At Genius Book Publishing, we spend a lot of time introducing you to the authors behind the books we love. But this time, we’re turning the spotlight inward.

Meet Steven W. Booth: author, artist, publisher, entrepreneur, founder of Genius Book Publishing, and, in my entirely unbiased opinion, the best boss ever.

Many readers know Steven as the publisher behind Genius, the person helping bring bold, unusual, thought-provoking, and sometimes deliciously dark books into the world. But before Genius became what it is today, Steven was already a writer with stories of his own to tell.

And one of those stories helped start it all.

The Hungry Series

Co-authored with Harry Shannon, The Hungry introduces readers to Sheriff Penny Miller, a tough, sharp, and heavily armed law officer facing an outbreak of the undead in the small town of Flat Rock, Nevada.

When a mutated virus unleashes zombies on the town, Penny has to lead a very unlikely group to safety, including her ex-husband, a dangerous biker named Scratch, and a not-exactly-perfect unit of National Guardsmen. With murderous bikers, military threats, and hordes of the hungry closing in, Penny does what she does best:

She aims for the brain.

The series is fast, intense, funny, gruesome, and full of the kind of grit and heart that makes apocalyptic horror so much fun to read. It is zombie fiction with teeth, but also with humor, intelligence, and a surprising amount of hope.

The Orchard

Steven’s The Orchard takes readers in a different direction, but with just as much tension.

Charlotte Wilson is an investigative journalist covering a mysterious global pandemic with no clear cause. When the COO of a multinational biotech company contacts her claiming he knows what is making people sick, Charlotte and her producer Nick realize they may have the story of a lifetime.

But as Charlotte digs deeper, she uncovers a conspiracy twelve years in the making, one that reaches into both her professional and personal life. Millions of lives may depend on her breaking the story, but the truth is so big, the question becomes: will anyone believe her?

And perhaps more importantly, will she live long enough to tell it?

Part mystery, part suspense, and part eerily plausible bio-thriller, The Orchard is the kind of book that pulls you in quickly and leaves you thinking about it long after the final page.

More Than a Publisher

What I love about featuring Steven is that he is not only the person behind Genius Book Publishing, he is also one of the creative minds who helped build the foundation it stands on.

He understands books from both sides of the desk: as a publisher working with authors, and as an author who knows what it means to sit with a story, wrestle with it, shape it, and finally send it out into the world.

That combination matters.

It means he brings not only business experience to publishing, but empathy. He knows the courage it takes to write a book. He knows the strange, wonderful, exhausting process of bringing a story to life. And he knows how much it means when someone believes in your work.

That spirit is a huge part of Genius.

So today, we are celebrating Steven W. Booth not just as the founder and publisher of Genius Book Publishing, but as the author of thrilling, imaginative, page-turning fiction in his own right.

And yes, also as the best boss ever.

Read Steven W. Booth

If you love zombie fiction with grit, humor, and a fierce heroine, start with The Hungry.

If you prefer suspense, mystery, and a chillingly plausible conspiracy, pick up The Orchard.

Either way, you’ll be stepping into the mind of a storyteller who knows how to keep readers turning pages.

Call to Action:
Have you read The Hungry or The Orchard yet? Let us know which Steven W. Booth book you’re adding to your list first.

In Ways to Be Wicked, an ambitious 17-year-old girl is found murdered after slipping away from a high school dance, setting off a fast-paced mystery tangled in street gangs, race relations, deception, and revenge. As school administrator Enrique Tavish digs deeper into the case, his own past and darker impulses begin to surface—and soon, the danger reaches far beyond the investigation.

For readers who enjoy gritty mysteries with moral tension, high stakes, and a reckoning that hits close to home, this one belongs on your list.

Get your copy of Ways to Be Wicked today.

What begins as a neighborly concern over a missing cat slowly unravels into something far darker in Six-Toed Ollie by Michael A. Black. Equal parts suspenseful, gritty, and unexpectedly heartwarming, this story delivers sharp storytelling, memorable characters, and one heroic six-toed feline you won’t soon forget.

