WIN A PRINT OF ‘THE ROSE’
(about 4″x4″), Mounted, Not Framed.
Contest closes Saturday, August 23rd at midnight.
Do you love to garden, get your paws in the soil and feel the cool earth? Do you save earth worms and lady bugs? Gardening serves me well. I unwind. I mentally write another chapter of Forbidden while weeding and watering. The characters stand with me as I snip off spent sticky petunia blossoms or immerse my face into the cool petals of a large, white peony.
Right now, police captain and his prisoner are a bit ticked with me.
Of course, Captain Sharif and his prisoner, Eliza, don’t care about mulching or fertilizing my roses. They wait. Currently Hashim Sharif is in a dark alley hunting down his most reliable informant. Unless I get my butt back in the chair and turn on the computer, he’s destined to spend the next few days cruising the back alleys dodging nefarious low life. At the moment, he’s parked near his informant’s ‘office.’
Would you like to help me with Sharif’s next move? Read the text below and ‘comment’ on how Sharif’ should respond to the last line below (verbal and or action). I’ll pick a winner (random), and send you a print copy of my most recent painting, The Rose. If I use the line in Forbidden, I’ll acknowledge your contribution in the published novel.
A vacant single story house on the right belonged to Drummer – his secret office. Drummer never revealed his true name, so Sharif called him Drummer. For twenty some years he had been the undisputed boss of the city’s black market. His wealth allowed him to live alongside Mayor Aamir’s luxury estate. Sharif shivered at the thought of Drummer’s close relationship with the man who threatened to kill him.
Sharif pulled out his magnum 44, released the safety, and laid it across his lap. His AK47 rested in its bracket between the seats. As minutes dragged on, the night swallowed Sharif into its belly.
An hour later, he caught himself nodding off. Panicking, he bolted up straight. He sensed someone had tried to open the passenger door. Then, a glint in the rear view mirror, sound of a boot crunching on the grit behind his SUV, smelled expensive aftershave through his open window.
Sharif squeezed his handgun’s trigger but not enough to fire. He ducked down below the headrest and aimed toward the passenger window. His cellphone buzzed. “Shit.” The display illuminated, “Caller Unknown.” He gambled on the distraction and accepted the call.
Text came up, ‘Open the fucking door, D’