

She surveyed her son. He’d been the tallest in his elementary school until he got to about grade 5 when the other kids started hitting puberty and grew like weeds. They shot up a good 4-6 inches taller than her son, and 4-6 inches broader too. Nord was big, but not in a flattering way. He stood maybe 5’8” tall whenever he got up from his desk, and weighed in probably, oh, about 250 she guessed. He was very disproportionate. Kids used to call him ‘the beach ball’ because he was so round. Due to the teasing he had a very short temper.

“Nord! Right this instant!” Nord ignored her and continued his work, clicking furiously and speaking into a headset every once in a while. She wiped a layer of dust off an old candle and lit it with a single match she found on his desk, hoping the smell would dissipate. She watched the flame flicker and bend with the slow moving breaths of her son who barely left his room. Nord was unmoved and uninterested. She walked closer and unplugged the computer cord from the yellowing socket in the wall. “Now get to -”

Before she had a chance to finish, Nord screamed in rage and sprang from his chair, knocking it over with the force. Without thinking he shoved her hard as he bellowed, sending her flying onto his unmade bed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Nord stood over his cowering mother who shielded her face and looked on in horror as her grown son in his 30’s snorted and bared his teeth at her like a mad horse, spit flying every which way out of his bright red face. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU DID YOU BITCH!”

Nord was inconsolable. He started ripping at his hair. Screaming like a child, hitting his head with his fists and kicking his old furniture. He thrashed at the herbage and papers on his desk, sending them flying everywhere. He shrieked and cried out in what might have seemed like a Turrets attack. His mother sat where she lay on the bed, eyes wide in absolute horror and disgust, backed up sitting against the wall now she tried to get him to calm down.

“I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!” Nord ran at her, his arms outstretched as he clasped both hands around her shoulders and started to shake her small frame.

“Nord, stop! You’re hurting me! Stop!” The words squeaked from her mouth as her head hit the wall behind her.

A scream from the fire alarm roused Nord from his rage as he dropped his hands from his mother and tuned to gape in terror as his entire desk was engulfed in flame. The flames has spread along his entire desk, and starting to lick up his wall, his curtains now fully engorged as black smoke filled the room and it became unbearably hot.

“My stuff! I can’t leave my computer!” He started choking on the smoke that started to fill his lungs as he covered his mouth with the sleeve of his shoulder. His mother groaned quietly from where she crumbled after she hit her head. His head whipped to her and then back to his computer, almost impossible to get to now.

He dived for the ground and started crawling under the smoke towards the  desk where his desktop computer sat. He was getting light headed now and coughing uncontrollably, even from his position on the floor. When he finally reached the computer tower he seized it only to shriek out in pain – the metal casing was as hot as an oven, burning his hand and singing his fingertips. He drew back his hand sharply, inhaling unconsciously, sucking in more smoke which prompted more coughing.

As he toyed trying to pull the cables from the wall, he heard things banging. Firemen had barged into the room, yelling. One grabbed his mother from her spot on the bed, he head lulled listlessly before the fireman hoisted her over his head and motioned for a second to look inside the now pitch black room.

The second fireman yelled his name over and over, trying to find him as he hid under the desk trying to take his prized computer with him. The fireman tripped on his foot and began pulling his ankles to drag him out from under the fiery inferno he was in. Panic gripped Nord at losing his life’s achievements and he kicked the man away, striking him in the wrist and  arm, wrestling free.

More cracks and bangs were heard as pieces of the roof and ceiling boards fell down around them, trapping Nord under the desk and he quickly unplugged the cords by wrapping the base of his t-shirt around them. The fireman was yelling again, desperately grabbing Nord’s leg now, pulling him by his belt out from under the burning beams.

Nord cried out grabbing the tower as he was pulled out from under the beam, the room was as pitch dark as night and he was inhaling so much smoke it burned his throat and mouth. The fireman reached down to grab him, but with Nord’s tower clung to his chest, burning his skin – searing it to the metal – the fireman couldn’t carry both. He tried to pull the tower away from Nord’s body only to pull off a strip of Nord’s skin, bubbling as he watched it burn into the metal tower. Nord – in a last attempt at saving his life’s work – hit the fireman in the collarbone, separating the men in an awkward scramble as the fireman screamed at him. Nord jumped to the ground and clutched the computer as the smoke filled his brain and his eyelids grew heavy.

