BookTok Writers' Group
The fan favorite returns!
Happy Friday! I’m going to keep this front matter short and sweet this week. This could be because I’m pretty sick, or it could be because I’m a little drunk, or it could just be that I want to get back to binge watching reruns of The Good Wife on Paramount+ (not a sponsored statement, also not apologizing for it).
The long and the short of it is that I’m starting up the BookTok Writers’ Group again!
Now, some of you may not know this, but I used to host a weekly TikTok Live that I called BookTok Writers’ Group. Each week I’d give a prompt on TikTok and invite authors to take that prompt and create a 2K word story or scene. Those scenes could be submitted though my website and then on Sunday nights I would read all the submissions on a TikTok live and discuss the writing craft within the stories.
Writers who had the ability to go Live could join me to discuss their pieces, and everyone could watch and participate in the comments. It was a great experience and I think a lot of people got a lot of value out of it. But then my life got in the way.
Well, all of that is over now (also, I have a bridge in NY available for purchase). So Writers’ Group is coming back. The new “season” starts March 5th at 6pm central. The prompt is up on TikTok, but in case you haven’t seen it yet, here it is…
"Dig it up," I said through gritted teeth.
Genuine fear moved through his eyes.
"I'm sorry, sir. Dig... dig what up?"
"All of it!" I shouted. "Dig it all up. I want it all gone. Now!"
The rules are simple.
The prompt is for inspiration. You can use it to start your piece, or in the middle or at the end. You don’t, in fact, have to use it at all. Your piece should be inspired by the prompt though. You write 2k words (any genre) (safe to be read out loud on a TikTok Live) and submit them through the BookTok Writers’ Group form on my website.
That’s it. It’s a lot of fun and can be very inspirational if you want it to be.
Okay, plug finished. On to bishopCHURCH…
Back at my building I drove around the block a couple times to make sure there weren’t any Fed types hanging around all sneaky like. Once I was satisfied I put the car back in the alley, locked down the boot around my tire and grabbed the shopping bags from the back seat and headed up the back stairs.
I lit another cigarette as I stepped through the door into the hall way and choked on the smoke as, predictably I suppose, there was someone waiting for me outside my apartment. This guy wasn’t the same ilk as the goons this morning. He was thin and delicate looking, almost fragile. His suit was traditional and looked expensive, as did his haircut. He leaned nervously against my door jamb until he noticed me, then stood up straight shoving his right hand conspicuously into his trouser pocket.
“It’s been a long day,” I said, approaching my door and the man standing in front of it.
“Are you Bishop Church?”
“It’s been a long day man, can we maybe do this tomorrow?”
“Do what?” He asked looking confused.
I gestured at him. “I don’t know, whatever it is, whatever we’re about to do, can we do it in the morning?”
The left corner of his mouth dropped and he looked a little defeated. He turned his body slightly like he was going to leave, then stiffened and straightened back up. I saw his right hand ball up in his pocket and he turned back to me, his face twitching at the edges.
“So, that’s a no?” I said.
“I want you to stay away from her.”
I emptied my lungs and dropped my shoulders.
“I’m serious!” He spat. “I don’t know,” he looked me up and down as if I was a piece of furniture at a garage sale, “what she sees in you, but she’s mine and we’re gonna work it out. You need to stay far away from her. Got it?”
I didn’t know for sure what he was talking about, but considering the day so far, I had a pretty good idea. I glanced at his hand shaking in his pants and at his face, quickly becoming soaked in nervous sweat.
“You’re gonna shoot yourself in the foot,” I said.
“What?” He said.
I stuck my hand into my jacket to get my keys. The man’s face went white and he jerked his right arm up, but his hand got stuck in his pocket and he lost his balance. A loud crack filled the hallway and the man howled and fell to the floor screaming.
“Told you so,” I sighed.
He was just laying there holding his foot and screaming. I stuck my key in the door and opened my apartment.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you inside. I’m not sure how many gunshots it takes to get the police out here, but we have to be approaching that number by this point. I’ll get that bandaged up for you.”
He looked at me helplessly and I bent over, lifted him up and helped him hobble into my place. I set him down on one of the folding chairs, dropped the shopping bags on the floor and found the switch to turn on the lights. Then he started screaming again.
I jumped at the sound and spun around to see the boney man staring at the floor in front of him. I followed his eyes to the bodies waiting to be wrapped and disposed of.
“Oh, them,” I said relieved. “Don’t worry, they’re already dead. Can I get you a drink?”
He just sat there moaning and shaking and staring at the floor, mumbling incoherent sounds and bleeding on the clean part of my floor. I set down two glasses on the wooden milk crate next to his chair and popped the cap on one of the bottles of whisky. I filled both glasses halfway, then produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol from under the kitchen sink. I dug around next to my bed and found the cleanest undershirt I could and tore it into three inch wide strips.
