Excerpt: El Vengador

Hard on the heels of Halloween comes this story! El Vengador is my first venture into paranormal horror.

Deputy Sheriff Michael Kirtchner gets an "unknown disturbance" dispatch call to a remote house trailer in the swamp. There, he discovers an old woman and a dog, terrorized by a mysterious beast, which he takes to be a bear. But when he contacts Game Warden Jeff Stuart to come trap the animal, Stuart tells him to get out if he values his life - this is no ordinary animal. Is Kirtchner up against a Swamp Ape - a Florida version of Bigfoot - or something more...sinister?

Based on a true story.

My recommendation? Don't read this at night.

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

~~~


Elsie Moore ungracefully mopped her perspiring brow on the hem of her dress, then continued cooking her dinner on the tiny gas stovetop. A small pot on the back burner bubbled merrily, releasing a spicy smell as white grains of rice, gradually turning a greenish-tan, churned up. As a waft of strong skunk smell drifted through the tiny trailer kitchen from the open window, she wrinkled her nose and stared down in distaste at the skillet containing crawfish and boudin noir while poking at it with a spatula.

The foul odor from outside was not helping her opinion of her ingredients. She wasn’t fond of blood sausage in the first place, but it had been cheap, and she didn’t get into town much for groceries, so she made do. Being unemployed, she wasn’t overmuch blessed with cash and didn’t have a vehicle, so she was forced to depend upon distant friends for a ride to town, or more often, she just walked ― which ended up taking the better part of a day. So inexpensive and quick to get hold of were the rules of the house. The crawfish had come from a Cajun friend who lived up the bay. She wasn’t Cajun, nor was she from one of the local Native tribes, but she knew people in both communities, and they looked after her when they could; she was a fairly skilled herbal healer, and had been known to treat strangers more than once. Abruptly the skunk stench increased to nearly intolerable volumes, and she turned away from the stove, covered her nose with her free hand, and fought back a nearly unbearable urge to retch.

"Damn," she cursed. "Ah’m gonna have ta git somethin’ done ‘bout that skunk den, an’ soon, don’t Ah’m gonna end th’ summer unable t’ eat nothin’ f’r the stink. It ‘uz bad enough in th’ spring when they moved in, but now it’s hot, Ah gotta keep th’ winners open, ‘r suffocate…" Her German shepherd let out a long whine from somewhere in the back yard, and she yelled out the window. "BILLY! HUSH! Ah ain’t got time f’r that racket!"

She returned her attention to her makeshift excuse for jambalaya ― not, she thought, that it would amount to much without any celery or bell pepper, but at least she’d found some wild onions that morning ― and tried to ignore the smell coming in from outside, and which was threatening to spoil her appetite for good. A buzzer sounded, and she reached up to turn off the timer, then put a lid on the pot of seasoned rice, switching off the burner to let the dish soak up the extra liquid and finish cooking on its own.

By the time the crawfish were cooked, the rice was ready. It was early for dinner, but Elsie’s day started early, out the door before full dawn, wild-crafting edibles to eke out her meager supplies of food and gather herbs for medicinals.
The sixty-three year old widow of ten years and three grown-and-departed children dumped the tiny pot of rice into a plate, then upended the skillet’s contents on top. Fishing a bent-tined fork from a drawer, she moved into the den, sat in her favorite chair, and began to eat. After a few minutes, she grabbed the battered remote control and turned on the television. Static and snow greeted her from that appliance, and she reached for another control, fiddling with it until the dish outside had picked up another satellite. The picture was still fuzzy and staticky, but at least she could see and hear the broadcast. Then she settled back with her meal to watch a series of game shows.

Halfway through her meal, Billy, her German shepherd, came to the front door, pawing and scratching as he whined.

"NO, Billy!" she told the dog. "Ah’ll let ya in at sundown, no sooner, an’ yew kin curl up onna foot o’ th’ bed like usual. Y’re s’posed ta be a guard dawg, not mah pet, even iffen ya are mah onlies’ real friend. Jus’ settle down! What’s got inta yew today, no how?"

The dog whined and scratched harder.

"GIT!" she called. There was a scrambling sound on the wooden stoop, then Billy ran around to the back yard, where he began to bark like a fool. "Damn dog."

All of a sudden Billy began to yelp, loud, high-pitched sounds like a dog in pain, or maybe in terror. This mingled with a low growling sound, and unexpectedly the trailer filled with a horrible, intolerable stench. Elsie shoved her half-empty plate onto the end table, grabbed the nearby plastic waste can, and threw up her dinner. Before she could even wipe her mouth, a deafening clamor sounded right outside, and the trailer shook. Billy let out a kind of canine scream, and this was followed and drowned out by an animal roar of rage. The trailer shook again. Elsie shot to her feet.

"BILLY!" she cried, alarmed. "Billy! What’s wrong, puppy-dog? Whatcha got treed?" She ran to the nearest window and looked out. She saw nothing. The trailer shook again. She looked down.

Practically beneath her, pressed up against the back wall of the trailer, was the hind end of some very large, powerful, furry creature. The color was an odd, ticked shade of browns and blacks, mottled with blotches of livid green. A roaring howl, which seemed to come from beneath her, fairly made her guts vibrate. She watched the animal’s hindquarters tense, and the trailer shook yet again. Just then, Billy let out a pitiful yip… and was silent.