More beams and pieces of ceiling fell down, creating a permanent barrier between Nord and help. The fireman yelled and screamed before being dragged off by two other firemen who had come back to help. It wouldn’t matter because the house was falling apart. The top floor started to crash down as the three men ran out just in time.

Nord smiled in the blistering heat of the fire, metal casing melting onto his arms and down his legs as he gripped the computer. He saved it, that’s all that mattered. Everything he worked so hard for was on there, years worth of stats, data, items, and epic drops. It was the only thing that made him feel powerful.

His mom used to yell at him for playing too much of the game. She didn’t know the reputation he had. She didn’t know he was the number one player in North American. He was so tired.

He coughed as his eyes slid closed.

They’ll come back for him - he was invincible.

The rest of the house collapsed.





Read more stories with themes submitted by social media here.

17 July, 2013

About Clover

My name is Clover and I've struggled with duality my entire life. I am comprised of a few different things, but I have two very distinct things that define me:

1.  I'm what you would call a Chic Geek; someone who does not embody the traditional geek appearance  but still facilitates the stereotypes that encompass the traditional geek lifestyle.

Dictionary.com explains:

Chic
Pronunciation: [Sheek]

Adjective
1. Attractive and fashionable; stylish

Noun
2. Style and elegance, especially in dress
3. Stylishness

Geek
Pronunciation: [Geek]

Noun Slang
1. A computer expert or enthusiast (a self-referencing term of pride)
2. A peculiar or otherwise dislikable person, especially one who is perceived to be overly intellectual

---------

While I certainly don't claim to be overly intellectual (or a dislikable person!), I do hold an Honours Degree in Communications with a Specialization in Digital Culture (formally Information Technology), and a Minor in Applied Computing, so I feel that I am definitely at least some tier of Geek. I also work at a video company so hey, there's that too.

I have been a geek all my life; I've loved video games since the 1989 Nintendo Gameboy and grew up with Zelda, Sonic, Cecil et. al. I also was into computers from a younger age too, fiddling with electronics and modding my desktop computer as I grew. However, I've always love shopping, dresses, hair and makeup, so I break the stereotype in that sense; I always have been feminine and geeky.

2. On a whole other topic; I'm a writer. I have been writing since I was old enough to learn, always writing something, creating stories and worlds with my imagination (I also read enough to demolish books in one sitting). I have had things published since I was in public school: poems for a grade 6 Remembrance Day bulletin, story contests etc. As I got older I found myself writing more and more stories for class and for pleasure. Currently I have over a dozen short stories/novellas/etc I have started, as well as several poems and hypertext based stories.

Once I got to University I wrote a short piece on stuff I hated and posted it to the Facebook Notes section on my profile. People commented on it immediately and told me how funny and true it was and that I should write more. Because of the great feedback, I submitted it to my University newspaper, and the editor loved it. I ended up as an article contributor for my lat year of university, and lead to getting a lot of my work (mostly NSFW language) published, along with a few other serious articles I did about careers and adult stuff.

I started this blog in 2009, and it got maybe 20 hits a month, which I considered to be a triumph. I wrote mainly about things I noticed, rants or raves, things that bothered me, etc. It got to the point where I started using social media to get my blog out there, and more and more people started reading it. I get comments about how funny an article was, and how much someone liked my recent post. That kinda stuff is why I do it. That and the babes-Wait.

Eventually my blog took off enough that I have been increasing my viewers tenfold, and each month I beat out my record of the previous month's numbers. I started to use the blog as a vessel to display some of my writing, as an eventual goal of becoming a published author, or writer of some kind - books preferably.

Anyway, that is the ins and outs of me, my blog, and how I'm a square peg trying to fit into the star shaped hole of the gaming industry.

16 July, 2013

Contact Clover





Contact Clover for:
  • Submitting article/vlog ideas
  • Asking a relationship/job/friendship/life question for #AskClover
  • General questions or comments





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Daisies - A Short Story

Story idea submitted by @Fluxuations: Retribution versus revenge


If you looked at Kathy from across the grocery store, or walking down the street, you’d see her sunny exterior, smiling face, and golden yellow eyes. She had a little cat everyone adored; she waved at all the neighbours, gathered your mail, and righted your garbage bins when the raccoons got at them overnight.
If you looked at Kathy up close you’d see the daily fa├žade of sunshine, worry lines flowing into her forced smile like streams coming into a river, and her golden yellow eyes, which darted back and forth whenever she was alone.

Oh, not many people noticed. Some waved back, “Kathy is such a great neighbour,” most would exclaim, leaning against their white picket fence – coffee in hand – shooting the shit with a passerby.

