Joel Cutter's Blog
September 24, 2021
Flash Fiction Friday 3
ridgit - Mother of Runaway Twins
“You will help me.”
“I can’t.” The Burgomeister’s head shakes back and forth, and his flabby cheeks exaggerate the motion.
The determined mother steps close to the man, backing him towards the corner of his opulent office. “You can, and you will.” Her voice is steel, the sound of someone forcing a rebellious child back in line.
Felix smoothes his vest, brushing imaginary flecks of dust from it, avoiding eye contact. “Bridgit, good woman, I have no idea where your boys have gone.” He clears his throat and looks around his office for moral support. A large portrait of him hangs on the wall behind his large oak desk, and expensive decorations, certificates, and letters of recognition all herald how important he is.
You pompous windbag.
Bridgit has no time for men of his ilk, cowardly opportunists who are incredibly skillful at pretending to be useful while actively dodging any activity that might actually help others.
“They are just 14, Felix, surely a knowledgeable, powerful, man such as yourself can locate a pair of young troublemakers in your town?”
The sarcasm riding her words is not lost on the overly proud man, and he sniffs in resentment. “I have bigger problems, in case you hadn’t noticed. Something about a foreign army invading? Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Fire flashes in her eyes, and if he had yet found the courage to actually look at her, he may have sensed danger.
Instead, he slides even further into a dismissive tone, “But don’t you worry your pretty head about it, Ma’am, I’ll handle the affairs of the town, you know, the well-being of a thousand souls or so. You could help, of course, by doing your job as a mother and keeping a handle on your- OWW!”
He recoils from her strike, his hand moving instinctively to protect the ear she just hit with a cupped hand.
“Bastard.” Lightning-quick, she gets him on the other ear, deftly battering both the sides of his head and his ego despite her smaller stature.
“Ow! Stop it, woman!” He does look at her now, and the strength of her will rocks him harder than her well-placed blows.
“Busy are you? Busy licking the German’s boots, maybe! Too much to do here,” she gestures at his carefully arranged domain of petty power, “to help your lowly subjects when they need help?”
He wants to refute her words but is too busy stepping out of range. His back hits the cold glass of a window, and a curtain billows against the side of his face, the smell of velvet as oppressive as the weight of the fabric.
Relentless, she backs him further into the curtain’s bulk, her blazing eyes inches from his own. She hisses through clenched teeth in a forceful whisper, “They are going to try to kill the Germans, Felix. You must find them before they do!”
Genuine alarm arrests his semi-panicked retreat, and he frowns. “SHHHH! They will do no such thing. Not another word, you’re gonna get us killed.”
She keeps her voice low to match his own and presses him even further into the curtain. “They will. They want to avenge their father. They may even get a few of the bastards, and then they will die, and you will have hell to pay.”
Felix grabs her shoulders. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know that Antoine is dead. The army surrendered.”
Sorrow, temporarily buried by her worry for her sons and anger at the petty politician, is suddenly thick in Bridgit’s voice, “I know in my heart he’s dead. He will have fought them and died. My Antione had the courage you sorely lack, as do my foolish sons.”
Emotions battle on the Burgomeister’s face, irritation with the problem she presents, fear of the Germans, and resentment of her accusations of cowardice and collaboration. However, his kind are ruled primarily by fear and greed. With his life and position potentially now at stake, fear easily wins out.
He curses, pushes her bodily back, and stands to his full height. His jaw sets in a mixture of anger and determination. “Where do you think they may have gone? Quick now, I need to know everything.”
“You will help me.”
“I can’t.” The Burgomeister’s head shakes back and forth, and his flabby cheeks exaggerate the motion.
The determined mother steps close to the man, backing him towards the corner of his opulent office. “You can, and you will.” Her voice is steel, the sound of someone forcing a rebellious child back in line.
Felix smoothes his vest, brushing imaginary flecks of dust from it, avoiding eye contact. “Bridgit, good woman, I have no idea where your boys have gone.” He clears his throat and looks around his office for moral support. A large portrait of him hangs on the wall behind his large oak desk, and expensive decorations, certificates, and letters of recognition all herald how important he is.
You pompous windbag.
Bridgit has no time for men of his ilk, cowardly opportunists who are incredibly skillful at pretending to be useful while actively dodging any activity that might actually help others.
