Having been her older brother forever, I was leaving myself open for the wammy of the century. I mean what sister wouldn’t. One shot to even the score. But she didn’t. And neither did Darleen, Sandy, Twila and Marla. They all answered the same call. They gave it to me straight. McMillan is scary.

…”the hairs on my neck and my sleepless night are almost over.  “I cry Uncle!”  Once again — like the morbid gawker I felt like, I couldn’t put the damned things down once I started.  No - he wouldn’t do that, oh crap!  That was worse than expected.  I know I am rambling a bit, but the horror and psychological horror left me feeling helpless in its grip.  I wanted to scream “look out” at several points in all the books.” 

Purple Mountain’s Majesty is a dramatic departure from my usual genre of suspenseful psychological crime thriller. It is a children’s fantasy and a collaborative effort with my oldest granddaughter, who at eleven loves to read stories about elves, pixies and witches. 

Originally, I intended it to be an adventurous short story of self-discovery, something special just for her to share with her friends. But during the writing phase something happened and it morphed into a book, complete with illustrations. I’m not sure what actually happened to cause that, but I’m glad it did. It’s nice to be able to write in another genre. Gives me the opportunity to view the world from a different perspective.

It grew into a series when my other grandchildren (two girls ages 9 and two boys ages 6 and 4) discovered what I was doing. In short order I had a list of four more books, all collaborative and each written with a specific grandchild in mind.

Themes are universal and include good versus bad, finding and making new friends, doing what is right. I am afterall a Papa and love my grandchildren dearly and will do anything for them at the drop of a hat. Given an opportunity to write something special that nutures them is a gift I never expected. 

 All of which is a good thing. My editor, Colleen Kappeler, loved Purple Mountain’s Majesty. For once she was able to sleep after reading one of my books.  

Right now I have several ideas in several genre in varying degrees of completeness, and every one is burning a hole in my head trying to get out. Which is not good. I can’t write that fast.

I’ve complained to other writers about it, but they just roll their eyes at me. I guess having such a problem is not a bad thing afterall. It’s just finding the time to do it.

So, there you have it. Where my ideas come from. I just finished a fantasy novel and after Colleen finishes editing, I’ll post a few pages. Once its on Lulu.com I’ll add it to the books category.

It’s off to the gym then a couple hours writing. Hopefully nothing will pique my interest and send me off on another tangent.    

Here is an excerpt:

Once a Racine cop, now a suspense thriller author

“In Orlando, Florida, Michael Moresby hammers his fifth victim to death outside the Beacon Tavern. The same day in Racine, Wisconsin, his twin brother, McMillan, kills his fourth in the Holiest of Holy rooms. And outside the Brewer’s Miller Park Stadium, Eric Murin’s baseball cap tumbles into the path of a careening Buick. Somewhere beyond the line of life and death, in the vastness of the cosmos, there flows a river of sensations accessible by few. Identical twins can. Seers too. And occasionally the victim of a near death experience. For Homicide Detective Dell Murrin, it is an awakening. And what he sees is terrifying…”

And so begins Racine mystery writer Rick McCluskey’s first thriller, River of Sensations, published under the pseudonym Sheldon Doyle.
Click HERE to read the interview

Author Rick McCluskey commissioned Francisco Loyola of Creatibo.com to create a website for his pseudonym, Sheldon Doyle.

Today he celebrates the launching of SheldonDoyle.com. Please come and visit, you are all welcome. There are a variety of short stories, poems and excerpts from published novels from which to sample his style should your curiosity prove thirsty.

Before you leave, send us your comments or drop a note to say hi. We’re interested in what you think. You can also visit Rick at the Kenosha Writers’ Group online or at the monthly meetings.

Contact info:
Rick McCluskey

Betrayal For Eternity

Prologue

One
Easter Sunday Baraboo, Wisconsin

It was pitch black and a cool wind whistled through the pines by the time Edgar Holmes eased out of his makeshift lean-to and crawled up the embankment towards the Union 76 truck stop. By the time he reached the top he was cold even though the temperature was moderate and as stretched his tired body, he hoped someone would take pity on him.
He was feeling poorly having missed another holiday, as though life in its infinite wisdom had decided it proper to shit in his Easter basket again. Maybe if he were lucky some do-gooder seated at the counter would buy him a hot cup of coffee. A hamburger wouldn’t hurt either. He was hungry and wasn’t above begging for one if it came to that.
As your typical hard luck loser, Edgar’s life hadn’t always been so rough as he stumbled onto the paved road and staggered off towards the distant glow of lights. There had been a time in Madison when he had a life, but like the rest of the woebegones the drugs and parties had cost him more than his job and family. Self respect had been snorted away as well even though he professed to anyone who’d listen he was a victim of circumstances.
He rubbed his bulbous nose and scratched at the sores festering his armpits with his free hand as he tilted the bottle back and waited for the last drop of Mad Dog 20-20 to grace his tongue.
But like his stomach the bottle was empty and dejectedly tossed it into ditch wondering where the next one would come from. Maybe if he curled into a trembling ball by the door and shook bad enough the do-gooder might offer a couple of bucks instead of the coffee or food. (more…)

