Paula Charles's Blog, page 2

June's Featured Author - Sarah E. Burr

Sarah E. Burr is one amazing human being. Not only does she write four (FOUR!) cozy mystery series, she also has mad creative skills when it comes to creating book trailers, bookmarks, and all kinds of other media and swag authors need. Check out her BookstaBundles business if you are in the market for those kinds of items! Sarah also cohosts The Bookish Hour podcast with J.C. Kenney, and is active in the writing community, lifting up her fellow authors. I honestly don't know when this woman sleeps!

The third book in Sarah's Glenmyre Whim Mystery series, Flying Off the Candle, came out last week. This is a magical series set in Crucible, New York where main character Hazel has a candle shop and tries to come to terms with her magical powers. 

 Here's what to expect:

Spring has sprung in Crucible, and so has another twisted mystery.

After a string of unsettling murders in their beloved hometown, candlemaker Hazel Wickbury and her aunt Poppy finally feel like the worst is behind them. They're looking forward to enjoying the Big Melt festival, a celebration of Lake Glenmyre's thawing and the arrival of warmer days.

But their budding plans are put on ice when a dead body is discovered in a car near Hazel's cottage. Even more troubling, the victim was a former friend of literary superstar Constance Crane. When the police come knocking at Constance's door, Hazel and Poppy are determined to prove their friend isn't the killer. Their amateur investigation soon uncovers hidden agendas and long-held grudges that threaten to snuff out the peace in their idyllic town.

Can Hazel and Poppy solve the case before they get burned?

Join the Glenmyre Girls for another thrilling adventure in this award-winning cozy mystery series with a sprinkle of paranormal fun.'

I really love this series and have Flying Off the Candle in my que to read in the next couple of weeks.  I asked Sarah to tell us a little about the paranormal aspect of this series. 

Hazel and her Aunt Poppy both possess a special "whim" -- a magical power passed down from their ancestors. Can you tell us a little about each of their whims? If you were to have a whim of your own, what would you like it to be?

You think "magical power," and you think a whim might be fun to have, right? Not in poor Hazel's case. She sees a glowing countdown above the heads of everyone around her, depicting the time they have left to live. Yup, pretty weighty stuff. Luckily, Hazel also wears a special pair of glasses that obscures this countdown--known as a lifeclock--so she can live her life without constantly being reminded of when the people around her will die. Poppy, on the other hand, has a very useful ability. She can see colorful auras around a person, revealing to her their mood, feelings, or reaction to a situation. When she and Hazel are investigating suspects, she basically becomes a human lie detector. Very helpful, indeed! As for me, the whim I'd like to have most is the one Hazel's late mother had: she could touch a book and learn everything there was to know from it. Or, if I had to pick one not mentioned in the Glenmyre Whim Mysteries (yet), it would be to understand and speak any language I encountered...even animals!

Oh, yeah, Sarah. I love both of your choices, and truly feel bad for Hazel. What a burden it would be knowing when your loved ones are going to die. Thank goodness for those glasses! 

You can get Flying Off the Candle, or all three of the Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, wherever books are sold - or click HERE for an easy link. 

Sarah E. Burr is the award-winning author of the Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, Trending Topic Mysteries, the Book Blogger Mysteries, and the Court of Mystery series. She serves as the social media manager for the New York chapter of Sisters in Crime and is the creative mind behind BookstaBundles, a content creation service. Sarah is the co-host of It’s Bookish Time TV, a YouTube channel featuring live-streamed author interviews. When she's not spinning up stories, Sarah reads everything from mystery to manga, plays video games, and enjoys walks with her dog, Eevee. Stay connected with Sarah via her newsletter here - Sarah E. Burr Books

May's Featured Author - Jackie Layton

A big welcome to Jackie Layton, May's featured author! Jackie is one of the sweetest, and most prolific, writers I know. We were both clients of Dawn Dowdle's Blue Ridge Literary Agency, and even though the agency closed when Dawn passed away, we've decided we are forever agency siblings. I was so thankful to get to spend time with her at Malice Domestic in April. Jackie is always smiling and makes me laugh. It's really good to have happy friends!

One of Jackie's many cozy mystery series is the Texas Flower Farmer series. This series features Emma Justice, a flower farmer who rides her bike around town delivering flowers to local businesses. It's the perfect small-town charming read with all the right cozy vibes. 

