#Crime Writing

[freddieslater]

A writing question for anyone who might know the answer: If Person A (who had no criminal record) had a notebook for crime reasons that they planted on Person B (who DOES have a criminal record) and made sure that B’s DNA was on it, is there a chance that A could still become a suspect?

#ignore me while I ramble #writing stuff #crime writing #I guess?? #I don’t know how to tag this but if you know the answer please help! #I need to know if A could be able to plant the notebook and get away without his name even being brought up

[anxiety-banana]

(in relation to the contemporary fiction post) HOW DO YOU WRITE REALISTIC CRIME PLS AND THANK YOU I'M STRUGGLING SO HARD

Tysm for the ask!! This is referencing this post on writing realistic/contemporary fiction.

As for crime! I'm not primarily a crime author, though I've written quite a bit of it, and would be happy to help where I can :)

Writing realistic fiction in relation to the crime genre grants you a couple very good things, including higher stakes, and a concrete arc/plot.

Among the downsides, however, there are many. You have to figure out the main relationships. Is the MC the detective, the victim, a bystander, etc? Are they romantically involved with anyone? Are they going to become romantically involved? Are they a loner?

My best piece of advice for character related problems is this: pick a main relationship to focus on, and pick at least one problem that will arise because of it. This gives you a driven motive to continue the story (the relationship), and added tension when things inevitably go wrong. For example!

MC is the detective on a case about an unidentified stalker. The victim is someone they knew from high school or college, and they are forced to get close to each other to help unpack why the victim is being stalked (perfect time for enemies to lovers!). The main relationship is the budding friendship/romance between the old friends, and one problem that can arise is the detective becoming reckless in order to help/save the victim. Another may be that the victim turning out to be manipulative in some way, trying to coerce the detective into denying their moral standpoint, or disobeying direct orders from a superior, making them question both their devotion to their job and the victim.

Boom! Crime novel outline. By having one main relationship and one main conflict arising from it, you ensure that the relationship has tension, and the story continues chugging along.

Another big problem with writing crime is realism.

Overall, there are a few big facts you should know: how a private detective agency/government funded police and detective branch works, the laws involving how officers act, a day-to-day schedule for them, and protocol for solving whatever crime you're writing. There will be various other facts you'll need to know along the way, but by familiarizing yourself with these major aspects will get you the furthest.

Next, and this is a pretty big one for crime, this genre is probably one of the most important ones to plot out in some way. Not knowing how your story will end, who will have committed the crime, etc. etc. will leave you high and dry and with a lot of drafts. By brainstorming either before or while you write, you're ensuring you know where you're going and you won't have to fix ten thousand plot holes by the end of the first draft. I know, it sucks. I hate it too. But believe me, from a pantser through and through, it helps.

Lastly (and this is kind of another general writing tip), utilize Reddit (and other social question-asking platforms). I never realized how helpful Reddit is for writers. Find a few major subreddits that are adjacent to what you write (also r/AskReddit is a great one for general questions), and ask away! Just be sure to mind the community rules. People are surprisingly willing to answer all sorts of questions on Reddit, and often really swiftly.

Keep in mind that none of these are rules, simply suggestions! If you want multiple main relationships, or two overarching plots, please ignore me! I want you to do what feels best for your writing.

Once again, if you have writing questions, feel free to hit me up! I'd love to help where I can <3

#writing #author #writing advice #crime writing #crime #writing tips

[jessicawestonauthor]

This was actually from two days ago, it just took this long to get the video to upload here from my phone, haha! Gotta work my 9-5 today so not sure how much writing I will get done, but I will at least get some brainstorming in! I have been browsing around Tumblr trying to find more Authors/Writers to follow :) I'm specifically interested in following Fiction writers. I love Romance, Mystery, Crime and Horror! If this is you, say Hi!

#romance novel #romance writer #mystery #suspense #thriller #psychological thriller #mystery novel #crime writing

[giuliafc]

Pride Award for Emerging LGBTQIA+ Crime Writers

The Pride Award is an annual grant of $2,000 for an emerging writer in the LGBTQIA+ community.

Are you an LGBTQIA+ writer? Have you written a short story (not fan fiction, original setting and characters), or have you got a WIP manuscript (again, not fan fiction!) of at least 2500 to 5000 words? Then read on, please! Requirements under the cut.

This is the link to find out more and submit your application:

SUBMIT YOUR WORK HERE

Requirements For Application

Here's what is required for submission:

An unpublished work of crime fiction, aimed at readers from children’s chapter books through adults. This may be a short story or first chapter(s) of a manuscript in-progress of 2,500 to 5,000 words.