Nobody noticed Kathy’s bruised forearms, yellow circles matching her eagle-eyes, or old, worn-out baggy clothes. They just saw the mask Kathy wore to hide the abuse.

Phil moved into Kathy’s house about a year ago – the wedding was small. They only dated for a few months. The abuse started not long after the marriage. Kathy was afraid to be alone, and Phil needed someone to sponge off of since being let go from his job (multiple jobs if we’re being realistic). She bought him a truck, paid all the rent, shopped and paid for groceries, his cell phone bill, and even gave him an allowance for his beer and poker habits.

To be honest, Kathy didn’t make that much. She was a clinic receptionist, but the benefits were good and she was in a union. She made bonuses too. So she didn’t mind buying Phil the things he asked for it if made him happy. And when Phil was happy he wasn’t beating the shit out of her. It was a win-win.

One day, Kathy was getting home from an evening shift at the clinic – was about 1am or so – when she rolled up to her darkened house (why would he bother leaving the light on for her?). She got out and stood on the cracked tar driveway and just stared at the door. Her face was conflicted and emotions pooled in the lines which etched her face.

I live across the street, and also work nights, and was sitting on my porch with a cup of coffee before I headed into the hospital where I worked. “Run!” I whispered out loud, clutching the mug in my hand, leaning in watching the confliction in her face. As if she heard me she turned around and met my worried gaze. For a split second – no longer than an instant – her eyes asked me to help her, to tell her what she should do. As quickly as it happened it ended, and she raised a hand cheerily to me before walking briskly into her house.

I knew all about Phil’s type – I saw it all the time in the hospital. I knew the marks, and I recognized the signs. I called the cops so many times when I heard Kathy start screaming, so he started to cover her face with a pillow. I could tell by the burst blood vessels in her eyes from lack of oxygen. I stopped calling the cops then.

The next week I saw Kathy out gardening – a rarity because Phil liked to keep her in the house so nobody else could talk to her. He must be at the bar. She seemed almost happy, digging little holes and dropping in little bundles of daisy roots. I casually sauntered down my driveway to the mailbox, which I opened and stood for a while, painstakingly pouring over ever detail in the redundant spam mailers sent out that week. Every few seconds I’d peer at Kathy through my periphery hoping she’d see me.

After a few minutes of researching spray tans and discount clothing ads I took a risk and walked over. Kathy saw me and smiled meekly as I stopped in front of her daisy mounds.

“Great looking garden Kathy, it’s going to look good when it’s done.” I smiled down at her, prompting a response with my eyes.

“Thanks,” she showed a genuine smile, “Daisies are the only thing I can… afford right now.” Her smile vanished just as fast as it came, and sadly averted her eyes and grabbed more bundles from a plastic tray to put into the holes she’d dug earlier with a brand new shovel laying by my feet. Her cat darted out of the bushes and rubbed against her faded blue jeans. She smiled once again and lovingly scratched under its chin before it zipped off again. As she reached for more daisies I noticed the splint on her ring and forefingers. Black and blue bruising seeped from under them up her wrist. Emotion made my heart clench.

“Kathy…” I reached into my wallet and retrieved my business card and handed it to her dirty gloves. “If you need anything let me know. Shrink’s aren’t all bad.” I forced a quick chuckle as I looked down at her studying the card carefully. She caught my gaze and returned it hopelessly, without a word exchanged, I said goodbye and walked back to my place.

The next few days I didn’t see Kathy, I worked a lot of nights so I was always sleeping during the day. Her beat up little car was gone from her wrinkled driveway, and I knew she wasn’t home because the papers piled up before I walked over to get them. I kept my eye on the house as the days went by, not even a trace of her little black cat. Nobody was home and I had a real bad feeling.

It was about a week later when I heard the doorbell. A nice young police officer stood in front of me, while a slew of them walked in and out of Kathy’s house in the background. My stomach dropped and my heart lurched in my chest.

Oh god he killed her. He found my card and he beat her to death.

“Sir do you know a Kathy and Phil Innis, live across the street?” He turned his back slightly to point behind him at the wad of cops. I nodded while I thought about what to say next.

“Have you seen Phil Innis in the last week? His wife reported him missing and we can’t seem to find him.” Relief flooded to my face life a wave and the breath I’d been holding (unbeknownst to me) was released in a sort of spit-tornado of air. The cop’s eyebrow went up if only for a tick, and he prompted me again. “Sir, Phil Innis? Have you seen him?”