The second book in the series comes out in just a few days-on May 28th! It's called Clover Covered Corpse and has a to-die-for cover! Here's what to expect:

Emma Justice never imagines working at the farmers market on a normal Saturday morning will lead to her second murder investigation. When two friends become suspects in the latest small-town murder, she’ll help prove they are innocent by tracking down the real killer.      Houston Turner, the successful owner of Texas BBQ Hut, is a hard man and has made many enemies in his life. Revenge, greed, and hatred are some of the motives Emma must sift through to catch the killer. Seeds of suspicion from family, friends, and employees leaves Emma digging for real clues instead of stumbling through the rocky soil of deceit and lies.

Doesn't that sound fun? I asked Jackie why she choose a flower farmer for Emma's occupation and if she gardens herself: 

I've always enjoyed flowers and gardening. I also wanted a career with freedom to move around town and talk to friends and neighbors. Flowers make people happy, and I think it's a good way to connect with others.

Yes, I garden but my current yard is small, and I don't have as much space to grow flowers and I used to. Daisies are my favorite flowers. My first daisy bloomed the other day. For some reason, daisies make me happy.

Jackie Layton is the author of cozy mysteries with Spunky Southern Sleuths. She always keeps a notebook handy to write down ideas for future stories. Be careful what you say around her, because it might end up in a book. 

Sign up for Jackie's newsletter here to keep up with all her latest shenanigans. Jackie Layton, Author

Meet the Woman Who Inspired Dawna

The picture above is of my grandparents, Leoma Dallas Simmons and Rolin Simmons. It was taken in 1967 in their yard and is one of my favorite photos. Leoma and Rolin are the inspiration for Dawna and Bob Carpenter in my Hometown Hardware mystery series. 

At Left Coast Crime a few weeks ago, I was on a panel titled Not Dead Yet: Older Sleuths in Mystery. One of the questions the moderator asked was why each of us chose to write an elderly sleuth.

While Dawna in Hammers and Homicide is 62, I certainly don’t consider her “elderly.” Funny how the older we get, the farther out we push the age that seems “old” to us. Dawna’s not retired, she’s walks to work as often as she can, works in her garden, and is contemplating dance lessons, among many other activities. Like my grandmother at her age, she can still stand on her head. 

What Dawna has done that shows her age somewhat is to stop dying her hair and let her natural silvery sparkles shine through. (Dawna is adamant her hair is silver, not grey!) She’s found that with her silver hair, younger people tend to overlook her, so she can often fly under the radar while she’s snooping. On top of that, she’s reached an age where she really doesn’t care all that much anymore what other people think of her. She’s going to do what she wants and anyone who doesn’t like it can stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine.

The biggest reason I set Dawna’s age at 62, is because she was inspired by my grandmother. When I thought about being a teenager and Grandma running her hardware store, it felt natural to create Dawna about the same age Grandma was at the time. While Dawna quickly became her own person and the two don't share a lot of traits, (my grandmother wouldn’t have told anyone to stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine!), I thought you’d like to meet the woman who inspired Dawna.

April's Featured Author - Rosalie Spielman

Rosalie Spielman is April's featured author, and yes, I know it's May! In April, I started this new feature in my monthly newsletter and just had the epiphany that once the newsletter goes out, it would be fun to add the featured author to my blog. Now back to Rosalie!

Rosalie and I are former literary agency sisters, and she is one of my favorite people. You've probably seen me gushing about her Idaho-based Hometown Mystery series, but did you know she also writes as part of a multi-author series set in Hawaii? 

This is the Aloha Lagoon series and there are 21 books in the series! Nope, you don't need to read the entire series before you read Rosalie's contributions. It's such a fun concept. All the authors writing for the series share the location and the sheriff, but the rest of the characters and stories are their own. How cool is that? It's a super fun series and Rosalie's main character, Kiki, is a dive instructor. She has a swoony love interest, a Hawaiian landlord she calls Aunt, and a hysterical parrot. 

Rosalie's latest contribution to the series just came out this week, and it's the perfect time to read Death at the Spring Fling! 

I asked Rosalie where she got her inspiration to make Kiki a dive instructor, and if she dives herself: 

I got dive certified while in college - so my open water certification dives were in the Puget Sound in the springtime. Mmmm toasty warm. My reason to get certified was to dive with my sister when she was stationed in Panama. Gorgeous water, amazing experience! And yes, a few years later I did go diving in Kauai, and even saw a honu in the flesh! So when I was debating an occupation for Kiki in Kauai, diving was the first thing that came to mind.(And in the first book, when they are looking at where else she had been diving, that was straight from where I had been.)

