Standing ankle deep in black, slimy swamp muck, Sgt. William “Billy” Franks paused to catch his breath and to look over his shoulder, for the umpteenth time.

Nothing moving, not even a leaf. Good.

The humid jungle was silent. Even better.

They were still a ways behind him, he hoped. But they were coming. He knew so because every hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, and the neck-hair test had never been wrong before. Not ever.

Unfortunately, he was confident it wouldn’t be wrong this time, either.

Sgt. Franks was parched. His lips and throat as dry as desert sand, a reminder of the last time he’d been in a serious battle, fighting to survive. Hard to believe that conflict beneath a blazing sun had been only a week ago.

He just couldn’t seem to steer clear of trouble, no matter how hard he tried.

No time to think about it, though.

Not now.

Today’s setting sun had already begun to paint the surrounding landscape in various shades of gray and black. Giant shadows crept slowly across the forest floor, feeding on splotches of light along the way.

Night was coming as fast as they were.

Finding clean water to drink would have to wait.

It was time to move on.

He’d fought the enemy—the entire outfit—all afternoon, before finally escaping into the jungle where he’d been running for hours.

The sergeant’s hair was caked with mud and his camouflaged BDU’s were wet and filthy. His rifle, thankfully, was dry. He was exhausted and unsure how much longer he could continue.

They were relentless in their pursuit and he was sure they were closing in.

He had to find the strength to keep moving.

“I will survive,” he whispered to himself.

Suddenly he heard a voice from beyond the vines and thick, lush plants to his left. He dove for cover behind a moss-covered log. Something large and long slithered away through the undergrowth covering the forest floor.

He heard it again. This time the voice seemed closer.

Knowing his options were now few, he took a quick peek over the rotting tree and saw someone standing in a clearing just beyond the tree line.

They called out again.

“Billy, it’s time to wash up for dinner!”

Sgt. Billy Franks, knowing it would not be in his best interest to dilly-dally, stood and used his hands to brush  bits of dirt and dried leaves from his knees. Then he stepped from the small patch of woods into his backyard where his mother stood waiting. He whispered to himself, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a cowboy.”

Glancing back over his shoulder he saw a Native American man standing in the shadows. His next adversary appeared ready for battle.

The warrior whose face paint included two opposite-facing arrows, locked eyes with Billy for a second and then faded into the forest. A drumbeat began to thump from a place deep in the woods.

“Tomorrow, Chief, right after I’ve had my Fruit Loops and orange juice, it’s you and me. Because those woods aren’t big enough for both of us.”

Shouldering the stick he used as a pretend rifle, Billy marched toward his mother, wishing he were five again because being six was really hard work.


Date: June 24, 2023

Time: 1:00 – 2:30 p.m. EST

This, today and tomorrow morning, is your last chance to sign up to attend the Writers’ Police Academy Online session with Bookouture Commissioning Editor Susannah Hamilton. It’s a fantastic opportunity to learn about the many aspects of digital publishing, and you’ll get the inside details about Bookouture and all they have to offer authors.

You’ll also hear about Bookouture’s submission process (they’re currently accepting submissions, both from agents and directly from writers), and the types of genres they’re looking for, which is an extensive list.

 The icing on the cake is that you’ll meet and chat directly with an editor who acquires new books from both new and established authors.

This is the real deal, folks.

By the way, I know a bestselling author who publishes with Bookouture and they’re doing extremely well. I mean … EXTREMELY WELL. They describe the experience as the best they’ve seen in all the years they’ve been a published author.

Bookouture is a division of Hachette UK.

Are you interested in entering the world of digital publishing but don’t know where or how to begin? Well, I’m pleased to announce and offer an exciting Writers’ Police Academy Online course—Digital Publishing Academy. This class is a unique opportunity for writers to learn from and chat with a top industry professional, Commissioning Editor Susannah Hamilton of Bookouture, a division of Hachette UK. So, if you’ve wanted a foot in the door to a leading publisher, here’s your chance!

About the Course

Digital Publishing Academy

Date: June 24, 2023

Time: 1:00 – 2:30 p.m. EST

Registration: $15

Bookouture Editor Susannah Hamilton will talk about all things digital publishing, including what works well in digital, a look at the different stages of editing, and a brief foray into crime and thriller genre nuances for the digital market. Susannah will also give a brief overview of how Bookouture, a division of Hachette UK, works for its authors. There will be a Q&A at the end.