“I, uh,” I stammered slightly as I saw Kathy out of the corner of my eye with the cops. They talked and wrote in their notepads, Kathy nodded a lot. Suddenly she looked past the cop to me, and we made eye contact. My head was instantly slammed with information from her eyes, her look, something about her look.

“I haven’t seen him no.” I finished, looked back to Kathy who was talking to another cop now.

“Do you know if they were having problems at all, any reason he would take off?” I remembered all the calls I made to the police station. I thought very carefully for my next words.

“We – the neighbours and I – suspected Phil was abusing her. We called the cops and reported it several times.” I paused as the cop scribbled and looked up again at me. My heart hammered in my chest. “I confronted him one day. I told him to stop or else I’d keep calling the cops. That was just over a week ago.”
 
A lie.

The cop nodded understandingly and finished scribbling in his pad. “That makes sense. We think he took off scared. We found his truck at the airport. If you see him come back please report it immediately.” The cop handed me a card before nodding and walking off my porch.

A little over an hour later, when all the commotion had died down I saw Kathy outside, gardening once again. My whole body was shaking as I walked over. I was on autopilot. I didn’t know what I would do or say when I got there.

I got to the edge of the garden and saw Kathy in the same spot, planting daisies and humming.

“I'm sorry Phil went missing Kathy. That must be hard.” She looked up, a wad of daisy roots in a dirt ball held in her gloved hand. My eyes smiled but I was frantically searching for any hints. She nodded and was quiet, holding my gaze. It was confident, and I was taken aback.

“I had the codes to the injection room,” She spoke lightly, as if she was explaining how sunny it was. Despite this my skin turned to ice and I froze, piecing things together. She slowly peered up through her eyelashes at me, studying my face for signs of horror. There were none. I was a professional psychiatrist; I’ve heard it all - now.

I followed her gaze to her shovel at her feet. It didn’t look as new as it looked when I was here last. The metal head was scratched and worn and the handle has dirt in-between the new cracks of the soft wood. My heartbeat quickened. We locked eyes and I must have conveyed the one question she knew I was thinking.

Why now?

She glanced away and wiped her brow with the back of a gloved hand (also much more worn looking) and took the sweat of the day from her forehead. She looked up at me briefly, with a look of pure conviction that I had never seen from those golden eagle eyes.

“He killed my cat.”

She pushed a mound of dirt into the new hole housing her daisy clump, making sure it was packed in tight, as if she wanted to keep something in.





Read more stories with themes submitted by social media here.


15 July, 2013

Short story ideas from social media

These are some running topics submitted by you guys. The following are ideas that will be created and dedicated to the submitter:


  1. @Fluxuations: Retribution versus revenge.
  2. Ryan McGechaen: Apathy and Lethargy.
  3. @firstelder_d: Retracing the past and loss.
  4. @SteveNaka: Ninjas and backgammon
  5. Timothy Wedel: Peace in death
  6. @windytusks: Dragon fire and black pantyhose
  7. Ryan McGechaen: Personal Growth in a dystopian, totalitarianism future
  8. Willie Frickelton: Dying wolf
  9. Spencer Pearce:  'State trooper' by bruce springsteen
  10. @timothygarris: Rum and a dwindling cellphone battery.
  11. Jay Jain: inventor and freedom
  12. Angelo Italiano: A killer robot found in the African desert disguised as an elephant. It never forgets.

09 July, 2013

The Best Detective on the West Coast - A Short Story

I can still remember the day Myrian threw herself into my office, victim of the outside rain’s relentless lashing as her delicately heeled pumps flattened small circles on the faded Berber beneath her. The rain had caused her stockings to cling to her long legs, and her once illuminated black hair streamed sodden down her face in long windings strands, gently tracing the lines of her jaw as the water dripped rhythmically onto her leather purse in small taps.

Myrian was classically beautiful: jet black hair, wide dark eyes, and cheekbones you would need a Sherpa to climb. Her long lashes were wet with tears and pathetic fallacy, as she looked up through them and to where I sat in the worn wooden desk I considered my first home.

“My husband is missing,” she barely got the words out before she walked – shaken – to take a seat on a chair once filled with similar weeping eyes, “I heard you were the best.” She looked desperately at me.
I allowed myself to process a small smile as I jerked my head in agreement. My grey eyes remained collected and calculating, mouth gently pressed enough to show concern that came with years of doing this type of work.