“They are just 14, Felix, surely a knowledgeable, powerful, man such as yourself can locate a pair of young troublemakers in your town?”
The sarcasm riding her words is not lost on the overly proud man, and he sniffs in resentment. “I have bigger problems, in case you hadn’t noticed. Something about a foreign army invading? Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Fire flashes in her eyes, and if he had yet found the courage to actually look at her, he may have sensed danger.
Instead, he slides even further into a dismissive tone, “But don’t you worry your pretty head about it, Ma’am, I’ll handle the affairs of the town, you know, the well-being of a thousand souls or so. You could help, of course, by doing your job as a mother and keeping a handle on your- OWW!”
He recoils from her strike, his hand moving instinctively to protect the ear she just hit with a cupped hand.
“Bastard.” Lightning-quick, she gets him on the other ear, deftly battering both the sides of his head and his ego despite her smaller stature.
“Ow! Stop it, woman!” He does look at her now, and the strength of her will rocks him harder than her well-placed blows.
“Busy are you? Busy licking the German’s boots, maybe! Too much to do here,” she gestures at his carefully arranged domain of petty power, “to help your lowly subjects when they need help?”
He wants to refute her words but is too busy stepping out of range. His back hits the cold glass of a window, and a curtain billows against the side of his face, the smell of velvet as oppressive as the weight of the fabric.
Relentless, she backs him further into the curtain’s bulk, her blazing eyes inches from his own. She hisses through clenched teeth in a forceful whisper, “They are going to try to kill the Germans, Felix. You must find them before they do!”
Genuine alarm arrests his semi-panicked retreat, and he frowns. “SHHHH! They will do no such thing. Not another word, you’re gonna get us killed.”
She keeps her voice low to match his own and presses him even further into the curtain. “They will. They want to avenge their father. They may even get a few of the bastards, and then they will die, and you will have hell to pay.”
Felix grabs her shoulders. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know that Antoine is dead. The army surrendered.”
Sorrow, temporarily buried by her worry for her sons and anger at the petty politician, is suddenly thick in Bridgit’s voice, “I know in my heart he’s dead. He will have fought them and died. My Antione had the courage you sorely lack, as do my foolish sons.”
Emotions battle on the Burgomeister’s face, irritation with the problem she presents, fear of the Germans, and resentment of her accusations of cowardice and collaboration. However, his kind are ruled primarily by fear and greed. With his life and position potentially now at stake, fear easily wins out.
He curses, pushes her bodily back, and stands to his full height. His jaw sets in a mixture of anger and determination. “Where do you think they may have gone? Quick now, I need to know everything.”
September 18, 2021
Flash Fiction Friday
“RUN, Anne!” Her instincts scream inside her head, driving her weary legs faster, forcing her gasping lungs to greater effort.
Fear claws at her, for the moment defeating the constant hunger and weakness of body. Fear drives her, consumes her, a base human instinct honed the horrors of war she has witnessed.
A frantic glance back sees those fears take on human-ish form behind her; two Nazi soldiers bull through the thick underbrush that slows her progress, their larger, stronger forms making short work of the sparse lead she has.
At 13 years old, with more than a month since she last had a decent meal, her efforts are a last gasp of desperation, not likely to keep her from her pursuers’ grasp for long.
Must. Not. Stop.
Her world is tunneling, lack of oxygen slowly clouding her vision, but she senses a greater darkness permeates the forest. Something joyously cold and hateful.
“C’mere, girl. Don’t make us hurt you!” The man’s voice sounds no more than twenty feet behind her now, but she dares not look back.
An odd fact penetrates her fog of exhaustion: He sounds happy.
It’s not fair.
I’m just a girl.
Someone should help me.
The fleeting thoughts seem as useless as her flight, but both persist even as her strength fails.
Her vision tunnels further, and her terror mounts at the realization she will soon be literally running blind.
She looks up, toward the sad winter sun, as if to confirm that light still exists in the world.
“Help me!”
A branch snakes out of the growing darkness and she sees it too late.
THWACK.
Stunned, she lies on the ground looking at the sky, watching the sun dwindle to blackness.
Help me. Her lips move silently now, the capacity for audible speech departing with the last of her ability to fight.
As darkness rushes in, a concussion of air accompanies it.
WHUMP.