Rosalie Spielman is a mother, veteran, and retired military spouse. She was thrilled to discover that she could make other people laugh with her writing and finds joy in giving people a humorous escape from the real world. She currently lives in Maryland with her husband in a rapidly emptying nest. For more information on her books or to subscribe to her newsletter, go to her website, Rosalie Spielman, Writer

It's springtime in Aloha Lagoon, Hawaii, and romance is in the air! Along with murderous intentions...The dive shop where Kiki Hepburn works is sponsoring the first annual Aloha Lagoon Resort Spring Fling Dance, and naturally is in charge of the "Under The Sea" themed decor. In between hanging crepe paper jellyfish tentacles and paper mache honu, Kiki witnesses an argument between two men, and is unsurprised to see her old foe Ruby Nakasoma right in between them. But what does surprise her is when, during the dance, Kiki and her boyfriend Dex find one of the men dead, with Ruby leaning over him holding a vicious looking murder weapon! Kiki thinks Ruby's true nature has finally caught up to her, but when Ruby makes a heartfelt appeal for help, Kiki starts looking for a murderer who may or may not be finished...With Dex undercover and suspects as bountiful as springtime hormones, bike-riding delivery men, a tree-trimming cougar on the prowl, and a nose-booping jack-of-all-trades make their way under Kiki's magnifying glass. Will she find the murderer before they find the victim?

Chatty Paula

Hello there! My debut cozy mystery, Hammers and Homicide, launched into the world last week and since then, I've been having a ton of fun chatting with Booktubers, book stores, writing guest blog posts, and all kinds of other amazing things! I want to be able to keep track of all those experiences somewhere so am putting the links in this post. Maybe it's not the best place to keep it, but until I come up with another solution, it'll work!

YouTube Interviews:

~ The Beachbum Bookworm interview from Jan. 20, 2024

Blog Guest Posts:

~ Chicks on the Case - Guest Chick Post

~ Dru's Book Musings - A Day in My Life - Dawna Carpenter

Other Articles:

~ CrimeReads - Cascadia: Crime Fiction in the Pacific Northwest

A Midnight Adventure

A Midnight Adventure is a story a few of us built together on my author Facebook page. I supplied the picture and the first paragraph, then others joined in. II hope you enjoy it!

The contributors were: Larry Kurtz, Sabina Orzari, Shilo Niziolek, and Stacey Sannar. Thank you all!

I tossed a pebble at the second-story window, then slipped back into the shadow beneath the Live oak and dangling Spanish moss. Tonight was going to be the night, if I had anything to say about it.

The creak of the window opening on the 1830s built home sounded as loud as a jet in the night’s quiet. I waited and watched, but no one appeared at the window, only a shadow floated across the room in the soft glow of what I supposed was a bedside light. As I threw another pebble, Jenny finally hung her head out of the window. Her long red hair sat on top of her head in a messy bun. I waved, beckoning my best friend to come down.

Jenny dropped a small green duffel bag out the window. It landed with a muffled thump in the damp green grass. She stuck a long tan leg out of the window and swung herself onto the trellis, where she climbed down as quiet as a mouse. It wasn’t the first time we’d snuck out of our respective houses, and it wouldn’t be the last. Once firmly on the ground, Jenny slung the strap of her duffle bag over her shoulder.

“It’s in there? You remembered to bring it?” I asked.

“Yep.” She patted the bag. “Let’s go.”

Together, we raced into the deep shadows of the woods surrounding our neighborhood and headed to the train station on the other side of town. Once we were out of sight of Jenny’s house, we slowed our pace from a sprint to a steady jog. It was already after midnight and if we were going to do this, we had to hurry.

Gravel crunched under our feet and I was breathing hard when the light over the door of the train depot came into sight. I slid onto the wooden bench beside the front door and dug in my bag for a bottle of water. Jenny did the same and after we both had taken long swallows of water and caught our breath, I eyed her.

“Are you ready?” A grin split my face. I couldn’t wait.

Jenny nodded, and we jumped to our feet. We headed around the corner of the depot, then climbed through the barbed wire fence one at a time. A barb caught my T-shirt and held me in place. We giggled while Jenny pulled my shirt loose. I’d have to explain that hole to Mom later, but the trouble I’d get into was going to be worth it.