~~~

El Vengador is based on a true story. Yes, there really was a deputy sheriff in the Pensacola, FL area who really did answer a call just like this.

Care to see what happens next? Have a look.
 -Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

The Blue Heron, A Guest Blog

The Blue Heron
by Aaron Paul Lazar

Recently I was able to resume my lunch-walks at work. Aside from getting drenched on one particular excursion—and I mean wringing, dripping, soaking wet—I was able to get away from the office for an hour or even and occasional two hours each time. This is the time during which I plan the next chapter in whatever book I’m working on, and it’s exactly how I wrote my newest release, Don’t Let the Wind Catch You, which features most characters outdoors on horseback, cantering over farmer’s alfalfa fields or in the deep woods. Mind you, I am also fully immersed in nature when I walk, and each of the details that surround me end up in one scene or another in my mysteries.

It’s not planned…it just happens. Sort of a process of osmosis, I guess.

You might wonder how I slipped away from work so easily. I know, it sounds terribly irresponsible and unlikely. But chalk it up to me finally making up for numerous skipped lunches. I was due. Overdue. So I took advantage of these late June days that hovered in the low eighties to change into my shorts and tee shirt and get with nature.  

Yesterday, I ran into a blue heron. Almost literally. Quite opposite to any bird behavior I'd ever seen, he stood just ten feet from me on the trail—simply staring with round yellow eyes.

I walked closer, scuffing my feet.
  
Why doesn't he fly away? Can't he hear me?  

I scraped my sneakers against the gravel again. He slowly turned his feathered head and looked directly at me. 

"What are you doing here?" I asked. (Please don’t judge me, I always talk to animals.)

He continued to stare, his eyes the color of Black-eyed Susan petals. I stepped a little closer and took a dozen photos with my camera phone. Oh, the quality is terrible, but I captured at least a faint image of him. I meant to bring my good camera that day, but in the haste of that oh-so-urgent need to escape the world of technology and feel the sun on my face, I left it on my desk.

He stood regal and aloof. His gray blue plumage seemed healthy, full. He stepped with confidence, swinging his head slowly from side to side.  

I spoke to him, again.  "Aren't you afraid of me? Why don't you fly away?" 

I moved closer, but he only walked a step or two along the path, as if keeping pace with me.

"Are you ill? Do you have a nest around here?"  

I didn't dare close the gap further, since his beak looked long and sharp. Instead, I took a path into a pumpkin field and marched along until I hit the woods. On the return trip, I looked for him, but the bird had vanished.  Relief whooshed through me.

He must be okay.

My mind started to spiral. 