I noticed Six-Toed Ollie sleeping on the roof of my rear porch when I came back from my run that spring morning. The roof was easily accessible for a cat, since the banisters of the elevated back steps made it only about a four-foot jump. I stepped onto the porch and called his name softly, holding my hand up by the gutter and rubbing my thumb and index finger together. Six-Toed Ollie raised his flat, triangular head, squinted at me sleepily, and then gave an acknowledging mew.

The cat belonged to my neighbor, an elderly lady named Mrs. McCarthy. I figured that she must have been somewhere in her eighties, with iron-gray hair and large, gold-rimmed glasses. But she was a tough old bird. Every spring I’d see her kneeling in front of her house planting flowers, and she’d put me to shame working on a garden in the backyard. She was always pleasant and said hello to me when I’d come trotting up the block from my morning run. I lived two houses away on the same side of the street. It was on one of those mornings about two years ago that I saw her sitting on her porch holding this big tan and white tomcat. She motioned to me as I went past.

“Mr. Parker, come see my new boyfriend,” she’d said.

I walked up the sidewalk and smiled.

“I’m going to name him Ollie,” Mrs. McCarthy said. The cat looked dreamily at me, then closed his eyes. “And look at this.” She held up one of his paws and pressed it gently between her thumb and index finger. A flange of six claws fanned out momentarily. “He’s got six toes on each foot. That must mean he’s special.”

Hence the nickname I assigned to him: Six-Toed Ollie.

Mrs. McCarthy was always very careful about not letting Ollie run loose in the neighborhood. She was very proud of her bird feeder in the backyard, too, and didn’t want him “marauding.” So the only time I saw him out was when she had him on a leash. That’s why I was surprised to see him on my roof

I called to him again, and this time he got up, stretched by raising his rear end high in the air, and sauntered over to the edge of the roof. He rubbed his face against my upraised fingers then deftly jumped the four feet down to the two-by-four banister. Marveling at his display of agility, I picked him up with two hands and walked over to Mrs. McCarthy’s front door. He must have weighed a good fifteen pounds. A rust-covered blue Chevy Cavalier was parked by the curb. I’d seen the car there before and knew it belonged to her nephew, Paulie, who came over infrequently to cut the grass and do other minor chores. He pulled open the front door after I rang the bell, staring at me through the metallic netting of the screen door.

“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?” I asked, trying to be ingratiating.

“She’s sleeping,” he said. “I’m her nephew. Why?” He was about medium height but grotesquely fat. His little dark eyes seemed to be two dots of obsidian stuck in a slab of pastry dough.

“Her cat was sleeping on my porch,” I said.

“Oh, sorry.” He opened the screen door, grabbed Six-Toed Ollie by the scruff of the neck, and held the cat down by his side like he was snatching a gallon of milk. Ears flattening out, Ollie hissed and took a couple of swipes at fat Paulie’s pants leg as Paulie pulled the screen door closed.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to hold a cat like that,” I said without thinking.

He glared at me momentarily, then let Ollie drop to the floor. The cat scurried off somewhere inside the house, still hissing. “Mrs. McCarthy’s usually very careful about her cat. Is she feeling all right?”

“She’s fine,” he said slowly. Then asked, “You the cop that lives over there?”

He canted his head to the right.

I nodded.

“I’ll tell her you brought it back. Thanks.” He closed the door.

I didn’t dwell on the incident too much as I showered, ate, and got ready for duty. I worked an afternoon shift assignment and got off at midnight every night. I did notice the blue Chevy parked in front of the house again the next morning when I got up to run. I spent more time than usual walking around my yard cooling off, hoping I’d see Mrs. McCarthy out planting her petunias. But I didn’t.

When I was getting ready to go to work I got a call from my lady friend, Cathy.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked.

“Name it,” I said.

“I got a call from the Animal Welfare League. They have a cockapoo that I’ve been waiting for. I need you to go by and put a hold on it for me.” She’d been waiting for about a year to get a suitable dog for her young son. “This dog sounds like a dream.”