Once we were both in the field, Jenny swung her duffle bag off of her shoulder and unzipped it. She brought out a baggie of carrots and clicked her tongue. A soft nicker sounded from the dark. Out of the shadows, a blaze of white appeared first, followed by the dark shadow of a horse. The mare nudged Jenny with her nose, then lipped a carrot out of my friend’s hand.

The mare’s beautiful sorrel coat mesmerized me, but also made my stomach flutter. I was a bit scared, if I was being honest. I reached out and ran my hands down her soft coat as Jenny pulled a bridle out of her bag and slipped it over the horse’s head.

Jenny bent down, making a stirrup out of her hands, and raised her eyebrows at me. “Come on. Mount up.”

I tentatively slipped my foot into Jenny’s hands and bounced while she lifted me up. I slung a leg over the mare, barely keeping myself from sliding off the other side.

“Grab ahold of her mane and steady yourself,” Jenny instructed me, before crooning to the horse. “Good girl, Star. Steady.”

Jenny led Star to the metal gate, then climbed the gate and slid onto the horse in front of me. She held the reins in one hand and looked at me over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, my breath caught in my throat and my imagination running wild. As a city girl who’d recently moved to small town Georgia, I’d never been on a horse in all of my fifteen years. When my new best friend, Jenny, told me she’d been riding since before she could remember, we’d made a plan for our next midnight adventure.

As Jenny nudged Star into a trot and the wind blew my hair back from my hot face, I imagined myself galloping across the Scottish moors, trying to make it to my true love before he died of the sword slash he’d gotten fighting for my love. The next minute, I was flying across the desert as part of the Pony Express, delivering news of a stagecoach robbery in Tenmile Gulch. The lyrics to “Wildfire” played over and over in my mind.

“She ran calling Wildfire…” I belted out. Jenny laughed and joined in.

Star broke into a gallop, and I closed my eyes. I had no idea where we were going, but it didn’t matter. My best friend and I were together atop this magnificent beast. When I opened my eyes, I wouldn’t have been one bit surprised to find we’d entered Narnia.

The Fairy Ball

The Fairy Ball is a story a few of us built together on my author Facebook and Instagram pages. I supplied the picture and the first paragraph, then others joined in. Initially I thought I would need to write two stories, but the comments from both FB and IG flowed together to make a fun story. I hope you enjoy it!

The contributors were: Riff Niziolek, Shilo Niziolek, Veryl Ann Grace, Karen Lakis, Marcie Siders, Lisa-Rose McKenzie, Stacey Sannar, and Mark Brunsdon. Thank you all!

Magic swirled in the evening air, bouncing against the ancient stone tower like drunken fireflies. Sparks skittered into the thick woods surrounding the tower like a fortress, keeping its secrets safe from prying eyes. Ciara tugged on Liam's arm, pulling him down beside her behind a centuries-old beech tree. The earth, littered with years of long forgotten fallen leaves, gave of a musty aroma as they settled in to wait. Tipsy with anticipation, Ciara peeked out from their hiding spot. The hour was at hand. If the legends were true, a door would appear upon the mossy stone face of the mysterious tower and the lady with the golden hair would emerge just as the sun set. If what her grandfather told her was more than legend, they would have less than one minute to cross through the door before it closed again. If they didn’t make it through this time, it would be another month before they could try again. Liam began to speak but Ciara held her finger to her lips, straining her ears to listen in the strange hush that fell over the trees. Beneath the silence, a faint vibration thrummed. A raven, black and sleek, cawed from a branch outside the tower window, shattering the silence.

As they waited, the sun slipped away and not one thing from the legends had come to pass. Ciara wondered what she’d gotten wrong. Disappointed, she reached for Liam’s hand, ready to give up and return to the warm comfort of her grandfather’s cottage. But then the ground began to rumble.

Doing their best to hold onto the smooth bark of the beech, Ciara and Liam peeked around the tree to stare at the tower, which was now shifting as though the ancient stones had a mind of their own. The outside wall shifted and split at the base to reveal a staircase, soft light glowed from below. A woman dressed in an emerald-green gown, with long golden hair blowing in a sudden strong wind, beckoned to them from the open doorway. The raven sailed out of the tree and landed on her shoulder. Liam gasped.