Over the next few days I spent the majority of my time tracking Myrian. I watched her go to work, drive to and from appointments, and I stayed outside her house for any signs of her husband, at her request. I knew better – he wasn’t coming back.

Myrian claimed her husband Nate took off during an argument the pair had during dinner. Myrian accused him of cheating on her after she found a pair of women’s panties in his car. He claimed innocence, and Myrian wanted desperately to believe him but couldn’t. They fought and Nate grabbed his keys and sped off in his Porsche.

They found Nate’s car a few days later in the creek. It looked like it hit a tree, spun out of control and pin balled down the escarpment before landing in the November-chilled rapids. Myrian tried to convince me it was foul play – some scorned mistress who couldn’t own him so she destroyed him. They found evidence of a struggle in the Porsche – broken stick shift, scratched upholstery, and footprints on the inside of the windshield, card door, and passenger side window. She was convinced it was murder.

They never found Nate’s body. The police were sure once the Porsche crashed into the ravine that Nate drown, his body swept away by the current that lead directly to the Pacific Ocean – their home in Vancouver made for a direct route that bypassed the harbour.

The funeral service was lovely, they had a memorial stone replacing the traditional casket – you can’t bury ‘nothing’.  Myrian invited me, heartfelt gratitude at my fruitless efforts. She also paid me handsomely, a crisp white envelope filled with my very exclusive salary which corresponded with my title of best detective on the entire west coast.  

Two weeks later I read in the news that Myrian was officially broke. Turns out Nate’s money was tied up in offshore multi-account banking, and upon his death the accounts were drained by whoever else was in on them. The house, the cars, all the money was gone. I felt like I should have warned her but that’s just how the cookie crumbles.

****

It’s a good thing the outside parking lot of her condo was empty or anyone walking by could have heard the fit of giggles and moans coming from the beautiful car. The downside was it had a very, very small interior, and Nate was very, very large. She was just fine with that.

He cupped her breasts in his large hands, gently kneading them with his fingers as his mouth found its way to the base of her neck. He trailed his tongue lightly up her collarbone, licking the beads of sweat developed by their late night rendezvous off her skin like it was sugar. She moaned and slipped a hand in his expensive slacks, feeling him become uncontrollable for her. His breath hitched in his throat, as his moan wavered; he wanted her too badly to keep playing these games much longer.

Nate leaned over the passenger’s seat, tightened his grip around her, and started to pull her on top of him. He tried to position his legs over both seats and recline the driver’s side with one hand. The weight of both their bodies and the angle was too much for the imported gearshift, and Nate heard it crack. She sucked in a gasp as she stared at him wide-eyed, hands slapped over her mouth and she looked at the damage to his gorgeous Porsche.

He smiled and grabbed her neck to pull her down onto him again. They began to grind together in unison as their bodies started to overheat. She cried out as she got closer, nails clutched into the soft leather headrest, as her body started to quiver. She could feel his pulse racing and his motions quicken as they both reached their peak, her long nails unknowingly raked along the delicate leather of the driver’s seat, as his shoes bucked against the side and windows of the car; his frame much too large to rest anywhere else.

When their blood stopped its ferocious drum line, and their bodies cooled in the inside of the car subjected to the November air, they decided to go through with it. They both drove out to the ravine, the one that flows right into the ocean. She got out a few metres behind, and watched him jump out of the car as soon as it hit the tree. He rolled to the ground just as the car came to a stop, steam hissing from the radiator of the popped hood. She helped him push it enough so it started to glide down the bank, watching it pick up speed as it crashed into the trees and into the freezing water below.

They had it all figured out. He’s fake his death so he could run away with her, knowing his wife would contact someone to try to find him. He wouldn’t be found. He had several offshore accounts they could use that would last them the rest of their lives and then some, plus the large sum of money she’d receive. He hated his wife. She used his money and controlled his life. He needed to be free.

He sipped his cold beer, staring out onto the glassy surface of the Caribbean water. The waves lapped gently onto the white sand and the sweet-smelling breezes of coconut and palm leaves filled the umbrella. He looked over at the woman beside him and smiled. She turned her head and smiled back, her grey eyes sparkling.

He’d been in love with her for years, since they were teenagers. She left to pursue her police dream, eventually rising in ranks. 15 years later she relocated back to Vancouver to set up her own business.
He could finally be happy. He had his money, his freedom, and the love of his life. It also didn’t hurt that she was best detective on the west coast either.


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