A resume or biographical statement.

A cover letter that gives a sense of the applicant as an emerging writer in the genre and briefly states how the award money would be used. (How the money might be used is not a deciding factor in the judges’ decision.)

Writers submitting work should have published not more than ten pieces of short fiction or up to two self-published or traditionally published books. While no prior writing or publishing experience is required, the applicant should include any relevant studies or experience in their materials. One year after their win, the award winner will be asked to share thoughts on their win and the impact the award has made. The winner of the award will also be asked to serve as a member of the award selection committee for the year after their win, alongside volunteer judges.

SinC realizes that not all members of the LGBTQIA+ community are able to be out, and we value each individual’s privacy. Winners and any runners-ups who wish to maintain their anonymity may do so, or they may choose to select a pen name for announcements.

And good luck!!!!

#crime writing #queer community #queer writers #award #2000 dollar prize

[lilithsaintcrow]

“During my years as a defense attorney, I never represented a single person whom I thought was beyond hope.“

#legal system #defense attorney #crime writing

[theinkdrinkingfemme]

Chapter 7

Her college soon came into view. The parking lot was packed to capacity, with various makes and sizes of cars clamouring for space between the faltering white lines. The college’s wooden sliding doors opened and Viola found herself in the hallway, its cracked grainy floors suddenly more appealing than the influx of people standing on it. The atmosphere was solemn, everyone silent and grim-faced, the occasional one fraught with worry. Faces fit for a funeral service. Probably in response to Lannie, although she wasn’t dead, though.

Yet.

Banishing the dark thought, she surveyed her environment. The swing doors to the auditorium were wide open, its insides containing multiple lecturers and unfamiliar students setting up bunting, fold chairs and other things, an air of disquiet in its wake. She recognized her head lecturer, with his rumpled jean jacket and drooping Nietzsche-like moustache.  

Approaching the spacious, squeaky linoleum floor of the auditorium, she spotted the familiar head of blue-black hair, and skirted around the folded chairs towards him. 

Colin straightened, blinking profusely at Viola. A greeting.

“I need to talk to you.” Viola glanced about her at the amount of people who were potentially listening.

“In a few minutes, sure.” He gestured to a stack of folding chairs still unfolded and tucked 

neatly in the corner. “Still have to finish this off. That okay?”

She nodded in understanding, before swiftly backing out and sitting on the now-empty bench situated beside the doors. A display of the Erasmus+ places was suspended above the bench, protected with Plexiglas. On an average day, she would stare at the photos of smiling students and foreign places for ages, envisioning herself there, brave enough to have fun in majorly unfamiliar settings and new experiences.

“Said what happened to Harlan, huh?”

Viola looked to see Cora Verdon, an acquaintance slash occasional ally. Her red hair was significantly brighter than her naturally dark roots, and her spectacled face was staring intently at Viola.

“Yup.” Viola wasn’t interested in entertaining a conversation with her, her focus still on the Erasmus+ project.

“It does make sense though, having a little memorial for her..” Cora continued, brushing the coloured pixie cut from her face. “I mean, she was here in my class for a few. Then, nothing.”

Viola tore her eyes away and fixed them on Cora. Memorial? But most importantly…

“She used to be a student?” That would explain the vigil-like air to the auditorium. With Harlan being somewhat of an ex-student, the college would naturally feel obligated to have somewhat of a vigil for her. Or something.

“Yeah. You didn’t know?”

Viola shrugged, trying to keep her voice casual. “Never knew.” She really was a student?

Before she could process this information, Cora’s attention soon turned to a group of boys, who were casting furtive glances at the pair. “Hey, I gotta go. Talk soon?” Without waiting for a verbal response, she stalked off, Viola staring at her retreating figure.

Sitting on the bench, Viola felt like a ghost, invisible to staff and students alike who whizzed past, all preoccupied with their respective tasks and responsibilities. Her others lecturers nodded in greeting, but didn’t stop to exchange words.

Scrolling through her phone, she then saw the notification. 

“Of course. When would you like to meet?”

Viola’s brain scrambled. It was at the back of her mind. Now here it was, demanding an answer. Her heart thundered in her ribcage. Venturing into new territory. Actually speaking to a reporter. How would she respond? Will she be taken seriously, or will she be laughed off as a wannabe detective? Belittled? She took a deep breath.

No time like the present, she supposed. She scheduled a time, typed it, and shut off her phone, her leg bouncing with new nerves.