Click the link below to reserve your spot!

About Susannah Hamilton

Commissioning Editor Susannah Hamilton has over ten years of experience in the industry, and joined Bookouture in November 2021. Susannah’s list includes Kindle top 100 bestselling authors, such as Casey Kelleher, Elisabeth Carpenter and Amanda Lees, who have reached the charts in both the UK and the US. Susannah manages every element of the publishing strategy and process for her authors, supporting them every step of the way.

Officer Rudy Kramer drew his pistol, a nine-millimeter that, as always, was set to fire—a round in the chamber, fifteen in the magazine, and the safety off. Then he took a deep breath and a long hard swallow that sent his prominent Adam’s apple down and then back up.

His heart, thumping against the inside of his chest, was a metronome on steroids.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

There was no backup to call.

No snarling K-9 to send.

No tear gas.

No SWAT unit.

To make matters worse he couldn’t find his flashlight.

Like it or not, the time had come and there was no alternative.

He had to go it alone.

So Rudy, a highly-decorated veteran cop who was just shy of his fiftieth birthday, started the search slowly, carefully, and methodically, clearing each of the rooms precisely as he’d been taught in the academy.

Five down.

So far, so good.

Only two rooms remained, including that room.

The one where—

He heard a sound and stopped dead still, holding his breath.

A beat passed and he heard it again.


The noise came from down the hallway.

The kitchen.

His heart picked up the pace.



He aimed the barrel of his pistol down the dark corridor.



Clunk. Clunk.

Ice cubes dropping into the plastic bin.

He exhaled, slowly.

His heart downshifted a gear.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Next came a low hummm and a soft whirrrr.

The refrigerator’s compressor.

The kitchen would have to wait until after he checked the room where “IT” happened.

Unable to put it off any longer, Rudy turned and moved slowly across the hardwood toward the open door of “the” room.

With each step the old floorboards sounded off with a screechy creak.

A lone drop of sweat slalomed its way down his backbone until it dipped beneath the waistband of his favorite boxers, the red plaid pair he’d received as a birthday gift from his wife Ruth, the love of his life since they’d first met in high school.

He paused, cocking his head to one side, listening.

Adrenaline dialed his senses to hyper-alert.

He detected the individual scents of the dust motes that danced in the moonlight spilling through each windowpane.

He sensed his own blood streaming and spewing through even the tiniest vessels within his body.

His eardrums pounded inside his head, begging to hear the slightest of sounds, like those of those stinky dust particles as they spiraled and sailed their way to the oak flooring until they landed with the collective volley of hundreds of earsplitting thuds.

Still, in spite of the cacophony of “house” noises that assaulted his hearing, the absolute quiet inside the home was absolutely deafening, and quite maddening, to say the least.

And there was that constant hammering of the antique mantle clock. The battering and grindings of tiny gears and cogs and wheels as they worked against one another.

Tick … Tick … Tick …

Outside, a brutal December nor’easter pushed and pulled on the leafless, gangly limbs of the old Hackberry in the side yard.

The corner streetlamp backlit the tree’s gnarled appendages, sending its dark shadow in through the windows to wave and sway on the interior walls, including the one spattered with splotchy-red stains and, well, that other stuff. The stuff he didn’t want to think about.

The Hackberry’s tiniest branches and twigs scraped and scratched against the exterior of the house—dozens of skeletal fingers strumming a clapboard harp. The eerie display reminded Rudy of a maestro’s arms and hands as he brings his orchestra toward a final crescendo.

Same song and show every night.

Every single night of his miserable life.

Night after night after lonely night.

Whir, click, clunk, scrape, tick, scratch, and the bump of his grief-induced heartbeat.

The macabre concerto had repeated each night since his beautiful wife, a once loving woman whose mind gradually overflowed with depression and psychosis, used his service weapon, the same gun he held in his sweaty hand right now, to scatter the parts of her that once contained her memories, thoughts, silent prayers, and dreams of growing old together, all over the walls of that room.

He could no longer bear to watch the shadows dance.

The music had reached the coda.

It was time for the maestro’s finale.

The fat lady was singing her ass off.

He raised the gun and pressed the barrel against the roof of his mouth.

Whir, click, clunk, scrape, tick, bump, thud … BANG!

. . . . . . . . .

Tick … Tick … Tick …

0200 hrs.

Wispy fog.