I told her that I’d head right over, since it was on the way to the station anyway. Thirty minutes later I was pulling up in front of the brick building with the mural depicting various types of adoring dogs, cats, and other animals. After explaining why I was there, and putting a cash hold on the dog, the girl behind the desk asked if I’d like to see the pooch.

“Sure,” I said, and she began leading me back toward the rows of dog cages. That was when I heard a familiar plaintive whine. Turning, I saw the big, angular tan and white face staring at me from behind a steel mesh door. Our eyes locked momentarily, and the cat opened his mouth and cried again. I stopped and went over to him.

“Are you interested in a cat, too?” the girl asked.

At that moment twin paws, each containing six awesome-looking claws, curled around the box-like steel bars.

“I think that’s my neighbor’s cat,” I said. “Six-Toed Ollie.” With the mention of his name, he emitted another mournful sound. “He’s got six toes on each foot.”

“Oh, wow, he sure does,” the girl said, walking over. “Give me the information.” She wrote down the cage number.

The record showed that the cat had been brought in as a stray late the previous afternoon. Since it was obviously well cared for, the usual procedure was to hold it in case of inquiries. I didn’t know Mrs. McCarthy’s phone number, but explained that I would let her know of Ollie’s whereabouts the next morning.

“She’s an older lady,” I said. “Why don’t you take my number just in case?” She did.

The next day the blue Chevy was again parked in front. I changed into my sweats and running shoes, but walked over and rang Mrs. McCarthy’s bell before I started the run. I could hear the sound of a hammer pounding inside. I leaned on the doorbell several more times. The pounding stopped and the fat nephew came to the door and opened it just enough to frame his big head in the space.

“Yeah?” he said. He squinted at me through the screen door.

“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?”

“No. I took her to the doctor,” he said. “Why?”

“I just wanted to let her know that her cat’s at the animal shelter,” I said. “Did he get loose again?”

“Oh, yeah. He did. I been looking for him, too. What place is he at?”

I told him the address and phone number.

“Okay, thanks a lot,” he said, grinning. “I’ll give ‘em a jingle and we’ll get him this afternoon.”

“Give my regards to your aunt.”

He said he would and pushed the door closed.

Later that evening my partner and I were in the middle of a boring shopping-center surveillance when my cell phone rang. I answered it.

“Mr. Parker, this is Jeannie from the Animal Welfare League,” the voice on the other end said. “Were you able to get a hold of your neighbor about the cat with six toes?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I talked to her nephew. He was supposed to contact you.”

“Well, nobody’s called, and my supervisor doesn’t seem to think we can place a full-grown cat his size.”

I glanced at my watch.

“What time do you close?” I asked.

“Seven o’clock, but we have somebody on duty till midnight.”

“How about if I drop by around eleven-thirty?” I said. “I’ll pick the cat up and deliver him back home.”

“That would be super,” Jeannie said.

I picked up small bags of kitty litter and cat food at the shelter, and figured I could find a suitable plastic box to allow Six-Toed Ollie to spend the night at my place. After all, it was after midnight by the time I got home. Then in the morning I would talk to Mrs. McCarthy.

But when I pulled down the alley I noticed that the lights were still on in the back rooms of her house. I’d stopped by my garage and was waiting for the overhead door to finish going up when I saw Paulie’s blue Cavalier swing out from the space adjacent to Mrs. McCarthy’s old decrepit garage. He kept going in the opposite direction from which I’d come. I backed into my garage and hit the button on the remote to close the door. Unfortunately I also opened my car door out of habit, forgetting about my rider, and Six-Toed Ollie shot off my lap like greased lightning. My hand immediately shot up and hit the button again, freezing the descent of the door. Then, swearing, I lumbered out of the car in time to see the big tomcat run into the alley and turn right. Pulling out my small mini-mag flashlight I went after him, thinking what an idiot I was for not holding on to him better. The beam lit up the alley and I saw Ollie stop and pause in the light, his eyes gleaming like two beacons. I strode purposefully, but not too fast, toward the crouching feline. Six-Toed Ollie stayed in the circumference of the light watching my progress with an almost patient expression, until I was a few feet from him. Then he burst forward with alacrity toward Mrs. McCarthy’s backyard.