It was about 15 minutes later when Colin walked out of the auditorium, his breathing slightly laboured. As soon as he saw Viola, staring into space, he slid into the empty space beside her. He hesitated, before putting an arm around her. Her brows were scrunched up, a sign of her thoroughly thinking.

“What are you thinking?,” he asked lowly, careful not to dislodge her flow of attention.

So she did. She told him all her thoughts: her lack of immense emotions, seeing the body. She’d even forgotten about seeing the dead body, with all of her focus being on Harlan, going to her house, her fear of being interviewed, her day being ruined, texting the reporter. When she’d finally finished, the word that came to mind to describe her current state of mind was ‘frazzled.’ The acts of slowing her suspended thoughts, translating them into tangible words, before conveying them to Colin seemed monumental.

“Did you mention the dead body to anyone?”

Viola shook her head no.

He paused for a moment, his arm squeezing Viola firmly as he thought.

“What do you need?”

Did I hear that right? “I don’t understand. Are you gonna help?”

“Don’t get it too twisted. See, I’m not going to stop you from pursuing it. I know that you’ll pursue it, even if I tell you otherwise. Just remember the potential consequences. I can help from the side-lines, but if push turns to shove, I know nothing about it.”

As much as it disappointed her that he wouldn’t actively be involved with something so important to her, Viola agreed. So she told him her next moves: going to the police and covertly asking for information, meeting with the reporter.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, albeit a little hesitantly.

He fingered her navy blue overcoat. “Olivia Pope today, yeah?”, he said, changing the subject to one familiar.

Viola nodded again. A coping strategy she had in navigating her surroundings was embodying a fictional character, copying everything from their mannerisms to their outfit. The sassy yet intelligent Olivia Pope was chosen today, the only difference being that Viola’s coily Afro hair was packed into an updo, affectionately nicknamed ‘the pineapple’ by Colin.

“Good choice.” His gaze bored into hers as he said it, a sign that he was being genuine and not sarcastic.

Colin looked at his watch. “Harlan’s vigil will start soon. Wanna come?”

She nodded, and let Colin place a firm hand on her and steer her towards the now darkened auditorium.

#crime writing #crime writer #author #writers on tumblr #thriller #adventure #female writers #crime blog #crime #autistic writer #autistic character #black authors #black female #black character #mystery #black female writers #psychological thriller #black female oc

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne

Chapter One: Welcome to the Midnight Manor

Maybe it was because he was expecting something more— Gruesome. An expectation making this settle into his bones all wrong. The Mitternacht der Wald was most certainly should not, could not, be not this. Not this strange forest with its twisted and twisting dark foliage. Never lingering, never touching the graveled road. Yet it sang. The Wald sang as if it did. As if its dark roots tangled their way up the sides of the carriage. Singing a song. A song he could almost remember. A midnight lullaby. Transforming— No, Revealing the forest for what it was, a wonderland of midnight secrets. Shimmering and whispering just beyond carriage doors. Beckoning him. Pulling at the very fibers of his being to return. Pulling at his fingertips, making them graze the handle of the door. Pushing the cool brass handle down. Door shuddering beneath the weight exerted yet refusing to budge. Just a little more weight and he can go back. Just a little more and they can’t stop him. Not this time.

No. 

No, that couldn’t be right. This was his first time here. His first and only visit to the Mitternacht der Wald. To this bizarre place, and it's strange manor,  whose visage just began to break from the Wald’s treeline.

“How odd.”

Not the first. Maybe the third? No, the fifth. No? No matter how many times those words have floated through his mind. This place only became stranger and stranger the further he was pulled in. Nothing had met, or seemed to have any desire to meet expectations. Nothing matched its name quite the right way, and appeared to relish in it. The Mitternacht der Wald, and most of all the actual Midnight Manor. It wasn’t blazing pink but it certainly wasn’t a gothic castle horror either. What it was, was a conglomeration of oddity. A hodgepodge of stained glass, open archways, a variety of roof types, winding ivy and flowering vines, and more windows than he has ever seen. All seamlessly blending. All melding in a way that made it absolutely Beautiful. 

Or in the very least fascinating. Created lines for the eye to follow, a spiderweb of the architecture shifting seamlessly from one odd feature to the next. A trail slowly leading to the main entrance with the unhurried shifting of the carriage.

Empty. Yet again.

Agitating. Like an oil slick laggedly coating the skin, sticking to the flesh. But it shouldn’t surprise him. He was an unwanted guest. With the strings and so-called favors that must have been cashed in and pulled to get him here. To get him before the Nameless Lady. He was aware of what it took to get even a brief moment of her attention. Yet here he was with a personal invitation from the Nameless Lady, herself, signed and sealed. Oh, and all too aware that was most certainly forced. An invitation to paint the portraits of not only the enigma herself but of her new heir. The infamous, if not almost as infamous as her, Dorian Payne. 

