Where There Was Darkness

I am asking for help. I need a translator to help me translate English to Spanish. If you can help contact me at drzannelliauthor@gmail.com

ComicCon

Reminder. This week I will be at RI ComicCon. It is a great event and I hope to see many of my readers, friends and potential readers there. See you soon.

Where There Was Darkness

I have just finished creating the cover of Where There Was Darkness, the third book in the Dark Night series. I have a friend helping me with the courtroom scene so I am not quite done. Hope I’ll have everything set soon. Here’s a preview of the cover.

Signing Your Book

Book Signing

If you came to see me and were unable to purchase a book during the Woonsocket festival but would still like a signed copy, send me an e-mail and I’ll see what I can do. drzannelliauthor@gmail.com

Comic Con

I will be selling and signing books this year at RI Comic Con. It’s running from November 1st through the 3rd at the RI Convention Center. It looks to be a lot of fun. I hope many of you will come for the celebrities, the collectibles and of course, my books. Still deciding what to wear.

Sister World II, the Fight for Earth

So far with 200 pages in, this is my favorite lines. I hope you’ll want to read more. Let you know when it’s ready for publication.

“I was an ass.”  He turned a lion like face to his nephew.  “Some people followed Hitler because it was easy, others because their bellies were full.  Poppa followed for money and power.  To stand on top of a grave, may give a person a feeling of power, but he is only standing where someday he will rest.”

The Quiet One

I decided to include my entire 1000 page short story. I am not going to tell you if it is a biography. Decide for yourself.

The Quiet One

    I’m the quiet one. The one they, whoever they are, tell you to look out for.  They’re right.

Two years younger than my sister I was devastated when she went into the first grade, leaving me behind.  I tried to make friends but back then Cumberland was a place for the well to do.  Our converted hunting cabin, second hand clothes and yesterdays toys told them all they needed to know. Not making friends, I began to live inside my head where I could be the hero, the most popular girl in school. 

As the years passed, the stories changed, the list of villains growing.  Their names filled the dark places of my mind.

The fifth grade was my worst or best depending on how you looked at it. There was the tumor.  I didn’t mind being in the hospital.  Nobody cared about how expensive your clothes were.  No one saw them and my johnnie was as nice as any one else’s. The nurses liked me, so I got to walk the corridors.  It was there I learned that too often the wrong people died.  Sometimes Death needs a little help.

High School flew by.  It’s easy to be top of your class when you have nothing else to do.  With so much free time, I turned once again to the stories in my head but even they could not dispel the quiet. It is so loud.  My words darkened.  They were my shield. They became my sword.  The villains starting dying.  

I graduated, prepared to give my words life. Who would believe a person not quite five feet tall could kill. I had my list and just like my characters, it lived in my head. 

Diane was first. I remember her patting my chest, laughing at its determined flatness. 

So consumed with her beauty, she was not beautiful, she didn’t see me.  I followed her for days. 

It’s easy to steal a car. I took hers.  I watched as she waited for her friends. They were not about to leave a party just to take her home.  When her car jumped the curb, pinning her between the hood and the wall, she was confused. When I got out of the car, she was afraid. 

“For old times sake.” Gunning the engine, the car sprang forward.  I was miles away when the party ended.  She died, the news reported, from internal bleeding.  I hoped it hurt as much as hearing the baseball team laugh at my immature body. 

I would like to say he broke my heart, but mostly he broke my soul.  The call was unexpected and filled me with delight.  

“I know we don’t talk much but I’d like to take you to the dance.  Want to go?”  Charles was one of the few boys who never laughed at me.  This had real potential, but he turned out to be Tommy Ross to my Carrie, a Carrie without telekinesis.

“Sure.”  I’m certain he heard my grin.

“I’ll pick you up Friday at six.”

I turned to my sister, who had never yet been asked out on a date, face splitting into a grin it had never worn.  The next day, still floating on a bubble of happiness, I heard their laughter.  Charles thought it would be a great joke, knowing I was waiting for him.  I didn’t wait, at least not for him to take me to the dance.

It took four years, but eventually he was sorry he’d made that call.

It was easier than it should have been.  Charles moved from pot to cocaine.  Not using, it was difficult to follow him, but once again being the least frightening person you’d meet was a good thing.  Air is not good for veins.

  I put the syringe directly into the vein in his neck.  After a week it settled in his brain causing a catastrophic embolism. 

The third was, so far, the most difficult.  If she hadn’t been such a pig she would have noticed.  The job paid minimum wage but it was her favorite fast food joint and Pauline loved fast food, and she ate fast, good for me, not for her.  Destroying Angels are rather cute, until you eat them.  They are the deadliest mushrooms we have in Rhode Island and somehow her hoagie had them.  I understand they make you very sick. Pauline never made it to the hospital.  What was left of the sandwich was found molding in her fridge.

I quit that job and concentrated on writing. My first novel debuted to rave reviews.  The story was not very different from the life I lived.  My pain resonated with those who’d felt the sharp edged tongues of the privileged.

Number four brought me home.  Fingernail Freddie was famous in Cumberland long before the movies.  He supposedly killed the three kids who burned down his property near Camp Keranna, killing his family. Freddie haunted the woods, attacking young lovers parked by the roadside. Brady was making a name for himself by debunking hauntings.  The hands that had once groped me, laughing when I could not get away, now groped around in the dark.  Going to the abandoned camp, he waited to meet Freddie.  He met me.  Laughing when I told him I loved his show, he didn’t see the knife, but I’m sure he felt it.  He bled to death, the weapon never found.  I took it home and carved the Thanksgiving turkey.

My next three novels were murder mysteries.  My publisher wonders where I get my inspiration.  I never answer.  I don’t talk much.  I am the quiet one and there are more stories to write.