Whirling, swirling.


A lone bat,

Looping, swooping.

Night sounds.

Frogs, crickets,

Train whistle, far away.

Radio crackles,

Against still, night air.


Outside window.

“I’ll take it.”




Front porch.

Yellow light.



Flittering, fluttering



Dried, crispy.





ticking and clicking

across worn porch floor.

Wooden swing.

Rusted chain,




Faded, peeling.


Loose knob.

A knock.

It opens,


Just a crack,

And a creak.

Tiny face,

Crinkled, by

Days long since passed.

“I heard them again, Officer.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Damp, anxious eyes.

Faded gray with time.

“They were at the window, like before.”

“I’ll check around back.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I wish my Bill was still here.”

“I know.”

“He’s been gone ten years this week.”

“A good man.”

“Thank you.”

“Coffee? It’s fresh.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Two sugars and a little cream, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Be right back.”




Neighbor’s house, dark.

Furnace, humming.

Rattles, then stops.


Two minutes pass.

Kitchen window,.

Brightly lit.

Darting here and there.

Full coffee pot.

Silver tray.





For two.

Screen door.

Spring, squeaking.


“Everything’s okay.”

“Yes, I do feel better now.”

“Thank you.”

Warm smells.


Fresh bread.

Pumpkin spice.

“It’s just that, well, with Bill gone …”

“I know.”

A downward glance.

Wall clock


A sigh.

A tear.


Tick, tick, tick.

“Would you mind if I sat for a minute?”

A sniffle.

“I’m tired, and really shouldn’t drive.”

“After all, how would that look?”

“A cop asleep at the wheel.”

A smile.


Just like last night.

And the night before.

And the night before.

At 0200,

Ten years after her Bill passed away.

Only SIX days remain to sign up for a “Seat” at Virtual MurderCon’s interactive event, and spots are filling quickly!

I urge you to sign up asap to reserve your spot at this unique opportunity, one that may never again be available. This is a live event, presented in realtime. Q&A is available at the end of each presentation. In addition, the final session is live panel and Q&A discussion with each of the experts. So have your questions ready, because this is the time to gather the extraordinary details that will make your book zing with realism.

Registration to the Writers’ Police Academy special event, Virtual MurderCon, is scheduled to end at midnight, July, 31, 2020. However, registration will close when all spots are filled, and it certainly looks like the event will indeed sell out any day now.

Again, this is a rare opportunity for writers to participate in virtual, live and interactive, “for law enforcement eyes only” training.

This incredibly detailed, cutting-edge instruction has never before been available to writers, anywhere. Until now.


Sometimes we catch calls that grab us by the gut and then pull and tug until our emotions are ripped from their roots. This was one of those calls.

I Want To Go Home

“I want to go home. I want to go home. I. Want. To. Go. Home.”

“Those are the only words she’s spoken in years, Officer.”

“The last time we saw her she was wearing a blue nightgown. She was ready for bed.”

“Yes, all the doors were locked. Well, with the exception of the front door. That’s the one visitors use. But it’s monitored.”

“Please hurry. It’s really cold out. And she’s terrified of the dark.”

“No, she hasn’t had a visitor in over a year. Even her daughter stopped coming by.”

“I suppose we’d searched for an hour or so before we called you.”

Radio crackles.

“No, sir. Nothing yet.”

“Yes, sir. The handlers and their dogs are on the way.”

Another crackle.

“It’s starting to snow.”

Twenty officers.

As many civilian volunteers.

More on the way.

Two dogs—Bloodhounds.

The best in the business.

Snowing hard, sideways.

Missing for several hours.

Temperatures dip to zero, and then a bit below.

Command post. Hot coffee.

Warmth for frigid hands and numb toes.

Radio crackles.

“I’ve found her …”

Fence. Chain-link.

Litter, scattered about.


The old woman, nearly ninety.

In the snow.

No shoes.

Blue nightgown.

Glasses half on, half off.

Blue lights flittering and dancing among falling pieces of frozen lace.

Snowflakes on a wrinkled face.

A smile?

“I guess she finally made it home.”


Blood, and it's mine

Busy night.

Long night.





Drunk driver.

Break time.


Sounds good.



Night air,



Traffic light.



Right turn.

Skinny dog,

In alley,



In doorway.


No teeth.


Two teens,

Nervous glance.

Speed limit,



In mirror.

Tail lights.