His liquid gold. His muse. His obsession. His golden beauty. Who had an almost tragic tale. A similar tale to the golden muse's own deceased birth mother. A sculpted angel that ran to the place even royalty fear to try to impose their will upon. A tale that mattered little to nothing to him. All that mattered was getting in. To find what was his. Hidden within the rumored and labyrinthine halls of the Midnight Manor. All of it just past the very annoyed face of the driver. Carriage door thrown wide open. Revealing his baggage all piled, leaning haphazardly against the pillars of the entrance archway.

All it took was a moment. A moment of pulling breath in too quick. With heart clutched by someone else’s hand. And the rush of acid to the throat. Burning along the back of the esophagus. Like bubbles rising and popping in a champagne glass. Then eyes shifted, breath and heart were released. There they were, the most important things. The only things of any true value to him. All in three neat stacks were his art supplies.

“Our Lady would not be pleased if something of that value were ruined due to the sheer displeasure of having you, Mr. Andrews.”

He stopped. Hand clutched to the doorframe, eyes snapped back to the driver. They spoke. He was certain the small lad was mute. With the way they met him and his previous carriage at the very edge of the Mitternacht der Wald. Curt and odd. They made him carry his own luggage the last few meters past the edge of the Wald. Refused both to help or allow the other driver past the limits with only a shake of the head. Answering every several questions with a nod or a shake. It only made sense. 

Sense lost to whatever happened in those few seconds. It made the driver’s head tilt, eyes caught the light and for a brief second they looked— Metallic. Like blackened silver lost as eyes narrowed and lips pulled back, bared, a predator’s smile. 

Then, gone. Both smile and driver simply vanished within the moment of a spider’s breath. Leaving him to ponder if any of this was actually real. Stumbling out of the carriage, door swinging close behind him, just, as it began pulling away if by some invisible force. Knees barely putting one foot in front of the other to pull, or push him towards the entrance. Carriage disappeared as each step brought him closer to the entry and towards his bags. Towards uncertainty. And towards unwelcoming hosts. 

—_____—

He stood within the entrance just past the doors for what felt like an hour, or more likely a gathering of several stifling stiff minutes. Each one spent staring at his own feet. With each minute certain that as long as he didn’t look up the building would not warp around him. It would not be what it was. It would not be the Midnight Manor. The stain-glass windows would fade back to where they belonged. Their colorful sunlight would not be splattering his muddy shoes. And the windows would match the outside. No. All the inside would match the outside. It would not twist and it would not be different than what reality allowed. The solution was simple. He only needed to stare at his shoes. A little longer. Just a little longer.

“Mister Andrews.” 

With two simple words he had failed. The lie had lost all viability the moment his head moved. The moment he looked up past the stairs to the balcony. To the second floor landing. To the figure with hip leaned against the railing of twisted gold vines sprouting leaves and heavy dusk dusted blooms. Looking up at golden eyes, a feature and feat as impossible as all the rest. The figure themselves looked like liquid midnight, a moonless night lost behind clouds and new moon wanings. Hidden behind a mask covering only the upper right quarter of their face. A mask with little horns pressed into the hairline. Hands clasped before them. Chin tilted up with eyes angled down. Watching him, moments ticking by as if they were waiting.

Eyes feeding fear. Unsure, no uncertainty building his anxiety. With each second another piece placed for decorum lost. Stomach to the throat. The smell of acid rising in the nose. Stomach climbed further into his throat as he leaned forward into a swallow bow.

“Thanking you my Lady for this honor—,”

He made eye contact with his shoes again, the figure cut off his even shallower words. A puddle not even a worm would drown in. The figure’s words are monotone yet somehow he knew that the stranger was annoyed.

“Leave the false platitudes for when you meet our Lady.”

They were already gone from the railing when his back had straightened and his eyes had raised back up. Leaving him alone. Again. Leaving him to the rearing anxiety. To feet drawing him forward with each pounding heartbeat. Every other beat a stabbing breath stealer. With each pang, another breath lost. Walls closed in like colored sun stained spots as feet hit the stairs tumbling forward with frantic thoughts. If only. If only he hadn’t insisted, if only—

“Come,” They were back. Standing on the stairs an arms length away. Hand clutched the railing. Gold clawed nails dung in. He must be making Mae angry, again. It wasn’t that hard to do. She never had much patiences. Like the time he— he—. He, what? And Mae? Who was Mae? Mae— “Mister Andrews, our Lady does not have all day.”