Her eyes are already closed, and she does not behold the figure who appears next to her, nor the flaming sword he holds.
Full story here: https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
Fear claws at her, for the moment defeating the constant hunger and weakness of body. Fear drives her, consumes her, a base human instinct honed the horrors of war she has witnessed.
A frantic glance back sees those fears take on human-ish form behind her; two Nazi soldiers bull through the thick underbrush that slows her progress, their larger, stronger forms making short work of the sparse lead she has.
At 13 years old, with more than a month since she last had a decent meal, her efforts are a last gasp of desperation, not likely to keep her from her pursuers’ grasp for long.
Must. Not. Stop.
Her world is tunneling, lack of oxygen slowly clouding her vision, but she senses a greater darkness permeates the forest. Something joyously cold and hateful.
“C’mere, girl. Don’t make us hurt you!” The man’s voice sounds no more than twenty feet behind her now, but she dares not look back.
An odd fact penetrates her fog of exhaustion: He sounds happy.
It’s not fair.
I’m just a girl.
Someone should help me.
The fleeting thoughts seem as useless as her flight, but both persist even as her strength fails.
Her vision tunnels further, and her terror mounts at the realization she will soon be literally running blind.
She looks up, toward the sad winter sun, as if to confirm that light still exists in the world.
“Help me!”
A branch snakes out of the growing darkness and she sees it too late.
THWACK.
Stunned, she lies on the ground looking at the sky, watching the sun dwindle to blackness.
Help me. Her lips move silently now, the capacity for audible speech departing with the last of her ability to fight.
As darkness rushes in, a concussion of air accompanies it.
WHUMP.
Her eyes are already closed, and she does not behold the figure who appears next to her, nor the flaming sword he holds.
Full story here: https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
Flash Fiction Friday
“RUN, Anne!” Her instincts scream inside her head, driving her weary legs faster, forcing her gasping lungs to greater effort.
Fear claws at her, for the moment defeating the constant hunger and weakness of body. Fear drives her, consumes her, a base human instinct honed the horrors of war she has witnessed.
A frantic glance back sees those fears take on human-ish form behind her; two Nazi soldiers bull through the thick underbrush that slows her progress, their larger, stronger forms making short work of the sparse lead she has.
At 13 years old, with more than a month since she last had a decent meal, her efforts are a last gasp of desperation, not likely to keep her from her pursuers’ grasp for long.
Must. Not. Stop.
Her world is tunneling, lack of oxygen slowly clouding her vision, but she senses a greater darkness permeates the forest. Something joyously cold and hateful.
“C’mere, girl. Don’t make us hurt you!” The man’s voice sounds no more than twenty feet behind her now, but she dares not look back.
An odd fact penetrates her fog of exhaustion: He sounds happy.
It’s not fair.
I’m just a girl.
Someone should help me.
The fleeting thoughts seem as useless as her flight, but both persist even as her strength fails.
Her vision tunnels further, and her terror mounts at the realization she will soon be literally running blind.
She looks up, toward the sad winter sun, as if to confirm that light still exists in the world.
“Help me!”
A branch snakes out of the growing darkness and she sees it too late.
THWACK.
Stunned, she lies on the ground looking at the sky, watching the sun dwindle to blackness.
Help me. Her lips move silently now, the capacity for audible speech departing with the last of her ability to fight.
As darkness rushes in, a concussion of air accompanies it.
WHUMP.
Her eyes are already closed, and she does not behold the figure who appears next to her, nor the flaming sword he holds.
Full story here: https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
Fear claws at her, for the moment defeating the constant hunger and weakness of body. Fear drives her, consumes her, a base human instinct honed the horrors of war she has witnessed.
A frantic glance back sees those fears take on human-ish form behind her; two Nazi soldiers bull through the thick underbrush that slows her progress, their larger, stronger forms making short work of the sparse lead she has.
At 13 years old, with more than a month since she last had a decent meal, her efforts are a last gasp of desperation, not likely to keep her from her pursuers’ grasp for long.
Must. Not. Stop.
Her world is tunneling, lack of oxygen slowly clouding her vision, but she senses a greater darkness permeates the forest. Something joyously cold and hateful.
“C’mere, girl. Don’t make us hurt you!” The man’s voice sounds no more than twenty feet behind her now, but she dares not look back.