Was it a sign? Was this rare and close encounter perhaps my father's spirit, come to visit?  

It's been sixteen years, but I still long for my father's company. I imagine conversations with him. Okay, I’ll admit it. I hold conversations with him. I know he listens, and I often sense his presence. At risk of embarrassing myself, I will admit that I love letting my mind wander in these preposterous ways, even though I know deep down it's farfetched. But walks alone in nature tend to foster such thoughts in me, and I enjoy the fantasies. Not that I'd admit that out loud to anyone. (Except you, of course.)

Today I returned to the trail, camera in hand, hoping to see my friend. I found him, but not as I had hoped. The poor bird lay on the trail, curled and still.  

It saddened me. I considered taking his picture, walked past him, covered another hour of dirt roads, and returned.

Should I? Could I? Wouldn't it be disgusting? Gross? Crass?  

But I did take his photo, and it was almost a reverent thing. Because even in death, his form held beauty and elegance.

In a very strange way, it was almost like closure.

In my usual self-comforting ritual, I started to imagine that perhaps this was a wise old bird whose time had simply come. Perhaps he'd led a full and resplendent life, soaring over lakes and swooping down to skim the water with his feet. Perhaps he'd caught a thousand silvery fish, balancing on long spindly legs while catching his handsome reflection in the mirror surface of the creek. 

How fortunate was I, to have been graced with his startling presence in his last days on earth? I was blessed to have met this feathered friend, in spite of his untimely demise.

I imagine he’ll show up in one of my books these days. But I think I’ll let him live. Maybe he’ll find a mate. And maybe they’ll have babies. Okay, the wheels are turning. I’d best get back to writing that next chapter. 

Remember, try to get outside as often as you can. Soak in the beauty that surrounds you. Every aspect of nature is a gift from God, and as I often suggest to my readers and friends: when life gets tough, take pleasure in the little things. 

~~~

Amazing, isn't it, the things that inspire us writers?

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

SURPRISE!

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com


Twilight Times Books announces the release of The Case of the Displaced Detective Omnibus! This ebook collects the first four books of the series, The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival, The Case of the Displaced Detective: At Speed, The Case of the Cosmological Killer: The Rendlesham Incident, and The Case of the Cosmological Killer: Endings and Beginnings, into one electronic book! 
 

 The Displaced Detective Series is a science fiction mystery series in which the brilliant hyperspatial physicist, Dr. Skye Chadwick, discovers that there are alternate realities, and said alternates are often populated by those we consider only literary characters. Her pet research, Project: Tesseract, hidden deep under Schriever AFB, is her means of looking in on these continua. In one particular reality, continuum 114, a certain Victorian detective (who, in fact, exists in several continua) was to have died along with his arch-nemesis at the Reichenbach Falls. Knee-jerking, Skye intervenes, rescuing her hero, who inadvertently flies through the tesseract wormhole connecting his universe with ours, while his enemy plunges to his death. Unable to send Sherlock Holmes back without causing devastating continuum collapse due to non-uniqueness, he must stay in our world and learn to adapt to the 21st century.


As Holmes comes up to speed in the modern world, he and Dr. Chadwick team up to solve abstruse, technological mysteries. The series has been aptly described as, "Sherlock Holmes meets the X-Files."
 

"…These books are like literary crack. I fell in love with her characters and her world so completely that I’ve been telling all my friends ‘YOU MUST READ THESE!’ And yes, I’ve been doing so in all caps."
~~Melissa A. Bartell,
Bibliotica

 To pick your ebook format and purchase, go to my website here. To purchase an Amazon Kindle version, go here.



--Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Excerpt - The Case of the Cosmological Killer: Endings and Beginnings

Now we come to book 4 of the Displaced Detective series, The Case of the Cosmological Killer: Endings and Beginnings! Enjoy a sneak peek inside!

 

-Stephanie Osborn

http://www/stephanie-osborn.com

 

 

~~~

 

Chapter 1

 

Skye was sleeping peacefully in their bed in Gibson House, and Sherlock was deep in her hyperdimensional equations, reviewing them with all the grey matter he possessed, when a whiff of ozone reached his nostrils.