I quickened my pace, thinking that if he paused on her porch, I could probably grab him there. The flashlight traced the trotting tan and white body, which now leaped up the old wooden steps, stopping and sitting by the back door. He cried once and lifted his front legs up almost to the door catch, letting all twelve claws dance over the jamb. Slowly, I reached down and secured him in two hands, picked him up, and held him to my chest. Since I was there, and the lights were on, I figured that I might as well try to rouse Mrs. McCarthy. I was a little bit disturbed by the events of the past few days, and wanted to be sure she was all right and knew what had gone on with Ollie. After pounding several times, I listened for sounds inside the house. No voices, no movement, no television.

I licked my lips and pulled open the screen door. The back door was locked. Letting the screen door slip closed, I went to the windows at the back of the house and peered inside. It was the kitchen. Stacks of pots and pans littered the floor, and dishes were everywhere. The cabinets stood open, and I could see what appeared to be large holes in the walls. That uneasy feeling continued to grow, and the cop in me took over.

I went around to the back section of the house where a triangular wooden structure covered the entrance leading down to her basement. The storm doors weren’t locked, and I pulled them up and shined the flashlight down inside. Past a maze of cobwebs, an old padlock dangled unlocked from a hasp on a door at the bottom of half a dozen cement steps.

Carrying my squirming burden, I went down the steps, brushing the wispy tendrils away. I removed the lock from the hasp, and pushed on the cellar door. It opened with a creaking sound. I stood debating what to do for a few more minutes, then Six-Toed Ollie made the decision for me. He managed to wriggle out of my grasp and ran into the dark interior. Heaving a sigh, I followed his progress with the flashlight beam, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

What the hell, I thought. Cops are sort of kissing cousins to burglars anyway.

The basement smelled musty and stacks of cardboard boxes were everywhere. I heard the pit-a-pat of the cat’s feet bounding up a slanted wooden staircase ahead of me. Cautiously, I followed, trying my best to be as quiet as a mouse. The stairs went up to an open trap door that led to a pantry. Afraid I would knock something over, I swung the flashlight around and caught sight of the hanging cord of a light bulb. I pulled it and switched off the flashlight. Six-Toed Ollie sat on the table watching me, the ovals of his greenish eyes split by perpendicular slashes of black pupils. I held out my fingers again and clucked softly, hoping this would allow me to grab him again. But no such luck.

Now inside the main part of the house and desperate, I called out, identifying myself. It felt stupid at this point, but since my intentions had been honorable, I figured I would be able to explain my presence.

“Mrs. McCarthy!” I called out again. “It’s Tom Parker, your neighbor. I’ve got your cat.”

No response.

I’d searched enough buildings to know the feel of an empty house. I tried one more verbal announcement, as Ollie darted off the table and into a small room next to the kitchen. In one impressive bound he leaped up and landed with a resounding clunk on top of a large deep freeze. The small room appeared to be another pantry of sorts, and I switched the flashlight back on. Instead of doing another fancy leap, the big tomcat watched my approach and delivered a haltingly uneven howl. Then his big claws extended and retracted in rhythmic fashion on the metallic surface. By this time I’d gotten a whiff of something that I knew from experience wasn’t spoiled meat. I went to the lid of the deep freeze and Ollie nimbly jumped up on top of an adjacent refrigerator.

Slowly I raised the lid, already knowing what I’d find. The two plastic garbage bags had been rather hastily duct-taped together, but a fringe of iron-gray hair protruded from a tear near the seam.

Suddenly I heard Six-Toed Ollie begin with a hiss that transformed into a feral growl. His ears flattened and he shot off the top of the refrigerator like a white and tan cannonball. That’s about when I caught the hint of movement behind me, and whirled in time to see fat Paulie coming at me holding an upraised shovel like a harpoon. The cat passed between us in a flash, and twenty-four sickle-shaped claws dug into the substantial gut bouncing over the dark blue work pants. Paulie screamed, smacking Ollie away while trying to aim the shovel at my head as he swung. The curved metal edge sank into the top of the freezer with a sharp thump. He grunted and tried to lift it for a second swing, but the fingers of my left hand were already curling around the shaft. A second later my right fist collided with his nose. The shovel came away in my grasp, and Paulie seemed to sit down rather hard on his corpulent backside. A stream of red flooded from his nostrils, and the beady black eyes stared up at me in defeat and exasperation.

