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- [00:01]
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- [00:33]
Renita Hora
Welcome to the True Fiction Project, a podcast series that explores the origins of fiction. Every week we begin with an interview nonfiction followed by a creative piece, fiction inspired by something from the interview. The idea is to demonstrate, of course, that fiction is born out of our life experiences. Now here's your host, storyteller, author, public speaker, health and wellness expert Renita Hora.
- [01:04]
Welcome to this week's episode of the True Fiction Project. Today I'm featuring episodes from crime thriller authors I had as guests in Season six. I've always found crime thrillers fascinating because they pull me into a world of twists and secrets and high stakes tension. And what excites me most is how unpredictable the stories are. Just when I think I figured it out, a twist turns everything upside down. So let's begin with Rhonda Taylor Parker. She's a writer, entrepreneur and an academic researcher, and I spoke to her about her debut novel, Crossroads, a story rooted in personal tragedy and the loss of her adopted son, shaped by her journey through professional setbacks. We explore how fiction can be a spiritual mirror and how her story caught the attention of Muriel Hemingway, granddaughter of Ernest Hemingway. And you'll hear a gripping excerpt capturing the haunting aftermath of a life altering choice that will change a young man's life. Let's take a listen.
- [02:14]
Rhonda Taylor Parker
So my help for the reader is that they realize it's not just the entertainment of the suspense thriller, but it's also to get people to think about the choices that they're making in their lives and the ability for them to make changes before something happens. In this case, not making the changes causes the drama, the trauma and the suspense throughout the whole book. However, in Paris's case, it could have been deadly and it could be in ours. We're not making the wise decision. I should have known. Something was that Billy Nicholl had numb Pee Wee his whole life. Why do I always trust him? He shouldn't. Pee Wee was always in trouble. But now Billy was in trouble with him and he had no idea what to do. Even thinking about Pee Wee sent waves of panic through his bones. Billy sat upright in his bed and ripped down his matted hair. His hungover body was hardly able to function due to the drugs and alcohol he had consumed at the party. He stretched, wincing in pain. His mother had been right. He should have stayed away from Pee Wee long ago. Dear God, let him leave me alone. He tried to convince himself that the images was just a dream, but he remembered Pee Wee, Pee Wee winking and saying, stay here. We'll be right back. Billy hit the back of his head against the wall. No way. Why me? He wished he could undo the last few days, starting with the moment he agreed to ride with Pee Wee and the girl. Billy, want to take a ride with us? Pee Wee had asked. I might even share. His immediate response is, why not? A little action sounded like fun. Besides, Pee Wee always joked about him not getting past first base girls. He hadn't even been prepared for the screams, the gushing of the blood, the sudden quietness after she died. The pictures reeling in his head were like a horror movie. As he sat in the bed, he imagined the animals hiding in their den, silent witnesses to the crime. How did I get home? Pulling himself out from the sheets, he moved towards the bathroom. Whose clothes am I wearing? He wondered as he paused for a second at the mirror. He rubbed his hands over the rough, unshaven face. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen half shut. Look at you, he said out loud. He turned on the water with a shaking hand. Flow with it and don't be afraid. He had convinced himself that it would be all right, but he winced at the thought of what he'd seen, heard and felt. He tested the water temperature and the warts ran through his fingers. He looked down. Blood. No more blood. Please, no more blood. He remembered the images. Oh my God, what have I done? The screams echoed in his head. Stop. I can't think. He pounded his head with his fist as the images played over and over, starting with the walk in the woods. Trick. Trick. That sounds. Oh, my bath. The sound led him back to the present. He plunged his hunched body into the tub of water and lathered the soap, then began to lathering all the vital parts of the body, even the crevice between the rolls in his midsection. He was the only 21, but the drugs and alcohol had destroyed the best of him. Don't be afraid, and for heaven's sake and don't panic. Everything's gonna be all right. He grabbed the towel and moved to the bedroom, wiping the water off his back. Sunlight poured through the dusty blinds, leaving a copper hue in the room, Billy pulled on a pair of shorts and headed to the kitchen. Let them catch Pee Wee before he hurts me. He opened the refrigerator. Leftover pizza, beer, eggs, and ketchup. He grabbed a cold beer and went back to the bed. Sitting down, he pressed the can tightly against his forehead. The coolness lessened the pounding, but it didn't lessen the headache. It was one of those rare occasions when taking his own life was more alluring than living. He looked around the small room in search of a way to leave the pain behind. As he looked, he knew he wouldn't end his life. He didn't have the courage to hurt a fly, let alone kill himself. He'd call his mother. She would know what to do next.