“Yes, I am sorry—"

 "False platitudes," she, no, they were looking back. Headed titled, mismatched eyes locked on his face.

Then, gone. Standing once more on the balcony near where the stairs met the second floor. Now leaned forward over the railing, head angled to the lower floor. Looking towards something, and all he can think is “One push”. Just one push and no more Mae. Simple, easy, qui— no. Whoever this was. They weren't Mae.

"Sae, get Edvaars' to move the bags,"

Sh—They. They were talking to someone below them. Someone new. Someone, somehow in a room he was certain only had entry from the floor above. From the floor he was only one last flight of stairs from. From the floor the midnight figure stood leaned over that same railing. Leading eye to the someone new down below. A string he grasped hungerly to. If one was like a moonless night this one was moonlight swirled with vibrant stars and a near willowed match in height and stance. Except for their mask. Theirs was the same design but on the left side with similar little horns pressing into the hairline. And like the other, this Sae locked golden eyes with him and tilted their head. Watching and waiting.

“Mister Andrews.”

“Yes,” Conceivable it could be that he responded too quick or that the whiplash was finally settling in. With the way his stomach rolled or was it the way the stairs moved. Clutched at the railing as he swayed. Crushing a fragile bloom under vice-like grip. Or, maybe Sae swayed him. The swaying of Sae. Sae swayed to the swaying of Sae’s solemn song. The undignified sound escaped through his nose. Cheeks burned, flushing all the way to his fingertips. Mortification yanked his head to the side, eyes down. 

Gone. 

Just gone. Not a sign of them. The second midnight figure, Sae. They were just gone. A fact that remained unchanged no matter how far he leaned over the railing. This circumstance did not change even as he took long legged steps up to the balcony. It did not change as he looked over yet another railing. And it did not change when he looked to the first and back again. They, unlike him, did not look back. Instead continued with clicking steps, getting further and further away. 

—_____—

*Click— Click— Click—*

Each step another bend turned. Another flight of stairs taken. Another window passed. The further he was pulled, and the further he was lost. Maybe, he should have— No, it was too late now. Especially since he was here now. Within these walls. Steps behind the moonless night as it shifted its weight from heel to heel. Taking a graceful, slow pace never once joustling the golden ornaments woven into the thick ropelike strands. 

The same nimble pace shifting silk, fluttering it around thin willowed limbs. Hypnotizing as they moved him through archways leading to slithering halls and magpied rooms alike. Never knowing what the next turn or step would take him. A room with floral paper walls matching the potted plants dappled throughout and a fainting couch where someone has left a single book. A hall with partial paneling, who’s large windows and their deep sills had become home for several potted plants and a dozen or so books. Another room with different walls lined with bookcases with books spilling forth, a torrent tidal wave threatening to consume every corner of space. Books on window sills, seats cushions, and any empty space but not the floor. Another hall as distinctive as the last, leading to yet another hall. 

A journey unending. A fruitless endeavor. If only, he hadn’t—.

They stopped. All those minutes lost to a journey of stairs, and labyrinthine halls and adjoining rooms. A journey that led him to a door. The first. It was an overtly ornate door, two making one. Adorned with reliefs of trees winding and coiling over each other, trees from the Mitternacht der Wald, hiding eyes of furred beastlings behind treeline. Like troubling thoughts of an unquiet mind, always barely visible.

His strange guide placed one foot forward and pressed palms to either side. Opening the doors with undue flourish. 

“Lord Payne. As requested, Larkis Andrews.”

One simple sentence, and bliss returned. Waiting inside was Dorian Payne. Past long limbs and expecting golden eyes. Golden. Golden like endless fields of wheat swaying. Swaying like strands of hair caught in a breeze. Golden silk swooping past shoulders, escaping blue fabric tie. Brushing fingers across vellum, pausing then looking up. Gracing him— them with a golden smile.

He looked as godly as the last time he had seen him. No—. He looked better. No more hidden bags under the eyes. No more gauntly skin clingy to bone. Not that it had been so apparent before. All of it hiding under expensive clothes as he was paraded around at parties, a prized pig. Or, show horse. Something prized to be traded for greed. It’s just that now, looking at him. Really looking at him. Now, the contrast was so clear. Dorian’s eyes, there was life there. Everything else just followed. Making him so much more beautiful. His Dorian. His beautiful happy healthy Dorian. What was he supposed to do now—.