“Drink up,” I said, with a tone of encouragement. “It’ll help with the pain, and the shock.”
He looked at me with unrestrained panic and downed the firewater in one gulp, then slammed the glass down on the milk crate table for another. I refilled his glass, three quarters of the way this time, then lifted his right foot and set it in my lap. Gently I slipped the loafer off his foot and inspected the dime sized hole that passed through the top of the shoe and the leather sole.
“Ya see,” I said, with a smile. “That’s why you carry your gun in your jacket, not your trousers.” He tried to smile, but could only manage a grimace. “Don’t worry, I know plenty a gents walkin’ with a limp for just the same reason. You’re not alone.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t find that all together comforting.”
I smiled as warmly as I could muster.
“I surely will.”
I filled his glass back up with bourbon and filled the hole in his foot with isopropyl, then I wrapped his mangled limb in the shredded undershirt parts making sure not to use the yellowing pit stained parts on the first layer. I went to the kitchen and washed the blood off my hands, dried them on my slacks and lit a cigarette while I leaned against the counter.
“So, Twiggy McBadshot, how ya feelin’?”
“Stupid,” he said. “Sorry.”
I laughed and then coughed.
“Hey killer, it’s your foot.”
“I’m not good at confrontations,” he said.
“You don’t say? What’s your name shooter?”
He seemed to think about this. Either he was in such shock that he couldn’t remember his own name, or else he was deciding whether or not he wanted to share that information with someone like me.
“Devon,” he said, finally.
“Devon…” I probed.
“Just Devon,” he insisted, and I left it alone.
“Alright Just Devon,” I said. “You wanna tell me what I did that deserved you puttin’ a bullet in me?”
He looked at me like a parent looks at a child who’s done something wrong and really should know what that something is. I looked back at him like that child. I shrugged and dragged on my cigarette. Finally he let out a sigh and capitulated.
“Penny,” he said with irritation that I suspected was masking embarrassment.
“Oh,” I said. “Penny.”
He finished off his glass of whisky and refilled it himself. In another five minutes he wouldn’t even feel the hole in his foot, or a hole in his head for that matter.
“I found your name in her pocketbook,” he said.
“And you assumed…”
“And I followed her,” he said. “This morning, I followed her here.”
“I see.”
He swallowed his drink and tried to stand up dramatically, but he winced at the pain in his foot and dropped back into his chair looking angry and frustrated.
“I think you might have the wrong idea,” I said.
“You have two dead bodies on the floor of your apartment, am I supposed to just take your word for it?”
“Hey now,” I said defensively. “To be fair, they were with your girlfriend. They showed up just before she did and she knew one of them. Honestly I have nothing to do with them whatsoever.”
I took a hit off my smoke.
“You mean other than them being dead on your living room floor.”
I blew out the smoke.
“Well sure, there’s that.”
Devon shifted in his seat and looked like he was trying to come up with the words.
“Look Devon,” I said. “Let’s not get side tracked with the dead guys. Let’s try and stay focused on you, me, and that gun that you’ve displayed such mastery of.”
He reached into his trousers, pulled out a shiny chrome six shooter, and set it on the wood crate next to him.
“I thought you were having an affair,” he groaned.
“Like I said, you’ve got the wrong idea.”
He took a deep breath and for the first time looked around my place. It was small. One room with a kitchen in one corner; sink stove, oven and fridge. Not much in the way of counter space. I had a little rolling cart with a cutting board that sat next to the sink. My dining room was a pace and a half from the fridge. Two metal folding chairs and an old wooden milk crate like the kids make race cars outta. I had a twenty seven inch color TV in the middle of the room sitting on a sofa tray. Across from it, where the sofa should’ve been, was a twin mattress stacked on a thirty year old box spring and bed frame. The phone I leased from AT&T was on the floor next to the bed with the cord stretched across the room to the jack in the kitchen.
“So, what’s the right idea then?” He asked, starting to sound a little calmer.
“Well,” I said. “I’m kinda a helper of sorts. A fixer. A finder, or loser if that’s what’s called for.”
Devon leaned back in his chair and refilled his glass. This little encounter was costing me an awful lot of whisky. These two bottles might not get me through the weekend after all.
“Well, I certainly believe the last one,” he said.
I frowned, not understanding the joke. Then I got it and shrugged.
“And Penny?” He asked.
“She said one of these goons was following her. Had been for a couple weeks. Came to see if I could find out why.”
“So, you’re a private eye?”
“No no no. No sir,” I said. “Private investigators are licensed by the state and city and require registration and bonding. No sir, I simply provide freelance services to folks when they need them. I’ll mow your lawn for three dollars and fifty cents if you like.”
He looked at me sideways.