From a few feet away, big Ollie arched his back and delivered an accompanying hiss, his tail flaring as big as a raccoon’s.

“It was all because of that damn cat,” Paulie said, the sobs wracking his voice. “After all the things I always done for her, she was gonna leave her money to that damn cat.” He swung his hand in an effete gesture toward the feline, but received only a defiant slap from the Six-Toed Ollie.

I pulled out my gun with my right hand, dropped the shovel behind me, and grabbed my cell phone with my left. I thought about saying, “Tell it to the judge.” But sometimes the silence plays better.

#

Paulie kept right on squealing during his interview with the investigating detectives. For my part, all I had to do was twist things a tad by saying that I heard what I took to be screams from inside the house and went to investigate. Could I be faulted if it turned out to be the cat? After all, a cat’s scream can sound awfully human sometimes.

But, like I said, Paulie spilled his guts almost immediately anyway, telling how he had strangled poor old Mrs. McCarthy in a fit of rage after finding out she intended to leave a substantial portion of her estate to provide for the care of her beloved kitty. Believing that the old lady had secreted a stash of money somewhere in the house, Paulie had been systematically dismantling the interior searching for it. When the odor from the deep freeze, which he’d forgotten to plug in, started to become a bit noticeable, he’d decided to bury her in a nearby wooded area. Having been a fan of the old Columbo TV show, Paulie figured that it would be smart to dig the grave first, then go back and reconnoiter, before returning to pick up the body. That’s when he saw me chasing the cat inside the house.

Naturally, after the story broke, all kinds of other family members, who’d never even given poor old Mrs. McCarthy the time of day when she was alive, came out of the woodwork trying to vie for a piece of the pie.

And as for Six-Toed Ollie…

I watched him this cold winter’s day as he adjusted his back to get more of it against the heating vent in my living room. Then, as if sensing that I was looking at him, he raised his big, triangular head and bleated a cry that sounded more like a baby sheep than a sixteen-pound tomcat. But as Cathy pointed out, he turned out to be the perfect pet for a guy who works afternoons like I do. He sleeps most of the day, eats when he feels like it, and tolerates my presence the rest of the time. But then again, how many other guys can say that they have a roommate with nine lives, six toes, and a tail, who just happened to have saved their life?

The End

Love crime fiction, mysteries, and edge-of-your-seat suspense? Explore more from Michael A. Black’s collection and discover your next great read.

In Ways to Be Wicked, Enrique Tavish is a man who’s spent his whole life navigating the fault lines of identity and survival on Tucson’s south side. When a gifted student is murdered on his watch, he doesn’t turn into a superhero; he becomes exactly what a real person becomes under pressure—compelled, conflicted, stubborn, and sometimes wrong. Even the people around him—Jim Burgoyne, the Levantes, the families caught in the neighborhood’s undertow—move with the weight of lived experience.

She’s a Lot Like You pushes that even further. Rosa Martinez isn’t written as a symbol or a victim; she’s a fifteen year old girl whose intelligence and resilience keep surprising the adults who think they understand her. Tavish returns here, still wrestling with the same moral knots that make him human, not tidy. Their stories collide in ways that feel unpredictable because real people are unpredictable.

The thread that ties these books together is this: the characters don’t behave because the plot needs them to. They behave because that’s who they are. And that’s the kind of storytelling I believe in.

The best characters don’t feel written. They feel lived in.

If you enjoy character-driven fiction filled with flawed people, moral complexity, family tension, and choices that don’t come easy, I think you’ll really connect with Right There in Black and White.

In Blood Red Deceit by Steve Rush, forensic pathology student Ridge Warner’s life spirals into danger after a shocking lab report uncovers a hidden truth tied to his past. What begins as an act of love—donating blood to save his fiancée, Olympic gold medalist Angel Meade—quickly transforms into a chilling web of betrayal, deception, and deadly intrigue. As secrets surface and trust unravels, Ridge finds himself fighting not only for answers, but for his life.