 A throat clears. The sound grabbing his attention, gaze refocuses, taking in the full room. In that short time he hadn’t noticed a key problem. The midnight figure had moved. Now lazily leaned with hip against Dorian’s chair. Both of them, observing him.

He bows, a reflux he is unable to stop. Angled towards his “helpful” guide. He tries two words. A struggle at a polite dismissal in a place he had no power.

“Thank you—.”

He doesn’t know their name. He. Doesn't. Know. Their. Name. 

A sound like silk bells drifts down to his ears. Body pulled from its bow to look. To look at Dorian Payne laughing. Touching. Moving. Holding the nameless figure softly by the elbow. Smiling at them. Not him.

“This is Mae.”

 Mae. A Mae. No, it had to be that Mae. A Mae he shouldn't, doesn't know. But he didn't know any other Mae. This place was wrong. He shouldn't be smiling at her, they, whoever. They don't deserve it. He should be smiling at him. He was his Dorian. Not her's.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

He was still holding her elbow. He was still smiling at her, and she was letting him. Letting Dorian stand, maneuvering with him. Book slipped between hands. Hers now clutching it against her chest. Pulling away as she watched his face. Not Dorian’s, his. Observing, whatever twist and turns it was taking. 

“The people here are all so beautiful,” Dorian is looking at him, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes not like it did with Mae. He was unwanted here, all round, even by what was his. And it was her fault. Mae’s. All her fault. 

No.

No, it wasn’t. Not with the way she pulled herself away. Stoic face never changed, except for the slight twitch in her fingers, tapping at the book’s hardcover. A nervousness, no. A discomfort. A discomfort that led her away to the tall imposing window behind Dorian. His hand still lingering on her elbow. Head turning to her away from him. A private exchange and whatever was said or not said, the tapping stopped and Dorian let go.

Dorian’s face had turned solemn. The smile, now all gone. Mischief long faded from his eyes. How dare she. How dare she sadden what is his. How dare she take away his joy. And crush it under foot no matter how ridiculously dainty and graceful they were. Dorian was his. If anyone was to crush him, it would be him. 

But Dorian hurt Mae first.

He blinks. This voice, one he had not heard before. A soft voice he was certain was not his own internal dialogue. And certainly not a thought he would normally have concerning his precious Dorian Payne. He would need to ponder this later. After. After he had spoken to the Nameless Lady.

He watched, the room still stiff, as Dorian returned to his seat. Mae shifted back around him, headed towards the door. She had left the book leaning on the window sill. Eyes returning to Dorian, watching him watch Mae. Then smiling, gaze flittered back to him as he waved towards the second chair, “Please sit. We can wai—.”

The door had shuddered open. The face of Sae briefly revealed as it lowered into a low bow. Long locks shifting to the chime similar golden ornaments together, falling past the shoulder.

“I apologize, Lord Payne. Our Lady will not be able to make it.”

Trinkets jingled once more as Sae raised, back straightening. Mae appeared at their shoulder. She leaned forward to whisper something next to their ear. Her lips moved in a pattern he could not recognize. Whatever language it was. It was not one of the several that he knew. Whoever they were, this Mae and Sae, they were not of the Epsclaen Empire. A fact that he should not forget.

“Mae, can you and your sister escort our guest to their quarter,” Dorian’s words are tired. This did not seem like it was the plan. A clear message as eyes flickered between themselves. For a moment it was if they all forgot he was there. A minute, or a second. Another bow, hair ornaments ringing out a soft medley once more. 

With no words, and only the golden song playing as Mae stood and looked to him. With expression stoic she pushed past with clicking heels. Doors opened once more by pressed palm. Only then did she look back, past to him. 

He followed her eye to Sae.

“We’ll lead the way, Mister Andrews,” Sae smiled at him, tilted her head. Gestured with her hand. If he hadn’t been looking at her, he would have sworn it was Mae that spoke. Their voices were identical. Except Mae’s expression never changed and Sae’s did. The smile provided it. 

“Please, Mister Andrews.”

It was Mae this time. Yet either, or, it did not matter as to whose words pushed him forward to the hall. Forward to stand there, awkwardly in a patch of sunlight shaded pink. Leaving only Mae and Sae to follow him, a pair of shifting midnight figures adorn in gold and unknown silk. Placing three people together in a small hall. Three people that did not want to be in the same space as the others. Or, at least in the same place as one of them. Staring each other down, as a force outside of any one of them, closed the door behind them.

If you haven't read the introduction. Here is the link.

Or, here is the second chapter.