- [07:02]
Renita Hora
Is my interview with Armand Rosemilla. A prolific writer with an impressive body of work spanning crime novels, thrillers, supernatural horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, and nonfiction, Armand is the kind of storyteller who begins with one intriguing question. What if? And from there a gripping tale unfolds. In this conversation we discuss his novel Shakedown and you'll hear a powerful excerpt capturing the chilling moment when Walt, a low level crew member, realizes his final mistake might have cost him everything, including his life.
- [07:46]
Armand Rosemilla
The horror sells, but it's not a huge market. You know, there's, there's romance is on top. Romance outsells everything. Thrillers is below that. And if you go down about, you know, 15 places, you have horror. So while it's a great rabid fan base, there's not a huge fan base. So people, people will buy my stuff. But that kind of hit the ceiling on adding a lot of new readers over the years. And so I know I have my first, you know, I put out a horror book and I know I'm going to get X number of pre orders on those books and X numbers of sales in that first week and whatnot. And I've learned that the crime thriller stuff is literally like 10 times the amount on there and I just like writing it. You know, I'm not going to start writing romance because I want to make, you know, millions of dollars. But as a full time writer who has to make a living doing this, you got to look at it and it's a business, you know, it'd be great to write stuff that doesn't really sell. But you, you love. And I've done a ton of different things like that, written stories just to get them out of my head and they never made any money, which I knew they weren't going to. But I've kind of found my voice over the last few years and I've. I found my readership. Who. A lot of them will read the horror stuff, but they're all reading the crime thriller stuff. Walt knew he was in trouble as soon as the door slammed open. He put his hand up to ward off the deadly rays of the sunlight behind the figure in his doorway. Get up. The unmistakable voice of his boss. As soon as he stepped inside, Walt saw he wasn't alone. It was Tommy, who he'd closed the bar with last night. Good old dependable Tommy, who Walt had known since they were kids. Walt sat up on the couch and looked for his pants on the floor, but couldn't find him. He must have passed out on the couch instead of crawling to his bed last night. It was all a blur. Can we shut the door and put on a light? It's too bright and it's really hot. After a second of failing to find where he tossed his clothes last night, he gave up. He reached for his smokes, but his boss shook his head. They still hadn't closed the door. Walt closed his eyes and yawned. He was trying to act casual, as if nothing was wrong. Hell, he didn't even know what was wrong. It hit him a second before he saw the boss give a nod to Tommy, who frowned but put his hand on his waistband an inch from his weapon. Six of the cigarette boats were repossessed last night, the boss said quietly. The man never yelled, even when something importantly tragic had occurred behind his back. The crew called him Jake the Snake, after the famous wrestler who never screamed and shouted when doing a promo before a match. Calm, cool, and collected. Like a snake. Walt nodded. That was the plan. The half dozen speedboats were registered to a fictitious name, and they'd been useful for the past few weeks. But rumor had it one of them had been spotted by the Coast Guard, so now they weren't worth the headache of wondering when they'd be confiscated. The boss thought up a novel idea. Buy use boats up and down the Southeast using offshore bank accounts, laundering the money as they did it. Then never make a payment and have the boat repoed. With dozens of boats purchased each month and used to haul their product, the paperwork alone, trying to find the purchaser, tied up the system. One of the crew more had questioned the approach not too long ago, Walt thought. He was either high or drunk or likely both. Why not buy the boats outright and launder more money? Then we torch the boats offshore and move on. No fingerprints, no problems, no way for them to be traced. Mort was gone. The next day, no one questioned the boss about the boats again. I entrusted you to wipe down the boats and make sure there was nothing left, the boss said. Walt nodded his head. But did it just like you said. Nabi is