As she gazed at the woman, mesmerized, Ciara suddenly remembered a time before she was mortal. A time when she lived in a magical land ruled by the Fairy Queen Isabella, who now stood before her. Ciara’s green eyes sparkled as she took Liam’s hand, leading him into the enchanted world below the tower. As the memories flooded back, she became increasingly excited to share this world with her love.

They descended the stone staircase taking care with each step to avoid the twisting roots of the ancient beech trees that entwined themselves through the passageway, always following the light below, encircled above by clouds of silver winged shimmering fireflies lighting their way. Which each step, Ciara and Liam shrunk in stature. As their feet touched earth at the bottom of the staircase, they were no taller than a dandelion. Ciara’s jeans and T-shirt morphed into a butter-yellow gown of the finest silk while a green woolen vest and knee breeches replaced Liam’s mortal wardrobe.

Up ahead, Queen Isabella turned and reached out a hand to Ciara. The raven who’d been her companion was now a dark fairy with hair the color of the blackest night. With a flutter of her gossamer wings, Ciara caught up to the queen, dragging Liam with her through the sparkling air. Soon the foursome arrived at a glen alive with music and swirling dancers.

Sparks flew as Queen Isabella clapped her hands. The music faded away and the dancers stopped twirling, though the air about them still slowly spun.

“Fae of Glen Fa’ilte. Please join me in welcoming Princess Ciara back into our fold.”

The sweet notes of an Irish harp swelled through the misty night air as Ciara and Liam were engulfed with hugs and laughter. The fairy ball continued until the last star gave a final twinkle and faded from the sky.

No Vacancy

No Vacancy is a story a few of us built together on my author Facebook page. I supplied the picture and the first paragraph, then others joined in. I took those efforts and turned them into the story you'll see below. It was a lot of fun!

The contributors were: Sharon Redgrave, Larry Kurtz, Shilo Niziolek, Sabina Orzari, and Stacey Sannar. Thank you all!

Jimmy rumbled into the motel parking lot, the last strains of Bob Seger's “Turn the Page” blasting from the radio. He cut the engine on his Harley, pulled off his black helmet, swung off the bike, and stretched. Just like in the song, he was feeling strung out from the road. He needed a place to rest and get out of the cold. When he spotted the small motel in the middle of nowhere Nevada, he decided it would work just fine.

The building had a faint air of seediness; some paint peeling here and there, but the small strip garden in front of the office was well-tended with healthy looking succulents and cacti that could survive the wide swing in desert temperatures. The small, pink neon sign over the door had lost the top half of the first “f”, so it appeared to read “Orfice.” A small chill ran up his back, but he gave it up to the dropping temperature of the lonely desert.

As he entered the office, a lady with the face of a bulldog and a glint of mean in her eye was turning in a room key. She plopped a motorcycle helmet on her head and snarled at him while digging at her front teeth with a toothpick.

Maybe I don’t want to stay here, Jimmy thought, then shrugged. Better than falling asleep in a ditch somewhere!

Behind the front desk was a doe-eyed teenager, eyes framed by thick orange glasses. Jimmy tried to joke about the weather, but the girl just popped her pink bubble gum and slid the key across the counter, never saying a word or cracking a smile. He took the key and headed up to the second floor, counting down the numbers until he reached room 27. The 7 hung upside down by one lone screw. He sighed, expecting that when he opened the door, he’d find the room in equal disrepair.

The stale scent of years’ worth of cigarette smoke hit him in the face when he pushed through the door. He inhaled, hoping to pull some of that old nicotine into his own lungs. He pulled a half-empty bottle of bourbon out of the leather saddle bags he’d thrown across the ratty, white bedspread, and searched around the chipped enamel sink for a plastic-covered motel cup. Nothing. Irritated, he kicked the plastic garbage can.

Why’d she do that to me? I gave her everything she wanted. Or thought I did. Sure, I’m not perfect, but I’m a good guy. The only thing that kept him sane and stopped his mind from spinning was getting back on the road again, but he was beat. He knocked his stuff off the bed and onto the motel room floor, then dropped onto the double bed with his cowboy boots still on. He twisted off the lid on the bourbon and took a long swallow. He was jarred out of his reverie by the ringing of his cell phone.

“Why the hell are you calling me when you’ve framed me?” he asked. “What more could you want?”