Brake lights.

Signal light.

Left turn.


Around corner.

Storm drain,


Wispy tendrils.


Into black sky.



Then …


“Tip-Top Bar.”

“Weapons involved.”




Blue lights,






“Hurry, Officer!”










Wrist turn-out.



In hand.


On floor,



Everywhere …




Gun hand,


Should’ve been a writer.


Much safer.


A black cat, perched atop an empty moss-coated, concrete flower urn, watched the goings-on at the graveside service of the recently deceased Romey J. Wellington. At the hired clergyman’s first mention of ashes and dust, the aloof animal opened its mouth to yawn and then licked away an imaginary something on its right forepaw.

An approaching evening storm dropped small dust- and debris-filled whirlwinds in advance of the soon-to-arrive roiling and boiling black clouds and jagged bursts of bright white electricity. The exhalations of the impending cloudburst puffed and fluffed the cat’s silky fur, first one way then another.

One more lackadaisical yawn.

Romey J. Wellington’s family, five sons and three daughters (his wife went on to her reward some fifteen years earlier) sat beneath a green funeral tent. There were no tears or outward signs of grief from the motley group of faux mourners—not a peep or a meek weep—as the highly-vocal preacher raised his hands high and began to pray in a booming voice so loud that it could, well … raise the dead.

Instead, the eldest son looked at his wristwatch. The youngest daughter, Roweena, who would turn thirty-four in a few weeks, used her thumbs to navigate various screens on her cellphone. The others watched the sky, looked at their shoes, picked lint from their clothing, and cracked their knuckles. Anything to avoid looking at the old man’s walnut casket with its two solid brass handles and strategically placed matching do-dads.

“Oh, Lord, please be with this family in their time of sorrow. Their hearts are heavy and they—” Stopping the reverend just as he was gearing up to properly send Mr. Wellington to his reward, the storm announced it’s arrival with an earthshaking BOOM! The middle daughter screamed. An honest to goodness “scared the hell out of me” scream.

The cat casually tip-toed over to the tent and claimed a spot on the fake grass rug near the head-end of the coffin. It made eye contact with the preacher who, after giving everyone a second or two to gather themselves, continued his homily. “Dear Lord, Romey Wellington was a kind man whose generosity was—” BOOM!

The bottom opened up and raindrops the size of Gummy Bears began to savagely pound the tent’s emerald green canvas top that had begun to undulate up and down in unison with the harsh and hurricane-like winds. Lightening flickered and zigged and zagged across the dark sky. Tent poles rattled against anything and everything nearby, and they tugged at the metal stakes the workers pounded into the red clay a few hours earlier.

The cat turned to look at the men and women seated in the metal folding chairs. It walked over, rubbing its body across the shins of all eight plus their respective spouses, if any. Then it returned to its place beside the coffin.

Wellington’s children had voted, eight to zero, for murder when the old man announced his decision to donate his entire fortune to the church, leaving them, his own flesh and blood, without as much as a dime. It had been quite easy to locate someone, a meth addict who needed to keep his high going, who’d “done the deed” for a few hundred dollars.

A cool million to the church … Puhleeze.

Suddenly a streak of lightning ripped downward, startling the family again. Brother number three announced to no one in particular that the bolt of electrical energy sounded extremely close.

The cat ducked as a second lightning bolt struck the canvas tent dead center, with a deafening explosion and an unbelievably searing heat.

The blast instantly claimed the lives of the eight mourners and their beneficiaries, the only people who could’ve stood between the church and Wellington’s fortune.

When the smoke cleared, the priest slyly winked at the cat, placed one hand on Romey J. Wellington’s eight-thousand dollar hand-rubbed casket, and said, “Amen.”


All cops work cases that stand out above the others. The ones that seem a bit more senseless than others. The crimes that make no sense whatsoever. And these cases, well, they’re typically committed by criminals whose wiring is sometimes wildly cross-connected, or the ends of those wires are attached to wrong terminals inside a damaged mind—positives to negative posts or something of that nature.

Personally, I’ve investigated numerous murders where the killers lived in worlds all their own, including man who believed martians told him to kill. And there was another man who thought he was Jesus, the Son of God, a divine position that gave him license to kill at will.  These folks resided entirely within the confines of their unbalanced imaginations and the illnesses that fueled them.

