Mark Mynheir dropped in and left a mark... wait til you read his mini-story created just for us.
Good stuff. You like it? You need to get your hands on his books.
Fiction character you would most like to be or most identify with and why?
Jason Bourne, because he can Kung Fu people really well.
What crayon in the box describes you on a good day? Bad day? Which one do you aspire to be?
Rose and black. Very Black. I aspire for rosy days when an eternal wellspring of ideas and phrases bubble forth from my brain to the page with relative ease. (Those days don’t happen often.) Unfortunately, I have to put up with those “very black” days when I stare at a blank screen like a zombie and stress out about my deadline. I’m working on it, though.
Favorite turn of phrase or word picture, in literature or movie.
“This was no boating accident!” Richard Dreyfuss, Jaws. I try to say it at least once at every crime scene.
What period of history intrigues you the most?
WWII. Because the world hung in the balance. Good guys, bad guys. Axis, allies. Great stuff.
What would you write if there were no rules or barriers? (epic novels about characters in the Bible, poetry, greeting cards, plays, movies, instruction manuals, etc.)
I would probably continue to write mystery/suspense novels. I’m blessed to able to write the stories I love. If I had more time, I might want to try some screenplays, but who knows what the future holds.
What makes you feel alive?
Anything dangerous and mildly stupid. I’ve done some alligator hunting before, and that was a blast, but my wife has suggested that I NOT do that any more. I think police work has made me a bit of an adrenaline junkie.
How does something worm its way into your heart? Through tears, truth, humor or other?
Tears and humor. I think that’s true with most people. We want to be moved, be it with humor or sorrow.
Book, music, person, food you would take with you on a very long trip.
Persons. My wife and kids. I don’t think they’d let me go on a very long trip without them, especially if it’s somewhere nice.
Where would you most like to travel ----- moon, north pole, deep seas, deserted island, the holy land or back to a place from your childhood, somewhere else? – and why.
Israel. It’s where Jesus walked, and the whole world seems to be watching it right now. I’d also like to go to Australia. Not nearly for the spiritual reasons of Israel, but it just seems like it would be a fun place.
Favorite season and why?
Fall. It gets me ready for the Christmas season, and gives us a break from the torturous Florida summers.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
A non-Christian friend of mine told me that he liked my books because I was fair to the non-Christians and didn’t demonize them. It meant a lot coming from him.
What is your favorite word?
Cacophony. I just love the sound of it.
Favorite chore
Mowing the lawn. I can work my stories in my head while putting around the mower.
Anything you'd do but don't because of fear of pain? What is it? Ex. Bungee jumping, sky diving, running with scissors.
I still stay active with martial arts and stuff, but to be honest, I’m over forty—everything hurts. So why worry about it.
Societal pet peeve…sound off.
Not being able to watch a sitcom or hardly any other TV show with my children. It would be nice to a have decent TV shows again that don’t assault my values. Oh well. Enough of the rant.
Pick one of the "story starters" below and give us a sample of your voice.
A crack broke the stillness as Terry tugged on the frozen door. He jerked it once more, the fracture echoing through the quiet, frosty night as the house loosed its grip on the door, swinging it wide open.
Terry raised his flashlight and illuminated the darkened entryway of the long-abandoned home as his partner, Jeremy Wilson, unholstered his Glock 9mm and eased in behind him. They’d worked together long enough to know what to do without having to speak it.
Did someone really hear a cry for help? Or was the ancient wooden home just groaning and shifting under the pressure of the coldest night of the year? They’d have to search it to find out.
Flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other, Terry crept into a living room trapped in a time capsule from twenty years before, the site of the infamous and still unsolved Gaulty murders. Terry’s breath hovered in the room like a hazy apparition. A couch covered with a fine layer of dust and grime rested against the wall, and a reading chair filled the corner. A small coffee table was positioned in middle of the room. A portrait of the Gaulty family hung over the fireplace—a mother and father in the middle, a son and daughter flanking each. The former owners of the home kept watch over them with forced smiles and dark eyes.
He and Jeremy checked one room after another, searching for the source of the eerie 911 call. Terry’s heart pounded like a war drum in his ears and his breathing was short and sharp as they skulked down the hallway to the last room.
They broached the doorway and a silhouette on the bed caught his attention, drawing his flashlight toward the dark lump on the canopy bed. The form took the shape of a motionless man with blue jeans, a green down coat, and a bearded face, gazing at them with a vacant stare Terry had seen a hundred times before. A crimson stain encircled the man on the mattress. Terry shuffled to the side of the bed and slipped his finger on his neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing but slimy skin at room temperature.
“He’s dead.” Terry glanced back at Jeremy and shook his head, swallowing hard. “And I know one thing for sure: this was no boating accident.”
Thanks, Mark. Hope we can all sleep this weekend....