really uncomfortable. Had he finished the job before he'd gone out with Tommy? Last night was a bit of a blur. He remembered a hooker or maybe someone's sister stopping by. Was that last night? Walt shook his head. He started to stand, but the boss put a hand out to keep him on the couch. Do you know what happens when you mess up? It makes all of us look bad. Especially me. Do you know why? The boss smiled, but it wasn't pleasant. Because you put everyone in jeopardy? Walt asked. He thought he should know the answer to the question, but his head was jumbled with so many thoughts. The boss stared at Walt for an uncomfortable minute until Walt looked down at his feet. I did what you asked. I wiped out all the boats and left them where you told me to leave them. Walt knew he'd forgotten something, then handed over, the boss said. Walt looked confused. What? The boss put his hand out. The £50 missing. What? Walt was sweating. The sunlight was still drilling into his brain, and when he moved to put Tommy between him and the sun, Tommy sighed and stepped off to the side. Walt noticed his buddy had his weapon out now, too. They're all marked, so I know what boat and where they were located inside the boat, the boss said. He shook his head. To Walt, it looked like the boss was disappointed. You never wanted that 50 pounds wrapped. $10 million stashed under the cockpit sole. Walt stood up. Wait. What? If you'd been counting the packages like you're supposed to, you would have known that there was an extra package in one of the boats. This was a special request from a very important person who looks the other way when our boats come into this area. It was your responsibility to make sure it wasn't left carelessly. You're on the hook. The boss glanced at Tommy. I knew you hadn't found an extra bundle because you would have told Tommy last night. I'm really sorry, boss. I swear it was an oversight. Give me another chance, walt said. The boss shook his head. This isn't the first time you've been sloppy. I've given you enough chances. More than your three allotted strikes, too. While you and Tommy were out drinking, I lost millions of dollars on my watch. How does that make me look to my boss who I have to answer to? Not good. Walt sat back down on the couch. I'LL find the boat. It has to be stored somewhere local. The boss chuckled. Not to worry. I have all that figured out. No longer your problem, Walt. Walt smiled, thinking he'd get a second chance. The package was either already found or the boss knew where it was. No harm, no foul. The the smile faded when Tommy stepped forward and Walt was looking down the barrel of a gun. I don't suppose I can say anything to change your mind, boss? Walt asked. He knew this was the end. He knew he had two options. Smile on the face of death and lean into it with no regrets. Or beg for mercy and cry like a baby. Walt chose to cry like a baby. I'll do whatever you want. I swear. No more screw ups. I'll clean toilets. I'll kill for you free of charge. I'll take out the garbage. Anything, boss. Anything. You're going to be a lesson to the rest of the crew, the boss said. I have to answer to a higher authority, Walt. I need to make sure this North Florida area is running smoothly without incident. Do you think I like giving the boats over to the authorities? No. If it was up to me, we'd burn them all to the water line. But the boss shrugged. I do what needs to be done. No questions, no deviations. No part of the job can be sloppy or missed. I can change. I screwed up, but I work even harder, walt said. The boss shook his head. I wish I could believe you. Even if I could, your fate is out of my hands, Walt. You did this to yourself. As the boss left and shut the door behind him, the sunlight was gone. Walt could see see his friend Tommy as he pulled the trick.
- [14:58]
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- [15:27]
Renita Hora
And last but not least, here is Ed Moser's interview for this special episode. Ed is a former writer for Jay Leno's Tonight Show, a presidential speechwriter, a history tour guide, and an author with a knack for authority unearthing gripping tales. And in this conversation he takes us through the scandal filled history of Washington, DC's Lafayette Square, exposing 230 years of crime. He reads an excerpt from his novel the Old Town Horror, Murder and Theft in America's most Historic Locale which transports us to a bloody investigation taking place at the Carlisle Mansion in Alexandra, Virginia.