Nothing Shocks Like an Exposed Secret

Steve Rush

A pint of blood hurled my life into chaos. I, Ridge Warner, wasn’t the blood’s recipient. The outcome proved much worse than any disease I might’ve received through tainted blood.

Here is what happened. A competitor in the winter Olympics shot my fiancée, Angel Meade. I gave blood to save her. The Beijing hospital’s lab tested a sample. The analysis exposed a secret related to an event before my birth.

A lab tech showed the report to Angel while I retrieved her carry-on. The disclosure transformed her countenance from someone excited about going home to deep-freeze silence.

The information she harbored wormed through her like a parasite in heat.

Steve Rush, the author who wrote my story, described it this way. “The revelation injected poison into her opaque heart. Its acid burned her soul. In that moment, Angel Meade donned animosity as if it were her favorite pair of sneakers.”

I agree. Nothing I did or said penetrated the wall between Angel and me.

That perilous day arrived after a previous disaster altered my future. Losing my mother on my eighteenth birthday influenced my decision to go to medical school and focus on forensic pathology.

Fiction characters like me want more than a status quo. My journey led to an unforeseen career detour, and what I believed was the fortuitous meeting of Olympic Gold Medalist Angel Meade.

Our future faded to darkness when the lab’s report jolted Angel as though the Greek god of the underworld prodded her with his double-tined pitchfork.

Angel showed proficiency in areas beyond winning gold medals, including the ability to hide an IED in a deceased murder victim.

From that moment it exploded, I knew someone wanted me dead.

This scene depicts a bit of aftermath and my first encounter with Berky Raines, a woman I later dubbed Lodge Tsar.

“Welcome to Eagle Fire. From the look of it, you must be Ridge Warner.”

I stilled. Familiarity rang in her voice.

“I am.” I signed the form she presented and crossed to the window overlooking the street.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked after my repeated gaze through the window.

“Just looking.”

“I insist you don’t touch anything, trash those clothes, and bathe. I want no blood and tissue adherent to you in my lodge.”

Berky motioned for me to wait. She stepped into the adjoining room. I admired the elk’s head mounted above the fireplace. A close inspection revealed camera lens for eyes. Curious, I examined further and discovered a listening device in the left ear canal.

“Nice elk,” I said when Berky returned holding two contractor-grade garbage bags.

“Thanks. These are for your soiled clothing. If they’re not evidence, I want you to double-bag and dispose of them in the bin located around the back corner of the main building. Otherwise, I’ll notify the police to come collect them.”

“No evidentiary value.”

In my suite, I peered out from behind the drapes despite Berky’s warning for me not to touch anything until I discarded my soiled clothing and took a shower. Sometimes caution takes precedence over fulfillment of a mandate.”

Survival often comes with a price. Mine is no exception. How much I’m willing to pay depends of what happens in the future.

My story continues in Blood Red Deceit. I’d appreciate it if you would allow me to share it with you.

Many thanks,

Ridge Warner

Ready to uncover the truth?

Continue the journey and discover the secrets within Blood Red Deceit.

Dr. Ashley Baker, PsyD, is a clinical psychologist turned fiction writer who brings a rare depth of insight to her work. Blending her professional understanding of the human mind with emotionally driven storytelling, she creates fiction that is both unsettling and deeply human.

She joins the ranks of authors like Jonathan Kellerman and Lucinda Berry—professionals who have stepped beyond their clinical work to explore the darker corners of human experience through fiction.

Ashley lives in North Georgia with her family, where she balances writing, reading, and continuing her work with clients.

Her Work

The Ashes of Us
A gripping and emotionally complex novel that asks a haunting question:
What would you do for your child?

When a young woman turns to her father after a brutal assault, she asks for something unthinkable—and he must decide how far love can go before it crosses a line that can’t be undone. The novel explores moral boundaries, generational trauma, and the devastating weight of justice and revenge.

The Furious Others
A powerful and unconventional psychological horror novel that flips the script.