An odd fact penetrates her fog of exhaustion: He sounds happy.
It’s not fair.
I’m just a girl.
Someone should help me.
The fleeting thoughts seem as useless as her flight, but both persist even as her strength fails.
Her vision tunnels further, and her terror mounts at the realization she will soon be literally running blind.
She looks up, toward the sad winter sun, as if to confirm that light still exists in the world.
“Help me!”
A branch snakes out of the growing darkness and she sees it too late.
THWACK.
Stunned, she lies on the ground looking at the sky, watching the sun dwindle to blackness.
Help me. Her lips move silently now, the capacity for audible speech departing with the last of her ability to fight.
As darkness rushes in, a concussion of air accompanies it.
WHUMP.
Her eyes are already closed, and she does not behold the figure who appears next to her, nor the flaming sword he holds.
Full story here: https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
September 9, 2021
Killing Redemption Extract
Caption: Things are heating 🔥 up in Killing Redemption!
Check out this sample - now out in paperback on Amazon.
_____
Running out of patience in the chaos, Pro does the only thing he can. He cradles his rifle in one hand and puts the other on the only part of Rae he has access to. She tries to back further into his hand, but he ignores her, slipping past to reach the curtains behind the couch.
When he sees what is out there, the maelstrom of sound around him becomes muted, and his heart skips a beat. A dark-colored Oldsmobile 88, fancy paint job, undersized wheels. A beaner car. For the briefest of moments, he is terrified, thinking the South Side Locos are parked neatly a few feet from the window, ready to gun his family down. As quickly as he deflects that irrational jab of fear, another follows it, and this fist smashes into him like a solid right cross. Oh shit.
Check out this sample - now out in paperback on Amazon.
_____
Running out of patience in the chaos, Pro does the only thing he can. He cradles his rifle in one hand and puts the other on the only part of Rae he has access to. She tries to back further into his hand, but he ignores her, slipping past to reach the curtains behind the couch.
When he sees what is out there, the maelstrom of sound around him becomes muted, and his heart skips a beat. A dark-colored Oldsmobile 88, fancy paint job, undersized wheels. A beaner car. For the briefest of moments, he is terrified, thinking the South Side Locos are parked neatly a few feet from the window, ready to gun his family down. As quickly as he deflects that irrational jab of fear, another follows it, and this fist smashes into him like a solid right cross. Oh shit.
September 5, 2021
Killing Redemption Extract
He thinks for a moment that she is going to step forward and hug him, but then something crosses her face, and she doesn’t. Once they were very close, like two sides of the same coin, but now a gulf stretches between them, a chasm of different circumstances and life choices. For the last several years, they have been living very different lives. The distance has never felt further than in this moment when he wants to connect with her, but she holds back.
- Killing Redemption.
Joel's comment:
A significant theme of this book is the hard choices that stretch a young man between loyalty to those he loves, and vision of what he believes is right. The same tension exists in many of our lives, and I'll be the first to admit I don't always make the right choice.
What will Pro do?
What would you do, if you were him?
- Killing Redemption.
Joel's comment:
A significant theme of this book is the hard choices that stretch a young man between loyalty to those he loves, and vision of what he believes is right. The same tension exists in many of our lives, and I'll be the first to admit I don't always make the right choice.
What will Pro do?
What would you do, if you were him?
September 3, 2021
Flash Fiction Friday
"Oh, thank goodness!" An elderly woman darts between two distracted soldiers, making a beeline straight toward Andree.
Great. What now? _Andree regards the woman coolly, chin lifted, piercing gray eyes and tightly-arranged hair demanding the civilian be quick about whatever her problem is.
"Thank goodness," The woman repeats herself, quite inefficiently.
From her appearance, Andree decides she is a farmer. She wrinkles her nose. _A pig farmer, it would seem.
Mildly worried the flustered, odoriferous woman will never get past her exclamatory introduction, or perhaps may not even possess the capacity for rational though, Andree speaks, emphasizing each word to try to break through the woman's hysteria.
"What. Do. You. WANT?"
Pig-farmer-woman recoils as Andree's harsh words lash her, and the Nazi Lieutenant experiences a thrill of sick joy at the easy power her position grants. She would rather be on the front lines, gunning down filthy swine, than talking to the mother of them. Always make the best of a bad thing, Andree.
