On the rain-soaked streets of Intervale, a 1950s-inspired city where neon lights cast shadows over secrets, and magic collides with reality, Detective Vic Thorn must solve a gruesome murder while navigating a world teetering on the brink of war betw...
Hi All! Thanks for stopping by. This is the home for my new story, The Ghosts We Made.
As soon as I read that prompt, something resonated in me. Something I hadn't felt for a long time. Not long after, notes from a lone saxophone started drifting through the smoke and mist to waft like sultry wraiths over an empty city street on a rainy night, the flash of neon lights, their only accompaniment...
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And just like that, I knew The Ghosts We Made was going to be a noir mystery, a dark and gritty interpretation of Prompt #56:
In a world where humans and magical creatures coexist, a detective must solve a murder case that threatens to plunge the two communities into war.
Meet Victor "Vic" Thorn, a detective working the mean streets of Intervale. He's nobody's fool and might have a trick or two up his sleeve. With Vic, you never know!
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Here's a taste of the noir aesthetic I have in mind. I'm still not sure if what follows will make the final cut or not...you'll just have to read and see for yourself!
The city was drowning in a relentless downpour, the rain slashing through the neon glow like shards of broken dreams. Streets glistened with the tears of the heavens, washing away the sins of the night. I pulled my fedora low, the brim casting shadows over my eyes, my world veiled in a haze of smoke and regrets. The stench of wet asphalt and cheap whiskey lingered in the air as I approached the crime scene, the scene where my journey into the abyss began.
A dame in a crimson dress leaned against a lamppost, the glow reflecting off her cigarette as she took a drag. "Detective Thorn, isn't it?" she said, her voice a symphony of sultry notes. "You're late."
I didn't bother with pleasantries. "Cut the act, sweetheart. What do we got?"
She gestured towards the alley, where the neon lights failed to penetrate the darkness. A body lay sprawled on the damp pavement, lifeless eyes staring into the abyss. The victim's face twisted in agony, like a grotesque mask frozen in eternal torment. It wasn't the first dead body I'd seen, but it was the first one that carried a whisper of magic.
"Magical folk, Vic," the dame said, her eyes locking onto mine. "And not the friendly kind. The kind that makes deals in blood."
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Fair warning here: If you're triggered by violence, spicy language, moral ambiguity, smoking, drinking, self-harm, non-PC anything in general (a mouthy dame in a strapless sheath getting slapped around before some tough guy pulls her in tight for a lip lock she didn't think she needed, for example), consider yourself cautioned.
Stylistically, this is a departure, but just what I needed to get out of what's been an almost two-month-long stint of writer's block. Thank you, Wattpad, for pulling me out of a rut!
I hope you'll put this in your library and give it a read. It's going to be a blast to write!
Thanks—and if you're participating in this year's ONC, drop your link in the comments! I'd love to read your work!