 

“Good day to you both,” he said into the air without raising his head. “How are matters progressing?”

“We have hopes,” his own voice came back to him. “The experiment devised by the firm of Chadwick & Chadwick, Limited, looks to prove successful.” Holmes’ voice was tinged with humor. “Or perhaps I should say, Chadwick & Chadwick-Holmes, Limited.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Sherlock said softly.

“Speaking of Skye, where is she?” Chadwick wondered. “I wanted to give her the experimental setup and double-check for updates. We told her we’d come back at this time.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I am afraid she did not mention that,” Sherlock raised his head and shot a regretful but firm glance in the direction of the voices, knowing that the other Holmes would read his thought in his expression. “She is in bed, soundly asleep. She worked most of the night and barely ate at all today. I finally convinced her to take tea with me, and then discovered she was too inflexible to even stand upright. She permitted me to manipulate her musculature sufficient to release the kinks, but by the time I had done so, she was in a deep sleep. She is nigh exhausted.”

* * *

 

“Damn,” Chadwick breathed.

 

 

“He has a point, Chadwick,” Holmes observed quietly, referring to the refusal to awaken Skye he had noted in the other man’s face. “It does us

no good if she exhausts herself on our behalf, and falls short of the mark when her body and mind cannot take any more.”

 

 

“I know,” Chadwick agreed. “That’s what I meant, not, ‘damn, she didn’t get the work done.’ She’s me, remember? And she’s pushing herself as hard as I do.”

 

 

“It appears so,” Holmes agreed. “And that is saying quite a bit.”

 

* * *

“Is that her work you were looking over?” Chadwick asked Sherlock.

“It is,” Sherlock admitted.

“Can you make anything of it?” Holmes wondered.

“I can,” Sherlock confirmed. “And it looks good, insofar as it goes. But it is incomplete. And as I have not been in this continuum as long as you have been in yours, I do not have sufficient knowledge of the science as yet to consider even attempting to complete it for her.”

“You are the expert here, Chadwick,” Holmes admitted somewhat grudgingly. “What do you wish to do?”

“Might I make a suggestion?” Sherlock offered.

“Please,” Chadwick said.

“Dial back in around noon tomorrow,” Sherlock advised. “It will not delay your experiment overmuch; for you, it is a matter of minutes. And this will give Skye time to ‘catch up’ her sleep—she has slept scarcely more than ten or twelve hours total in some three days—and I will see to it that she eats properly whenever she awakens. Then she will have the morning to complete her calculations here,” he waved the notebook at them, “and she can give them to you at noon, then eat lunch.”

“Ha! I know what you are doing,” Holmes discerned with amusement. “Just as I—just as we—once managed Watson’s finances to ensure he did not come to ruin, you are taking control of her schedule to ensure she obtains adequate rest and nourishment. I have been known to do that once or twice with Chadwick, here.”

 

 

“And, I would suspect,” Sherlock retorted with the faintest hint of a smile, “she has likely done the same with you, on more than one occasion.”

 

 

“She has,” Holmes admitted, and this time Sherlock did not hear begrudging in the other man’s tone. “We four can become amazingly single-minded when need drives us.”

 

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded.

 

 

There was a brief silence, and Sherlock could picture Chadwick gazing at Holmes with a sort of grateful, wistful expression.

Open your eyes, man, and see the treasure you have in front of you, before it is too late, he thought with some vehemence.

 

Eventually Chadwick spoke again, and this time there was a soft smile in her voice.

 

 

“That sounds like a plan, Mr. Holmes, and we’ll follow it. Tell Skye we’ll see her at noon tomorrow. Meanwhile, you take good care of her, okay?”

 

 

“As much as in me lies,” Sherlock nodded.

 

 

“Which is considerable,” Chadwick chuckled.

 

 

The air crackled, another surge of ozone wafted through the room, and they were gone.