The Briley brothers of Richmond, Va. were a pair of siblings who  assassinated  people for fun. The two, Linwood and James Briley, were responsible for nearly a dozen homicides during a seven month period.

Linwood, whom I had the “honor” of guarding once he was captured after an escape from death row, was the first of the brothers to kill. In 1971, while still a juvenile, he sat at his bedroom window with a rifle and took aim at his elderly neighbor through her kitchen window as she went about her daily routine. He shot and killed her. Just for fun.

The Brileys were nothing short of walking, talking, and breathing, evil, in every sense of the word.

But one of the most senseless and mind boggling of all murders I’d investigated over the years was perhaps a killing that occurred on a lazy, summertime Saturday morning, near the noon hour. The neighborhood kids were out in force, with a group of boys playing a game of baseball in a street marred by dozens of potholes. The asphalt road was lined with four-room houses of clapboard siding and rusty tin roofs. Front yards were mostly dirt of the southern red-clay variety. One or two gangly weeds clung to life here and there, but that was about it for vegetation.

Old people sat on front porch rockers or battered, old cloth couches, drinking iced tea from Mason jars. They were enjoying watching the children play, perhaps thinking back to the day when they played similar games in the era when the streets were nothing more than dirt paths that connected their area to downtown.

But this Saturday morning was a day I’ll always remember. It was a case that involved two brothers. Twins, they were, and the very much true story goes something like this ….


Dog Number Twelve: The Brothers Most Grim



Charcoal fire.


Blue sky.



Bats, gloves.


A hit.



Manhole cover.


Fire Hydrant.



Wood plank.


Old tire.



Laughing, squealing.


No, safe!



Apron on.


Hot dogs.



Both alike.


Teen boys.



Delicious odors.


Mouths watering.



It’s ready.


Piled high.



At table.


Give thanks.



Dig in.


Chewing, swallowing.



Clanging, clicking.


Eleven gone.



One dog.


On platter.



No, mine!


Said mine!



Be sorry.


Kill you!



Number twelve.


With fork.



Number one.


By Two.



Eyes open.


Grabbed dog.



Lifeless Fingers.


And Swallowed.



No more.


In solitary.



For Life.


For dog number twelve.










“Spread ’em.”

Prisoner after prisoner.

One by one.

For all to see.

Arms outstretched.




Showing no fear.

Dark and damp,

Concrete hallways.

Steel bars.

Steel doors.

Stale air and raw emotion.

Never a ray of sunlight,

Or a drop of rain.

No breeze.

No grass.






Never-ending chatter.

Never-ending clatter.

Never-ending loneliness.

Never-ending despair.

Never alone.

But always alone.

A number, now

No longer a name.












Never silent.


The hollering and shouting.

The clanging and banging.

Chains rattling,

Doors slamming,

Whistles and bells,


Time crawls.

Days become weeks,

Weeks become months,

And months to years,

An eternity,

A lifetime of agony,

Living deep inside their minds.

An endless nightmare.

At least I could go home,

At the end of the day.


Take off the uniform,

The badge.




Of bars and concrete.

Of broken lives and hearts.

Only to awaken,

To begin another day.

In their world.


“You hear them moaning their lives away” ~ Sam Cooke – Chain Gang


Looking for Classes on Police Procedures or Paranormal Stuff? Check out our April Classes. Now OPEN for Registration!

Yes, I’m once again teaching a fun and informative month-long COFFIN class. This one is called “Murder One: You Can’t Make This Up: Oddities in Police Procedure.” Please sign up to join in on the fun. Classes begin today and are open to the public.

Note: COFFIN is the name of the online workshop program through Kiss of Death. All classes are 100% online via an email loop and open to anyone.

Again, classes are open to the public!!

To sign up: 

To View Upcoming Classes: (signup is always open so signup early).

April Classes:

Murder One: You Can’t Make This Up: Oddities in Police Procedure (by special request)

Lee Lofland, founder of the Writers Police Academy and the 2019 special event, MurderCon, returns to the Kiss of Death Chapter to expand on his most popular articles of THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT, one of the top five of the thirty best police blogs. During this class, this renowned instructor will discuss thing writers miss or things writers get wrong in books. Come prepared to learn and ask questions about Death Investigations, Police Procedure, Police Tools and Equipment, Courts and Research, and more.