- [16:15]
Ed Moser
I tell the guests on my tours that any scandal or misbehavior that I mentioned, of course occurred in the distant past, at least 70 years or so before that. There hasn't been a hint, a scintilla of impropriety or scandal in recent Washington history. I tell them that joke and they usually laugh if we go on, but that's how I got started. I love history and travel and in walking around the White House neighborhood, in particular the President's Park, Lafayette Square, I was astounded to find out through my research that many violent events have taken place for the 230 years or so since the park was established. And like murders, assassination attempts, assaults, spies, espionage right within a stone's throw of the President's House. As they approached the Carlisle Mansion, Ted thought of its incredible and often bloody military history of General Braddock and the young Major George Washington and their ill fated fight in the Indian wilderness near Fort Pitt, today's Pittsburgh and the Civil War hospital at its locale with its doctors, amputees and rebel spies, including the town's most colorful character of the late unpleasant the slender, fair skinned Confederate agent with a grandiose name, Benjamin Franklin Springfellow. Early Americans loved naming their son after founding fathers. The Carlisle House, as the city's largest mansion and then a hotel complex owned by a Southern advocate, was a prime candidate for confiscation and rejiggering as a Union army hospital, and the Northern officers recuperating there offered a matchless opportunity for a rebel spy to obtain intelligence. Benjamin Franklin Stringfellow trained as a dentist aide and gained employment as such. At the mansion, he befriended Union officers recovering from jaw and teeth wounds. From them he elicited valuable information on Union morale, supplies and deployments. Being slim as befitting his last name, Stringfellow, as well as lightly bearded and rather feminine looking, Stringfellow sometimes impersonated a lady and danced with and beguiled captains and colonels at Union soirees. His alert ears calling in military secrets as well as the sweet nothings whispered in his ears. Ted smiled in recalling this story. There had been so few light hearted moments in recent days of mayhem. Then, hearing the rustle of his friend Harmony's clothes beside him, he snapped back the present. In the black of the night, the duo passed through the Carlisle House entranceway. The pair passed by the war cannon from the French and Indian war. Ted wiped droplets of a light mist from his glasses. Harmony bent down for a moment, borrowed Ted's flashlight, and examined the moistened lawn. What is it? Asked Ted. The grass looks disturbed, like someone went by here recently. Well, it could be our man, said Ted. Or it could be anyone who came by here. It's hard to tell in the darkness, harmony replied. But I think there were two people here. She got up, wiping her hands off the grass and mud, and they continued along. Ted wondered if he should have brought along his Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Harmony looked around nervously, imagining the cops arriving to arrest Ted for the second time and imagining a killer, the killer, lurking about. Despite her innate courage, her hands tremble in memory of the Wilkes cemetery attack a few days before. Meanwhile, a story about the Carlisle mansion's construction flashed through Ted's mind. He often brought tour guests across the lawn to its wall, where he told them of a strange superstition that Scotchman John Carlisle not only believed in, but had put into practice from time immemorial the black magic of a black cat, the same creatures featured in today's Halloween tales, such cats. Black cats were said to possess evil powers, but powers that could be deployed for a positive purpose. So when his workers were laying the foundation stones for his mansion in 1752, Mr. Carlyle issued an unusual order that a black cat be walled up alive within the foundation's stones. The terrified cat slowly suffocated its shrieks and wells. Its caterwauls penetrated the thick stones out to the laborers on the wall. It was Carlisle's belief that the angry spirit of the killed cat would forever haunt the house and scare away any other evil spirits attempting to approach. The trick may have seemed to work, as the Carlisle house, well into its third century, looked as sterling as it did when it was first built.
- [21:38]
Renita Hora
I hope you enjoyed this look back at the crime thriller authors of Season six. This is the True Fiction Project and I am your host, Renita Hora. Here at the True Fiction Project, we are always looking for great stories that make for compelling fiction. So if you have a great story or know somebody who does, or if you are a writer who would like to contribute, then please do get in touch with us@renita.com contact.
- [22:13]
Thank you for listening to the True Fiction Project with Renita Hora. Be sure to subscribe to the newsletter to receive more inspiring stories showing how fiction is born from our everyday experiences. For more information, visit www.TrueFictionProject.com warning the.
- [22:37]
Armand Rosemilla
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- [22:42]
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- [23:19]
Ed Moser
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- [23:20]
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