 

~~~

 

 

If you enjoyed it, or if you've been reading the previous books in the series, you can buy Endings and Beginnings here!

 

 

-Stephanie Osborn

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Guest Post: Genre Confusion (Doh!) – Urban VS. Contemporary Fantasy

I'd like to introduce another author with Twilight Times Books, Scott Eder. Today we're bombing his new book, Knight of Flame! Please go have a look at it, and buy it! It's even on sale!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

~~~

Hello. My name is Scott, and I write Urban Fantasy. Wait, no, that's what I did a few weeks ago, before the revelation, before DragonCon.  Today, in my post-DC era, I write Contemporary Fantasy. And the funny thing is that I haven't changed a thing. I still write the same novels, but my genre perception has shifted thanks to the wisdom presented at Dragon*Con.   

I've heard the advice not to worry about genre. Let an agent or editor figure out into which Fantasy subgenre the book should fall since the writer is not typically the best judge. That's all well and good after the fact, once the book is sold and the decisions on how to market it are made. What about when a writer is discussing his work with publishing professionals or other authors?    

When talking about my book, framing it in terms of genre is a natural thing. It's meant to set a certain expectation or set of rules in which the plot unfolds and the characters develop. So, when talking about my book, Knight of Flame, I start off by telling people it's Urban Fantasy with strong romantic elements. Here’s the kicker…I was wrong. 

But, Scott, say it ain't so. I wish I could. I feel kinda silly about it, actually. Thank goodness I came to the realization myself instead of having someone have to point it out to me. I don't claim to know a lot about this industry into which I'm trying hard to break. In fact, I know fairly little.  That's why I keep asking questions, hanging with those who do know about this crazy business, and attending different cons and seminars. Look out World Fantasy, you're next. 

I got my first inkling of my genre faux pas early on. I'd been trying to identify my niche, my stand-out factor. What made my Urban Fantasy novel unique? I realized that one of the differences is POV. My novel has multiple POVs. I haven't seen that much in UF. Most UF stories turn upon the axis of a single driving character—typically a badass detective or bounty hunter protecting their slice of the world from the nefarious creatures of the night. 

I was good with the multiple POV thing. I started talking that up and building my case on how my book differed from the others. That went well until I started asking questions of NYT bestselling UF authors about it and got some strange looks. Perhaps there's a reason there isn't much multiple POV in UF.   

It seems that the general consensus about UF is that the pacing is very fast. That single POV ass-kicker drives through the story at a very fast pace. The characters don't typically amble about smelling the flowers. They find and fight the baddies threatening their town. The tone is dark and gritty, like the dirty streets and water of the cityscape in which they prowl. UF is the noire of the Fantasy genre.  

And that's where it all went crazy. Yeah, I see the dark and the grit and the detective aspect of UF stories. Mine decidedly did not have those elements. I realized the only things my novel and UF had in common was that it occurred in a city (for a little while) and brought magical elements into a real-world setting.  

Sorry, but that's just not enough. So, Knight of Flame is not Urban Fantasy. It's Contemporary or Modern Fantasy. It doesn't have the grit and dark tones of a Faith Hunter, Jim Butcher, or Kim Harrison novel. It's more like the sense of wonder and camaraderie of the Companions of the Hall from R.A. Salvatore's Forgotten Realms books. I loved the interplay between Drizzt, King Bruenor, Wulfgar, Regis, and Cattie-brie. They fed off each other while they saved the world from utter destruction time and again. I wanted to make sure that my characters had that type of relationship and wrote that in from the beginning. Duh. I should have realized.      

The book held true to genre, but the writer got lost somewhere along the way.  

That's not the only place I got lost. This being my first trip to Dragon*Con, I spent a fair amount of time wandering the floors of the Hyatt and the Marriott. When I did find the right room at the right time, I learned, and I'll be passing some of those other lessons on [in his blog --Steph] in the coming weeks.  Stay tuned.  

Have fun, 

Scott 

~~~

See? Even us authors are learning all the time.

-Stephanie Osborn

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com