Instructor Bio:

Lee Lofland, a Medal of Valor recipient, is a veteran police investigator who began his law-enforcement career working as an officer in Virginia’s prison system. He later became a sheriff’s deputy, a patrol officer, and finally, he achieved the highly-prized gold shield of detective. Along the way, he gained a breadth of experience that’s unusual to find in the career of a single officer.

Killer Instincts: Beyond Boo!: Using Paranormal Creatures, Plots and Elements in Your Romantic Thrillers

NYT Bestselling author Megan Hart guides you through how to create your best monsters, figure out what perilous situations will horrify your characters most, and how to get them to fall in love while on the run from things that go bump in the night. You’ll learn how to decide what paranormal elements you want to incorporate in your suspense and thrillers to give it the edge you might not have expected.

Instructor Bio:

Megan Hart writes books. Some use bad words, but most of the others are okay. She can’t live without music, the internet, or the ocean. She writes a little bit of everything from horror to romance, though she’s best known for writing erotic fiction that sometimes makes you cry. Find out more,

Front door,

Hanging askew.


By one rusted hinge.


Open slightly,

A wedge of yellow sunlight.

Like a strip of carpet,

On dusty plank flooring.


Gun in hand,

Flashlight in the other.

The unknown,

It’s always the worst.


Push and shove,

Door won’t budge.

“I heard a shot,

but I was too scared to look.”


Is he in there?”

“Stay back, please.”

Another shove,

and it opens.


Standing to side,

Chest heaving, sweat trickling.


No answer.


Only silence,

And my own pounding heart.

“Frank …

I’m here to help. You okay?”


Flies buzzing, darting in and out.

Deep breath.

Quick peek,

A minimum target.


Blood spatter,

Lots of it.

Tissue on ceiling,

On wall too.


Sitting on floor,

With shotgun in lap,

“Frank, you okay?”

Useless words.


“Is Daddy all right?”

“Go back in the house.


I’ll be there soon.”


Hand over her mouth,



But hurry.”


Squeeze through door,

Holster weapon.

Not needed,

Not this time.


Friends since high school,

Twenty years, or more.

No face,

No sign of life.


Why, Frank?

Great kids.

Great wife,

Nice house.


Good job,

Wonderful life.


Radio crackles.


“Send M.E.,

and paramedics.

No particular order.”

Doesn’t matter.


Chest moves,

A wet breath.

A bubble,

From somewhere.


Finger twitches,



Another breath.


“Hold on Frank.

Help’s on the way!”


Grab radio.



Victim is alive.


Victim is alive.”


Siting on floor,

Holding Frank’s hand.

Sirens drawing closer.

“Hey Frank. Remember when we …”

This incident was the first time I’d responded to an attempted suicide call. Sadly, it would not be the last.

If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States.



He’s here.

Arrived on the train.

On the rails running through my mind.

Can’t stop it.

I’ve tried.


The rumbling.



Steam and smoke.

Wish it would stop.


Heart pounding.

Can’t breathe.

He’s here.


Heart, thumping.


The incessant scratching,



At the inside of my skull.

He wants out.


I can’t let him.

I won’t!

Eyes open.

Can’t sleep.

Leave me alone.





Tick-tocking clock.

Night sounds.


Refrigerator whirs.

Air conditioner hums.

Tick, tick, tick.

Heart, racing.


Owl hoots.

Cricket chirps.

Tick, tick, tick.

Thump, thump, thump.

Then …



Steamy, wispy tendrils

Steam, rising upward,

Like gnarled fingers

From a tomb.


A scream!

From inside?

Him, or me?

He’s there.



In front of me.


Over there.

No, over there.



Maniacal laughing.

Mocking me.

Taunting me.

Killing me,

From within.






A wounded animal.


A dying animal.




Damp soil.


A grave.


For him, or me?




But …

He shot first.

I did what I had to do.

People say

You’re a monster.


Evil, they say.

You didn’t have to do it.

Easy for them to say.


They weren’t there.



I just wanted to live.



For them.




Can’t sleep.

He’s coming.


The train is on its way.

Always on its way.

Why every night?

Every day?

I only killed him once.


Why does he kill me every day?

* If you are in a crisis please seek help. You cannot do this alone. Call 911, go to your nearest emergency room, talk to your doctor, or call 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). Whatever you do, please talk to somebody.

If you plan to attend the 2018 Writers’ Police Academy, please do drop in on U.S. Secret Service Special Agent Mike Roche’s presentation on PTSD. It’s an eye-opener.