Instead of focusing on the killer, this story centers the victims—their lives, their voices, and their humanity. Through deeply personal portrayals, the novel challenges the way we consume true crime and horror, reminding us that the real story is often the one left untold.

Fiction with Teeth

Ashley Baker writes what she calls “fiction with teeth”—stories that linger, challenge, and stay with you long after the final page.

She continues to write and dream up new work, pushing the boundaries of psychological and emotional storytelling.

Which story would you pick up first—The Ashes of Us or The Furious Others?

Coming soon: She’s A Lot Like You by Jim Christ

In the meantime, readers can explore Jim Christ’s powerful storytelling in his currently available book:

👉 Right There in Black and White

A gripping story that examines the complexities of truth, justice, and the choices that shape our lives.

Jack is the author of the popular Dek Elstrom mystery series, along with the stand-alone novels Silence the Dead and The Black Cage. His body of work spans mystery, true crime, and short fiction, with stories appearing in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and in anthologies edited by literary heavyweights including Michael Connelly and Charlaine Harris.

Over the course of his career, Jack has been nominated for multiple Shamus Awards — for Best First Novel, Best Novel, and Best Short Story — a testament to the lasting impact of his storytelling within the crime writing community.

In addition to his fiction, Jack has written two business books (which he jokingly notes are “best marketed as sleep aids”) and contributed columns to the Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine and other regional publications. His writing reflects both a sharp investigative instinct and a wry, self-aware humor that readers have come to love.

His forthcoming projects continue to expand his range, including a short story anthology and a true-crime work titled The Murder of Mary Jane Reed.

The Big Touch marks Jack’s first collaboration with Genius Publishing — a partnership we’re proud to celebrate.

Please join us in welcoming Jack Fredrickson to the Genius community, and stay tuned in the coming weeks as we share more about The Big Touch ahead of its March 20 release.

We can’t wait for you to step into his world of intrigue, suspense, and unforgettable characters.

Grab Right There in Black and White here.

Some authors write to inform.
Others write to connect — to open doors where there once were walls.

Dave Case is the kind of writer whose work invites both.

Across memoir, essays, and creative nonfiction, Dave explores the places where vulnerability and resilience meet. His voice doesn’t ask readers to be perfect, quiet, or polished — but to notice the seams of experience where meaning often hides.

Whether he’s writing about the grit of daily life, the quiet weight of memory, or the unexpected openings that change us, Dave’s work feels like a conversation: honest, reflective, and deeply humane.

If you’re curious to explore his books, learn more about his approach, or discover the places his stories go — you can find his author page here:

👉 https://geniusbookpublishing.com/pages/dave-case

As with every author we share, the goal isn’t to convince you of a particular viewpoint — it’s simply to introduce you to a voice that might feel like company on the page.

In Momma Girl, S. Thorne Harper delivers a raw, haunting short story about what survives violence — in bodies, in memory, and in the unlikely bonds that form between the wounded. When a solitary veteran living in rural isolation encounters a brutalized pit bull on his porch, the meeting sets off a chain of reckonings: with war, with guilt, with loyalty, and with the quiet ways love shows up when it isn’t invited.

Unflinching yet deeply human, Momma Girl moves between the scars of combat and the slow, stubborn healing that can come through care, connection, and responsibility. This is a story about protection — who gives it, who needs it, and what it costs.

There was a scratching at the back door. James listened, and heard it again. His landlord told him the old farmhouse had been burglarized twice before he moved in. James thought about that. He was alone in the country.

He walked quietly to the bedroom and picked up his Mag-Lite, the only weapon he possessed. Gripped by the neck and supported on the shoulder, it served as both light and club. James approached the storm window and looked out. Clouds glowed a faint orange and violet; the sun gone behind the pines.

There was nothing on the porch so James opened the door. It creaked. Something scurried just out of his periphery. His light scanned the grove of budding azaleas, stopping on a set of dark eyes in an oversized black head.

“God damn pit bull,” James said under his breath. He held his ground, showing no fear. The dog made no move, so he turned the light off and walked back to the steps. He squatted and lit a cigarette. “Hell.”