She internally gloats over the woman's fear, in no hurry to address her concerns until they are stated clearly, at the very least.
The farmeress gathers herself, her backbone visibly straightening as a dark, accusatory look spreads across her softly-lined features. "You are a woman. Please, you must help. They are chasing a young girl." She points unhelpfully in the direction of a nearby field.
"I am an Oberleutnant," Andree counters, "and I know they are."
"You do? Well, can't you stop them?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "She's just a lass. It's not right!" The woman's fear is abating, her concern for another diminishing Andree's power over her.
Time to fix that.
Read the full story at https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
Great. What now? _Andree regards the woman coolly, chin lifted, piercing gray eyes and tightly-arranged hair demanding the civilian be quick about whatever her problem is.
"Thank goodness," The woman repeats herself, quite inefficiently.
From her appearance, Andree decides she is a farmer. She wrinkles her nose. _A pig farmer, it would seem.
Mildly worried the flustered, odoriferous woman will never get past her exclamatory introduction, or perhaps may not even possess the capacity for rational though, Andree speaks, emphasizing each word to try to break through the woman's hysteria.
"What. Do. You. WANT?"
Pig-farmer-woman recoils as Andree's harsh words lash her, and the Nazi Lieutenant experiences a thrill of sick joy at the easy power her position grants. She would rather be on the front lines, gunning down filthy swine, than talking to the mother of them. Always make the best of a bad thing, Andree.
She internally gloats over the woman's fear, in no hurry to address her concerns until they are stated clearly, at the very least.
The farmeress gathers herself, her backbone visibly straightening as a dark, accusatory look spreads across her softly-lined features. "You are a woman. Please, you must help. They are chasing a young girl." She points unhelpfully in the direction of a nearby field.
"I am an Oberleutnant," Andree counters, "and I know they are."
"You do? Well, can't you stop them?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "She's just a lass. It's not right!" The woman's fear is abating, her concern for another diminishing Andree's power over her.
Time to fix that.
Read the full story at https://www.worldanvil.com/w/guardian...
August 21, 2021
Killing Redemption Extract
Hey everyone, check out this scene from Killing Redemption.
It’s surprising how much work is involved for police officers trying to tackle even basic gang activity.
When gang members, sometimes the community at large, wont talk to the police, it takes an old hand to
help the new detective put the pieces of the puzzle together.
In this scene, young female detective Contreras, is teasing information out of an older cynical detective,
Connors.
***
“What gang are the YG’s?” She asks.
He shakes his head. “Not a gang, a generation. Young Gangsters. These kids are born into it and start out
as Baby-G. Around seven to twelve, they graduate to Lil-Gangster, like a hang around, wanting in the
gang. Then at around 13-14, they are normally getting jumped-in -officially initiated- then they are a YG,
a Little Homie.”
“So, you think a 13-year-old kid shot Sleepy the South Side Loco? I thought they were supposed to be
hardcore?”
“Oh, they are, trust me,” he says. “Very violent, very territorial. Fewer in number than the 60s or GBC,
but really volatile. But YGs start hitting 14 and 15 and want to prove themselves. They won’t rank up
again until about 18-20 unless they put in some serious work, and even then they normally have to do
prison time.”
All of this is new information to her, and she realizes the man truly is a walking library. Her head is
starting to swim with the detail though, and they are only 10 minutes away from Hillcrest. “OK. Let’s
focus here. How does all of this have to do with Williams, and why do you think it’s connected?”
“I was getting to that,” he complains before mentally switching gears, “OK, basically we start hearing
about a click, a mixture of different gang sets. All Crips that have been involved in a series of back-and-
forth retaliatory drivebys over the last several months with the Locos. See, since Sneezy, there have
been several more. We get a lead that one of this group is a South Side Playboy Gangsta Crip, a subset of
the 60s nicknamed “Four,” and that he is planning another move.”
In the turn lane for SW 59 th Street, approaching Hillcrest, she looks over at him as he names the gang set,
but it means nothing to her. She is getting impatient that his wealth of information isn’t getting her any
closer to understanding the connection.