“Sorry, you looked like the kind of gentleman that might have a lawn,” I said.
“So, which one was it?”
I cocked my head and squinted at him.
“Following her? Which of these guys was following Penny around?”
“Oh,” I said and took a swig of bourbon. “That one. The one in all black.” I nodded at the body closest to us. “The other one’s a Fed.”
“What?” Devon shouted. “A- a- a Fed? You killed a fucking Federal Agent?”
Again he tried to jump up, better this time, but, ya know, the foot. So he was back in his seat just as quickly. One more drink and he wouldn’t feel a thing.
“Hush,” I whispered. “Keep your voice down. No. Of course I didn’t kill him.”
Devon took a deep breath and seemed to calm down a bit.
“Okay. Okay, well, who did then?”
“Well,” I said. “Yeah, okay, I killed him, but in my defense, I didn’t know he was a Fed at the time.”
This didn’t seem to make him feel any better.
“Jesus Christ, well, why did you kill them?”
“Well, come on. They did try and kill me first,” I said, gesturing to the bullet holes in the wall of my kitchen. “I was just standing here, minding my own business, trying to make some goddamn eggs for breakfast. I mean, I made coffee and everything. Real coffee too, not just Kahlua heated up.”
“So why were they trying to kill you?” He asked, clearly trying to find the end of this loop.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what did Penny say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I know,” I said.
“Well, you were out all day. What did you find out?” He asked.
“Discount store has shower curtains for eighteen dollars.”
His jaw kinda dropped at that, and it made me smile.
“What the hell Church? You’re an investigator.”
“No sir, I told you very clearly, I’m just a helper.”
“But you’re supposed to be helping Penny,” he whined.
“No, I’m not.”
“You said she came here to hire you.”
“Right,” I agreed.
“So, then you’re working for her.”
“No, I’m not. She didn’t hire me.”
He looked baffled.
“Why not?” He asked.
“Because I’d already killed the guy she was worried about,” I said growing tired of the conversation.
He groaned.
“Well then, that probably wasn’t the best business decision, was it?”
He was being condescending now and I wasn’t in the mood, seeing as how I still had two dead bodies to get rid of that night and he was still drinking up all my whisky.
“Obviously I didn’t know who he was when I killed him,” I said.
“Oh, so good judgement all over the place in here then.”
I refilled my glass and sat silently, drinking and smoking.
“So, you don’t even care who he is then?” Devon asked finally.
I sighed and looked at the bodies.
“No, not for free I don’t,” I lied.
He seemed to roll this over in his head. I wasn’t sure if it bothered him or if it was just unbelievable to his sensibilities. He looked at the bodies, looked at his gun on the milk crate and looked at me. His eyes were pretty glassy now and he had the slightest wobble to his head. At last he seemed to make up his mind.
“So, you’re done with Penny then.”
I took a drag of my cigarette and finished what was in my glass then gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. She doesn’t seem to care why our friend here was following her, and I don’t have time to be runnin’ around town without compensation. I’ve got other stuff to do ya know.”
He looked at me skeptically.
“Of course there’s the Fed. That could be a problem. Maybe I’d need to-“
He shifted sharply in his chair.
“Nah,” I said. “I think this is done. Just got to get rid of the bodies. Don’t suppose you’d wanna help me with that?”
He shifted again and was beginning to look queasy. Could have been the suggestion that he help roll up the bodies or it could have been his foot and the half bottle of cheap bourbon he’d just drank.
“No, I suppose not,” I said.
He seemed to relax a bit and tried to stand again. He managed to find balance, leaning delicately on his right heel. He looked me over again then gathered himself together, putting the gun back in his pants pocket.
“Careful with that,” I said. “That’s not the kind of thing you want in a matching set.”
“How much was the whisky?” He asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The whisky I drank. How much was it?”
I rolled my eyes up pretending to do the math in my head.
“The bottle was fifteen dollars,” I said exaggerating a little.
He coughed and smacked his lips looking disgusted. He reached in his jacket and pulled out a long sleek black billfold. From inside he produced a stack of cash. He paid me for the booze and the shower curtain too. He even gave me a little to cover a new rug which, I thought was mighty kind.
“Look, Penny’s an independent woman, and she’ll always end up doing exactly what she wants to do, but I’d appreciate it if you kept clear of her. Man to… well, I’d just appreciate it.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I get it. If I had a girl like her, I’m sure I’d feel the same way. Plus, you’ve got that gun and one can never tell where the bullets will end up.”
He sneered at me.
“It was unfortunate meeting you Mr. Church. I sincerely hope it’s the last time.”
“Sure sure,” I said.
“Have a good life Mr. Church,” he said, and turned gingerly on his heel and hobbled out of my apartment; drunk and needing a doctor.
FURTHER READING