Private Conversations

Prologue

July 29th, Parker’s Ranch

Mind spinning, body failing, loving and hating ‘the fury’ that pushed him onward, he staggered through the smoke and flames towards the unseen embankment, ignoring the railing voice urging him to hurry.
“Keep going, McMillan! Faster! It’s still coming!”
Speed wasn’t important. He needed to take his time. The voice could babble all it wanted, but he wasn’t listening to its advice. Not now. In the darkness it was impossible to tell where the gentle slope stopped and the ground fell away to the river below. A misstep now could be disastrous. After all he had been through, all the wounds he had suffered, killing himself trying to escape seemed foolish.
Hurry up, McMillan! It’s getting closer!
He wiped the blood collecting on his eyebrow and winced, his hand coming away warm and sticky as he searched ahead into the smoky night. Merely touching the wound ignited pain and any second he expected his head to explode off his shoulders.
All around him tall pines crackled, swaying fitfully in the cyclonic winds as the surreal inferno roared through the forest above him. One splintered and toppled, showering sparks on its way down through the blazing canopy. Instinctively he cut and leaped forward into the darkness and felt the ground give way beneath him.
He landed on his back, the jarring thud all but knocking the breath out of him as he slid down the steep incline. Instinctively he grabbed for anything to stop his descent and finally latched onto a small shrub that was strong enough to support his weight. Pulling himself upright he straightened in time to feel the first tongues of fire as they swarmed over the ledge towards him.
He braced for the impact, but the rush of wind and fire was stronger than he anticipated and overwhelmed him. It knocked him over, cartwheeling him down the mountainside like a child’s rag doll thrown in a fit of anger.
Killing debris hurtled past him, appearing out the darkness like flaming missiles shot into the darkness below. A smoldering branch the size of a hefty staff knocked him senseless, driving him headfirst into the ground again.
Damn you! Get up! Get up and run!
Obediently McMillan rolled to his knees and staggered upright, convinced that death had found him. His skin was blistered and acrid smoke filled his lungs, but he did not fear dying. His revenge had been exacted and there was nothing left to do but succumb to the inevitable.
Yet in that fleeting moment between life and death, amid a fiery world of exploding trees and burning brush, he once again opened himself to the river of sensations and searched for Murin one last time.
You idiot! He’s still alive!
Although the voice spoke the obvious he knew that was impossible. He had seen him fall, felt the connection wink out the instant the bullet had struck. Yet he could not deny the possibility the maligning voice was right. There was a familiar essence within the flow that still hummed with life. Murin’s life.
He cursed his luck and in one fluid motion, turned and dove headlong into the darkness below.

Chapter One

October 1st, Fifty miles west of Hermosillo, Mexico

Do you hear that? They’re talking about us again. (more…)

River of Sensations
Prologue

One

Wednesday, June 30th Racine, Wisconsin

Moving silently through the network of fire escapes and sheltered alcoves, the black jump suit made him virtually invisible. To the world beyond the narrow alleyway, it was impossible to tell where the lines of the buildings ended and he began as he slinked forward. Even if a stray headlight did penetrate the darkness and silhouette his lanky frame, he felt safe no one would actually see him as he crouched down behind a cluster of dumpsters.
He checked his watch again to make sure he was still on schedule, then rose and steadied the Yukon Monocular atop the closest dumpster to study her more.
Good. She was still alone, standing in the doorway of Harmon’s bookstore. An old man hobbling with the cane entered his field of vision, so did a long legged beauty in shorts clinging to some geek behind him. Even a homeless one poking through gutters looked up at her oddly before he too vanished from his sight.
But none had said a word to her. Nor she to them. Like him, they all knew what she was, what she was looking for, but still she remained in the shadows, persistent in her efforts to find another customer.
He mused over her decision. Of all the corners in Racine to pick he wondered why she had picked this one. It seemed Fate had intervened in his favor. Most of the others hadn’t been as adventurous, preferring instead to stay within the known turf of State Street where there was safety in numbers, where working girls peddling their butts knew all the hidey holes and where customers were easier pickings.
Easy pickings.
He smiled at that one. She wouldn’t believe who it was she was about to meet. A block either way and he never would have seen her. Never would have had the opportunity to make her number four in his growing list of memories.
He checked his watch again and watched as the second hand sped towards zero hour. It was time to get moving.
Stowing away the monocular, he gathered up his belongings and hurried down the walkway to the parked Ford Bronco. It took him only a few seconds to strip out of the jump suit, to make himself presentable before heading back in her direction. Having made herself available to him, he couldn’t be late and disappoint her destiny.
At exactly 12 midnight, he slowed to a stop at the curb beside her and rolled down the window. At 12:01AM she sauntered over and asked if he wanted to party.
At 12:02AM and smiling warmly, he swung the door open and invited her in. (more…)