The gang expert rolls his eyes. “Of course, I know that Hillcrest has been the home stomping ground for
Playboy Crips for at least a decade.” He shakes his head as if his intel is pearls before swine. “And I also
remember that we had a drug bust, with weapon charges, less than 6 months ago, and the main guy was
a certified gang member, a Big Homie the other guys called Four.”
They pull onto 59 th , and she wrinkles her brow. “I thought you said Little Homies were doing the
shootings.”
“I said that’s what we originally suspected, but this new click was of slightly older guys. Smarter but just
as violent.” On final approach, with only a few blocks to their destination, Conners finally connects the
dots on his tale. “Anyway, before we have a chance to dig deeper, we have another drive-by come out,
South Side Loco territory. Couple of Gang Unit guys happened to be nearby, already wearing vests, so
they head into the area. Three guys bail out of a suspicious car when they see the cops, all running in
different directions. But my boys in the Unit are able to chase down the driver.”
She turns on her signal to pull into the only entrance of the large, run-down apartment complex. Her
mind is already shifting from him to the crime scene they are entering.
He delivers the punchline. “Driver has the word ‘Four’ tattooed across the front of his neck in huge
letters. Admits to being a South Side Playboy Gangsta Crip. Damarion Williams, address on file in
Hillcrest, unit one-hundred-something.”
They pull into the looping parking lot and bank right, heading towards several police cruisers and zig-
zagging yellow crime scene tape.
“Huh!” Conners smiles broadly beside her, pointing toward the numbers on the apartment door that
police are pounding on. “Damn, I’m good.”
Irritated that he is happier his hunch proved correct than sad that a kid is dead, she opens her door with
unnecessary force and steps out.
A sergeant walks forward with a clipboard in hand, and she absent-mindedly signs the crime scene log.
The cracked and faded numbers on the apartment are 119. A police raincoat is forms a makeshift shroud
over a small shape on the ground nearby. Shell casings are scattered across the asphalt, and she makes a
mental note to put a yellow marker by each. Gonna need a lot of markers. Pockmarks are on the
sidewalk and the side of the building. Looks like at least twenty rounds fired, maybe fifty. Amazing only
one person got hit. The kid is lying close to the sidewalk, and she sees a small pair of clean sneakers and
fresh jeans sticking out from under the raincoat. There is blood on the sneakers. She looks away.
Extract from “Killing Redemption” by Joel Cutter.
It’s surprising how much work is involved for police officers trying to tackle even basic gang activity.
When gang members, sometimes the community at large, wont talk to the police, it takes an old hand to
help the new detective put the pieces of the puzzle together.
In this scene, young female detective Contreras, is teasing information out of an older cynical detective,
Connors.
***
“What gang are the YG’s?” She asks.
He shakes his head. “Not a gang, a generation. Young Gangsters. These kids are born into it and start out
as Baby-G. Around seven to twelve, they graduate to Lil-Gangster, like a hang around, wanting in the
gang. Then at around 13-14, they are normally getting jumped-in -officially initiated- then they are a YG,
a Little Homie.”
“So, you think a 13-year-old kid shot Sleepy the South Side Loco? I thought they were supposed to be
hardcore?”
“Oh, they are, trust me,” he says. “Very violent, very territorial. Fewer in number than the 60s or GBC,
but really volatile. But YGs start hitting 14 and 15 and want to prove themselves. They won’t rank up
again until about 18-20 unless they put in some serious work, and even then they normally have to do
prison time.”
All of this is new information to her, and she realizes the man truly is a walking library. Her head is
starting to swim with the detail though, and they are only 10 minutes away from Hillcrest. “OK. Let’s
focus here. How does all of this have to do with Williams, and why do you think it’s connected?”
“I was getting to that,” he complains before mentally switching gears, “OK, basically we start hearing
about a click, a mixture of different gang sets. All Crips that have been involved in a series of back-and-
forth retaliatory drivebys over the last several months with the Locos. See, since Sneezy, there have
been several more. We get a lead that one of this group is a South Side Playboy Gangsta Crip, a subset of
the 60s nicknamed “Four,” and that he is planning another move.”
In the turn lane for SW 59 th Street, approaching Hillcrest, she looks over at him as he names the gang set,
but it means nothing to her. She is getting impatient that his wealth of information isn’t getting her any
closer to understanding the connection.