The voice on the other end of the phone, once loved, now only grated on his nerves. Every dream of their future together had been dashed by her lying, manipulative ways. Why couldn’t she just leave him in peace. Let him live his own life. The farther he got away from her, the better.

Several hours earlier, he’d stopped for coffee and a pee break in a backwater town. When he came out of the restroom, he thought he’d seen her little red Porsche parked across the street. Of course, it couldn’t be. He’d left that woman a thousand miles behind.

“Jimmy, just let me explain,” her soft southern accent purred through the line.

“Explain what? How you set me up to take the fall for the shit you and your boyfriend pulled? Just leave me alone, Joanne. Forget you ever knew my name. You’ll never get another red cent from me.”

Jimmy reached down and pulled his saddlebags back up onto the bed, checking for the bulky manila envelope. Yep. The money was still there. A half a million in crisp dollar bills. He didn’t have one shred of guilt about taking the money from Joanne and her bank-robber boyfriend.

“I didn’t set you up, darlin’. Everything I did was for us. I miss you, Jimmy. Please come home.”

A loud pounding echoed on the flimsy motel room door. With the phone still pressed to his ear, he swung off the bed and pulled the door open. Joanne stood on the landing, a pleased smile on her ruby-red lips and a pistol aimed directly at his heart. The haunting chorus of “Turn the Page” was the last thing that echoed through Jimmy’s mind.

Sand Doom

Winner of the Ellie Alexander Writer's Showcase in the Mystery Category - 2022

Ellie wrote the start, and the contestants' finished the story. It was exciting and fun and I was over the moon excited to be chosen as the winner in the mystery category! Below, you'll find my winning story with Ellie's start italicized.

Sand Doom

Bear tagged at my heels. “You wanna go for a walk, Bear?” He did a little dance in a circle and pawed at me.

“Okay, okay. You can come.” I held the door open for him and he raced outside.

A thick fog blanketed the hillside. It felt like it was going to rain. I cinched my hoodie tighter and stepped carefully toward the stairs. It was hard to see through the dense cloud cover. Bear raced down the stairs. I hollered for him to wait for me, as I inched down each step. The sound of the waves crashing onto the sand below helped guide me.

When I made it down, Bear was waiting patiently for me. “Good boy.” I reached down and ruffled his head. “Okay, you can run.”

He ran straight for the surf. The tide had rolled in, washing away yesterday’s sandcastles. I drank in the cool morning air. The mist seemed to hang on each wave, riding in with them as they hit the shore. Bear raced between them. I shivered at the thought of being in the icy water. The ocean waters on the Oregon Coast are cold even on a hot summer’s day. I walked close to the water’s edge away from town in a quiet morning meditation. No wonder treasure

hunters combed the beach every morning. It was like I was the only person on the planet. I could get used to this. Off in the distance I noticed something washed on the shore. It was big, like a piece of driftwood. I decided to check it out.

“Come on, Bear,” I called and hit my hand on my hip.

He bounded out of the water, raced over to me, and shook his entire body. Water sprayed everywhere, hitting me like icy darts. “Bear, stop.” I commanded, brushing water from my sweatshirt.

Suddenly Bear’s ears turned up, and his tail stiffed. He was on high alert. I felt my body tense with his. “What’s wrong, buddy?” I glanced behind me. Fog and mist stretched as far as I could see.

Bear bolted forward. I ran to keep up. Maybe a solo beach walk wasn’t such a good idea.

He came to a sudden stop near the driftwood and let out a low growl. I slowed my pace. I had a sinking feeling that something was wrong. As I stepped closer to Bear, my fear was confirmed.

It wasn’t driftwood that hadn’t washed ashore. It was a body. A man’s body. (end of Ellie's story start)

Yanking his leash out of my pocket, I snapped the lead to my Newfoundland pup’s collar and pulled him close to my side before stepping closer to the body. A gentleman, grizzled features framed by a snowy white beard, lay in the cold wet sand. He was dressed in a dark-blue jacket with two rows of shiny gold buttons marching down the front. A white, collared shirt encircled by a dark tie rose above the buttoned jacket. A matching captain’s hat sat perfectly straight on his head like it dared not move. Incoming waves danced around the man’s feet, tugging at the bottom of his trousers. I barely had time to register the oddness of his old-fashioned attire before my mind grasped onto the fact the man was dead. If it wasn’t for the waxen skin and complete lack of movement, I’d have thought he was sleeping. I studied his face. The man looked so familiar. Where had I seen him before? Was he a local? His wardrobe made me think he might be the captain of a fancy cruise ship. But did they even dress like that anymore?