#my writing #my text #my tex post #horror #writers #horror? #horror writing #horror romance #thriller #mystery #mystery romance #crime writing #obessive love #obsession #lgbtq #lgbtlove #lgbt stories #oc writing #my wriitng #my story #sci fi #sci fi and fantasy #sci fantasy #fantasy #original story #story post #original post #original writing #original content #original fiction

[the-archenlandian-court]

Me: *explaining the plot of the novel I’m writing to my mum*

Mum: so, are there going to be any male characters?

Me: The murderer?

Mum:

Me: ….. fine, I’ll make some more. Diversity and all that

#author #writer #feminism #i guess #crime writing #murder mystery #if you find my other works #no you didn’t #crime novel

[ineffectivearsonist]

Looking for a beta reader for an original ongoing crime thriller!

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, mild drug and alcohol use, language

Language: English

Status: First two chapters are up on Ao3

Additional information: I'm currently working on re-writing an original story I wrote in 2016. It's a crime thriller partially told from the killer's POV, which follows a homicide detective and her new informant as they hunt an unusually creative serial killer. It's gritty, gruesome, and a lil bit gay. I'm looking for at least one beta reader, and potentially someone who can help me with co-writing short scenes for those times when the phrasing just doesn't quite want to work.

Feel free to message me, or leave a note if you're interested!

#beta editor #beta reader #writing #creative writing #fiction writing #thriller writing #crime writing #crime #fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #hannibal fanfiction #ao3 #origial character

[henryandkalcavillsdogpack41482]

When You're A Writer And You're Mind Always Feels Like It's a 24/7 CSI, And It's Been Replaying The Laci Peterson Case Since December 23rd!

I've Always Been Into Crime Stories And True Crime. Heck, My First Script I Ever Written And Finished Was A Crime Thriller And My Second Script I Ever Finished Had Some Inspiration From The Laci Peterson Case. I Was 20 When The Laci Peterson Case Had Gone Down And My First Year Of When My College Major Was Criminal Justice. Her Body Washed Ashore On My 21st Birthday, It's A Detail I'll Never Forget.

As A Writer Our Minds Never Really Stop For A Moment. We're Always Going Over And Playing And Replaying Scenes And Details In Our Heads. And People Wonder How Come We Have Anxiety With Getting All Those Details Out On Paper Before We Forget Something.

My Advice Is If You Wanna Take A Swing At Writing A Crime Fiction, Please Do Thorough Research, Read Books, Blogs Or Listen To Podcasts About Cases Or From Someone Who Was There Throughout The Entire Case, and Look Up Your State/Country's Most Infamous Cases.

#When You're A Writer #crime writing #when you're first two finished movie scripts were Crime Related

[filmcourage]

6 Basic Types Of Evidence Crime Writers Should Know - Jennifer Dornbush via FilmCourage.com.

#true crime #writing #crime writing #crime #thrillers #mystery writers #solving a mystery #writing community #writers on tumblr #screenwriting tumblr #writer #author #books #forensic #crime series

[scotianostra]

Happy 77th Birthday crime author Quintin Jardine.

Jardine was born in Motherwell on June 29th 1945 and studied law at Glasgow University.

A varied career followed, including as a journalist, a political information officer, and media relations consultant. He gradually turned to novel writing, and his first book, Skinner’s Rules, was published in 1993. The Bob Skinner novels are set in Edinburgh, and feature deputy chief constable Bob Skinner, marketed as “Britain’s toughest cop”. There are 26 novels in the series, I’ve read about half of them, the most recent was Private Investigations in 2016. I find them okay, although not as compelling as Ian Rankin’s Rebus, Skinner is more about the procedural side of police work.

His second series of novels feature private detective turned Hollywood actor Oz Blackstone. The first of these novels was written under the pen name of Matthew Reid, but subsequent books used the Jardine name. Oz Blackstone died following the events of the novel For the Death of Me, and Jardine has continued the series but now features Oz’s ex-wife Primavera, and moved the setting to Spain.

In the Oz Blackstone novels, Oz occasionally appeared as an actor in fictional films based on the Bob Skinner novels.

He left Motherwell in 1968, and now shares his time between Gullane in East Lothian, and L’Escala on the Costa Brava in Spain. Both are settings for characters  his books, Bob Skinner and Oz Blackstone respectively.

He is married to his second wife Eileen, and has four grown-up children.

#Scotland #scottish #writer #crime writing #history #happy birhtday

[mysharona1987]

#Palestine #poetry #news #creative writing #war crimes #politics #usa #israel #art

[enchantingepics]

Story Prompt 47

In a dimly lit alley, obscured by the shadows of towering buildings, two figures stood locked in a tense confrontation. The air crackled with palpable hostility as they exchanged heated words, their voices carrying the weight of unresolved grievances.