The gang expert rolls his eyes. “Of course, I know that Hillcrest has been the home stomping ground for
Playboy Crips for at least a decade.” He shakes his head as if his intel is pearls before swine. “And I also
remember that we had a drug bust, with weapon charges, less than 6 months ago, and the main guy was
a certified gang member, a Big Homie the other guys called Four.”
They pull onto 59 th , and she wrinkles her brow. “I thought you said Little Homies were doing the
shootings.”
“I said that’s what we originally suspected, but this new click was of slightly older guys. Smarter but just
as violent.” On final approach, with only a few blocks to their destination, Conners finally connects the
dots on his tale. “Anyway, before we have a chance to dig deeper, we have another drive-by come out,
South Side Loco territory. Couple of Gang Unit guys happened to be nearby, already wearing vests, so
they head into the area. Three guys bail out of a suspicious car when they see the cops, all running in
different directions. But my boys in the Unit are able to chase down the driver.”
She turns on her signal to pull into the only entrance of the large, run-down apartment complex. Her
mind is already shifting from him to the crime scene they are entering.
He delivers the punchline. “Driver has the word ‘Four’ tattooed across the front of his neck in huge
letters. Admits to being a South Side Playboy Gangsta Crip. Damarion Williams, address on file in
Hillcrest, unit one-hundred-something.”
They pull into the looping parking lot and bank right, heading towards several police cruisers and zig-
zagging yellow crime scene tape.
“Huh!” Conners smiles broadly beside her, pointing toward the numbers on the apartment door that
police are pounding on. “Damn, I’m good.”
Irritated that he is happier his hunch proved correct than sad that a kid is dead, she opens her door with
unnecessary force and steps out.
A sergeant walks forward with a clipboard in hand, and she absent-mindedly signs the crime scene log.
The cracked and faded numbers on the apartment are 119. A police raincoat is forms a makeshift shroud
over a small shape on the ground nearby. Shell casings are scattered across the asphalt, and she makes a
mental note to put a yellow marker by each. Gonna need a lot of markers. Pockmarks are on the
sidewalk and the side of the building. Looks like at least twenty rounds fired, maybe fifty. Amazing only
one person got hit. The kid is lying close to the sidewalk, and she sees a small pair of clean sneakers and
fresh jeans sticking out from under the raincoat. There is blood on the sneakers. She looks away.
Extract from “Killing Redemption” by Joel Cutter.
August 7, 2021
Movie up next??
A talented screenwriter named Eric Dowdy in California just read Georgia Rolling and is excited to adapt it into a feature film! He has signed a contract to write the screenplay, and I am stoked to see where this goes!
Thanks to all of you who have shared your enthusiasm for the book and helped make it a bestseller and Amazon Audible!
Thanks to all of you who have shared your enthusiasm for the book and helped make it a bestseller and Amazon Audible!
July 12, 2021
New book: Killing Redemption
Having killed a man at the age of 14 in a robbery gone wrong, second-generation Crip gang member Protean “Pro” Williams has broken free of the violent cycle of his teen years and leads a promising life as a youth pastor and National Guard soldier.
When tragedy strikes his family, he returns to his roots to support his mother and twin sister and fights the guilt of abandoning them to their uncertain fate.
Caught between the perception of success and loyalty to a troubled family, and with danger from enemy gangs and a brutally efficient investigator increasing by the minute, every decision could be life-and-death, and the clock is ticking.
“Gritty, spot on. Joel Cutter knows of which he writes. Watch out, Lee Child.” - Angela Robertson, Editor Sun News.
When tragedy strikes his family, he returns to his roots to support his mother and twin sister and fights the guilt of abandoning them to their uncertain fate.
Caught between the perception of success and loyalty to a troubled family, and with danger from enemy gangs and a brutally efficient investigator increasing by the minute, every decision could be life-and-death, and the clock is ticking.
“Gritty, spot on. Joel Cutter knows of which he writes. Watch out, Lee Child.” - Angela Robertson, Editor Sun News.
July 11, 2021
One week on bestseller list!
The Georgia Rolling audiobook continues to be popular, now on the bestseller list for Crime Action Fiction for a week straight. Thanks for the support everyone!
Georgia Rolling: Drug Smuggling, Organized Crime, and one good man's struggle to save his family
Georgia Rolling: Drug Smuggling, Organized Crime, and one good man's struggle to save his family