I racked my brain to remember if any recent sinkings along the coast had been on the news, but came up blank. Maybe a boat sunk overnight, and I simply hadn’t heard about it yet. Could a shipwreck have happened so recently it hadn’t even been reported yet? I searched the sky for any sign of a Coast Guard helicopter out on a rescue mission, but the low ceiling created by the fog made it impossible to see, and the pounding surf crashed against the beach so I couldn’t determine if I heard a chopper, or just the roar of the ocean. I took a giant step back from the body and dialed 911.

Bear whined by my side and pulled at the leash. I signaled for him to sit. The dog plopped onto my foot and continued to whine.

While we waited for emergency personnel to arrive, I studied my surroundings. Windswept and sparse, this stretch of beach felt as familiar to me as the back of my hand. Each blade of dune grass and every seagull’s call felt like an old friend most days. Today, with the sky and sea the same leaden gray, it made it next to impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. A faint whiff of smoke swirled in the icy wind and blew straight through my forest-green hoodie, making my bones rattle as the first raindrops slid down my face. The shaking I felt all the way to my core could have a lot to do with the dead man lying at my feet, but the cold wasn’t helping, either.

Normally, Bear and I’s morning routine consisted of a walk down the beach from the cedar-sided cottage we called home until the old Tillamook Rock Lighthouse, or Terrible Tilly as the locals called her because of the light’s bleak history, came into view. Once I saluted Tilly, I’d whistle for Bear, then we’d turn and head back in the opposite direction. By the time we ended up back on the porch, my Fitbit would ding with a notification that I’d gotten in half of my daily steps. If I did nothing else but stare at the wall for the rest of the day, I was still only half as likely to turn into a potato. But as a kindergarten teacher, it was highly unlikely I’d ever be staring at a wall all day. Wrangling a herd of rowdy five-year-olds used up a surprising number of steps and energy.

The rain beat down harder and the wind picked up until it felt like a sandblaster was pointed straight at me. I raised a hand to shield my face, squinting to catch a glimpse of the lighthouse. Tilly’s light no longer warned seafarers of danger. She’d been decommissioned over sixty years ago, but still stood tall and proud over a mile out to sea as a lonely reminder of a different time. Today, the weather kept Tilly hidden from view.

A flashing red light at the top of the dunes cut through the thick fog. Help had arrived. Bear and I trotted to meet them.

“Sue Breckenridge?” A police officer addressed me as I approached.

I nodded in acknowledgement, then answered all the questions I could while the professionals studied the scene. As soon as the officer released me to my day, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and made a quick call to my favorite substitute teacher. Going about my normal day after the events of this morning wasn’t something I could fathom doing. The sub readily agreed to takeover my classroom for the day. I thanked her profusely, grateful for the reprieve.

Back at my cottage, I took a hot shower to wash away the chill penetrating my bones. Something about the dead man’s features kept niggling at my mind. None of the emergency personnel on the beach seemed to have recognized him, but I knew I’d seen the man around somewhere. Since I rarely left town, it must’ve been locally, though I couldn’t remember where. I sighed and rinsed the shampoo out of my hair.

After a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal and a cup of steaming black coffee, I told Bear to be a good boy while I was gone, then grabbed my stack of library books and headed to the local community library. I looked forward to a leisurely perusal of the shelves, though the fact I had extra time today because a man was dead wasn’t lost on me. Once I found out his identity, I’d be sure to pay my respects to his family.

The library, housed in a three-story Victorian, had once been the majestic home of a seafaring captain who built the home for his wife and daughters to live in comfort while he was away at sea. A great-grandson of the captain donated it to be used as the community library in honor of his mother’s love of books. The library board, more than grateful for the family’s generosity, decorated the library with photographs and memorabilia from the nautical history of the area. The beautiful library worked overtime as a nautical history museum.

“Hello, Sue. You’re not working today?” The librarian greeted me as I dumped my books into the return slot.

Having promised the police to keep the death on the beach quiet for now, I shrugged noncommittally. “I needed a mental health day.”

“Don’t we all,” she laughed. “Well, good to see you, anyway.”