"You think you can just walk away from this? You owe me, and you damn well know it!" spat one, his voice thick with anger.

The other, his features twisted in defiance, retorted, "I owe you nothing! You brought this upon yourself, and now you'll face the consequences."

With a sudden lunge, the first figure lunged forward, brandishing a gleaming knife in hand. The glint of steel reflected in his eyes as he made his intentions clear. In a swift and brutal motion, he began to rain down blows upon the other figure, the sound of flesh meeting steel echoing through the desolate alley.

"Stop! Please, stop!" cried the second figure, desperation tainting their voice as they attempted to fend off the relentless assault.

But the first figure was unrelenting, driven by a fervor that bordered on madness. Each stab was delivered with a savage intensity, fueled by a potent mixture of rage and vengeance.

"Too late for begging now," snarled the attacker, his voice cold and devoid of remorse. "You brought this upon yourself."

As the violence reached its crescendo, the alley was consumed by an eerie silence, broken only by the labored breaths of the wounded figure. In the dim light, the assailant's face contorted with a mixture of triumph and malice, his hands stained crimson with the evidence of his brutality.

And as the echoes of their confrontation faded into the night, a chilling realization dawned upon the wounded figure – in this unforgiving world, survival often came at a steep price, and sometimes, that price was paid in blood.

#mystery prompt #crime writing #thriller ideas #story inspiration #suspenseful plot #plot ideas #writing prompts #murder mystery #killer plot #plot generator #deadly twist #crime fiction #writing challenge #dark stories #storytelling ideas #plot development #unresolved mystery #twisted plots #intriguing plots #chilling tales #unexpected turns #fictional crime scene #suspense writing #murder plot #twisted minds #crime plot ideas #story building #shocking twists #story prompt library #investigation tales

[mooncalf87]

Something for Murdur Mystery/crime/horror writers!

Keyboards can pick up transmissions! Like phones, tablets, and even in some cases, like mine, police station radios!

The other day, in my vocal lessons, my teachers Keyboard accidentally connected to something at the nearby station, and everything they were saying starting coming out of the speakers!

Happy writing!

#murder mystery #crime writing #horror #police #writer #writing advice #writing prompt

[movedtodykedvonte]

*Spidey and the Sinister Six having their usual fight*

Doc Ock, landing a hit: You’re getting slow Spider-Man! Age finally catching up to you?

Spider-Man: You wish! I haven’t even hit my 30s! From those costumes I can already tell I failed to save you guys from those midlife crises! Sorry by the way.

Vulture: Watch it wallcr- wait… Did you just say your not in your thirties yet?

Spider-Man: Surprised that this spiders so young and spry? Well-

Electro: Dude I’ve been fighting you for at least 5 fucking years! How old even are you?

Shocker, joking cause he’s the only one who picked up no grown adult acts likes Spidey: Don’t swear in-front of the boy you don’t want him to pick it up.

Rhino: Christ! You’re tellin me I almost crushed some 12-year-olds skull all those years ago?

Spider-Man, regretting his quipping: I was not that young! Like just starting freshman year but-

Sandman, horrified as he’s the only one with a kid and dad instincts(as of my iteration): I could’ve killed a kid…

Shocker, genuinely curious: Are you even old enough to drink? Cruel to kill a man who ain’t had his first drink yet.

Electro: Please tell us you’re at least over 25 as of this fight. Hell, I’ll take over 21!

Spider-Man:….

Sandman, realizing just how young he really is: Oh my god.

Spider-Man: My birthday’s coming up soon so I guess it counts?

Doc Ock, exacerbated: It. Does. Not!

Vulture: What would your mother think if she knew her son was out here risking his life telling poorly constructed jokes?

Spider-Man, offended cause it quips slap: 1. My jokes are great 2. She and my dad are dead so-

Sandman, hysterical cause holy shit he almost killed a kid orphan: OH MY GOD!

#they now think he’s some homeless orphan fighting crime cause it’s the only thing he has #my fav hc are the villains earlier in spideys career are completely against harming kids #so to figure out the hero of New York was like a child they plan to torture before unmasking and killing is well #not great on their minds and little sense of morality #I wanted to write a fic about this but ao3 is dead so take this flash dialogue fic instead #I need to sleep for work #doc ock #sinister six #doctor octopus #otto octavius #the ​sandman #flint marko #the rhino #Alexei Sytsevich #the shocker #herman schultz #electro #maxwell dillon #the vulture #adrian toomes #peter parker #spider-man #spiderman