I grinned and headed upstairs to the nonfiction section. A friend had recommended a book about a woman’s adventure in the artic I hoped to find. Halfway up the stairs, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of an old picture on the wall and stopped with a jolt. Turning to face the photograph, I gasped. The dead man from the beach stared back at me. The caption read, “Charles Johansen, Lighthouse Keeper—Tillamook Rock—Lost at Sea, 1887.”

Stunned, I grabbed the sturdy wooden railing behind me and sank to the steps, one hand pressed to my racing heart as the sounds of the library muted around me. No. Charles Johansen couldn’t possibly be the dead man from the beach this morning. But he was the spitting image. A great-great-grandson? Wearing the exact same clothes as his ancestor? Right down to the shiny gold buttons? What are the odds?

With my phone, I snapped a picture of the portrait and hurried upstairs, making a beeline for the local history section. Quickly scanning the shelves, I pulled out three books about Terrible Tilly, then situated myself at a round table with my selections and a notebook and pen to begin my search. Weather conditions at Terrible Tilly were well documented, with heavy storms regularly pummeling the small lighthouse with gale force winds and terrifying waves surging up and over the rock where the lighthouse sat. More than one life was lost during a raging storm over the years, so when Charles Johansen disappeared from duty, they assumed he’d been lost to the greedy sea. Friends had expected him in town that evening, but neither Charles nor his wooden dory made it. They never found his body. I shivered. Charles disappeared on October twelfth, 1887—exactly one hundred and thirty-five years ago today.

I pushed the first book aside and slid the next one forward, scouring the pages to find any other tidbits about Charles. Buried in the second book, I found another mention of his disappearance. The article indicated the man never been married and had no children. I sat back against the chair with a thump and drummed my pen on the table. How could that be? The new information blew holes in my theory about the dead man on the beach being a grandson of the missing lighthouse keeper.

When I’d exhausted all the mentions of Charles Johansen I could find, I absently flipped through the books one more time while my mind raced. How could a man wash onto the shore over a hundred years after he fell into the sea and look like he’d been gone no more than a handful of hours? Obviously, it was completely impossible, and I’d lost my mind for even contemplating such a ridiculous scenario. As I randomly flipped pages in a book made from old local newspaper clippings, a headline drew my attention. Local Woman Missing—Feared Swept Out to Sea. The article was dated October 12, 1902. I gasped and scanned the article. The woman disappeared from the same stretch of beach where Charles, or whomever the man was, washed up this morning.

Slowing down, I turned the pages, searching for more disappearances. A second person went missing from the same stretch of sand in 1917, then another in 1932, both on October twelfth. It took me a minute to see the pattern but once I did, I couldn’t unsee it. Every fifteen years, a person went missing. I flipped through the pages faster. 1947, 1962, and on and on. Like clockwork, one at a time, nine people disappeared from the same place on the same date, each fifteen years apart, starting, as far as I could tell, with Charles Johansen.

My mind raced. It couldn’t be a serial killer. He’d have to be a hundred and fifty years old. What could be happening on that stretch of beach to swallow someone up every fifteen years? And then to spit one of them out looking none the worse for wear? Well, if you didn’t count being dead as worse for wear, that is.

“Today marks fifteen years since the last disappearance,” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Still time to find out what’s causing people to vanish.”

Without gathering solid evidence, nobody would believe something unexplainable was happening right under our noses. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. Leaving the books where they lay, I grabbed my purse and headed out at a run. ­­

“What in the world?” I heard the librarian mutter as I thundered by.

I jumped in my Jeep and headed for the beach access, windshield wipers slapping against the icy rain. As I slammed the car door and headed down the beach, a shimmering wall of silver twinkled from the sand near where the old man had washed up. I squinted. What is that?

I pulled out my phone and opened the camera function to snap a few pictures. As I jogged closer, the glittering wall raced to meet me. Before I could react, a swirling mass of iridescent sparkles engulfed me in a strong vacuum. It felt like I was racing through a galaxy of stars.

The next morning, the local headlines read, Local Woman Missing—Feared Swept Out to Sea.

A Pinch Point

A Pinch Point is my very first officially published poem. It came out in issue #93 of Yellow Mama Webzine in August of 2022, and I couldn't be more excited and thankful to the editor for selecting my poem to publish.

It's a strange, dark little murder poem that I hope you want to read! The first portion is in the image above, but you can click here to read the rest. The poem is now in the webzine's archive, so the original artwork they published with the poem is no longer there.