He took a few moments to think. The moon was full, its light diffused by clouds. James allowed his eyes to adjust to its ambience before walking back to the azalea grove. The dog moved deeper in the bushes as he did. “Come on out. Let me have a look at you,” he said, squatting a few feet away. The night clicked, buzzed and croaked with mystery. The pit bull emerged in a slow belly-crawl.

James extended his left hand but kept his right on the Mag-Lite. The odor arrived first, something like airplane glue and burnt, wet scrambled eggs. “Damn,” James said, not quite a whisper. The dog neared and sniffed his hand. There was a ragged band of white around the neck. The paws and tail were also dipped in white. The rest of the dog was black and looked as though it could have been wearing a mangled tuxedo. It nuzzled the back of James’ hand. He caressed the blocky head. His fingertips found a patchwork of scabs. He resisted the impulse to pull away.

“It’s OK.” James clicked the light on, put it on his shoulder, and moved the beam slowly over the dog. Ribs and spine defined by starvation. Freshly opened gashes, some exposing bone, mingling with old gray scars and skin-tight fur. The white ring of the neck was worn and stained with the pink of old blood. Drained teats drooped in dark folds around her.

“Well, hello Momma Girl.” She stopped panting and cut an eye up at him. James smiled. There was a peculiar scratch, still raw, just beneath her ear. It bothered him more than the rest. He didn’t want a dog. “Why the hell did you show up on my back porch?” She cut an eye at him again.

James walked in the house and returned with a week-old pan of grilled fish he had planned to throw out but never got around to it. He scraped it on the ground and backed up to give the dog space. Cautiously, she made her way to the fish. She sniffed it, devoured it, and then looked up at James. “That’s all I got.” He stroked her again, went inside, and closed the door.

Long spikes of rain came that night in a roar, hammering the farmhouse’s corrugated roof. James half-hoped the storm would drive the dog away, but she was on the back porch the next morning. She cringed when he opened the door and tucked her tail tightly between her legs. He stroked her and she rolled on her back.

He got an old pan and filled it with water. He thought about her at work and what to do with her if she were still there when he got home. He had a hard time concentrating on the band saw and nearly slipped a finger through the blade. But he came up with an idea. He figured he’d keep her as a security dog. He would give her food, water and a place to stay and, hopefully, she’d keep the burglars away. He’d keep a working relationship only. And he resolved to put her down if that peculiar scratch turned out to be carrying rabies. He bought a bag of dog food on the way home. She was on the front porch when he pulled up.

The dog’s cowering vanished after several days. She ate pans and pans of food and gorged herself on water. James treated her wounds; she didn’t flinch when he pushed the pasty ointment deep into the bone-bared gashes. When he was done, the dog looked him in the eye for the first time. They were big, brown and almond-shaped. James saw longing. He didn’t want to be needed.

The dog made a remarkable recovery. Other than the odd scratch beneath her ear, the cuts and gashes were healing fast.

James met Billy Ray Newsome about this time. Billy Ray showed up at the lumberyard during a fierce afternoon thunderstorm that had knocked out a transformer and James’ saw. He was taking a break to smoke a cigarette when he spotted Billy Ray struggling to load wire fencing and two-by-fours in the downpour. James snuffed out his cigarette and charged through the rain.

“Need some help?” James said.

“Wouldn’t turn it down,” Billy Ray said, looking at him beneath the dripping brim of a baseball cap. “It’s rainin’ like a cow pissin’ on a rock,” he said, the cigarette in his lips the only dry thing about him. James smiled. They talked as they loaded the pickup truck. Billy Ray liked

fishing and baseball. James liked baseball, but fishing never did much for him. Billy Ray also liked dogs. He had four of them and was going to use the wood and wire fencing to build a pen for them.

“What kind are they?”

“All shapes and sizes, no particular breed,” replied Billy Ray. “They’re just old country dogs. But I have to keep ‘em in now when strangers come. They think everyone’s a meth head these days. They chased some off a few weeks ago tryin’ to break in.”

Billy Ray seemed to know a lot about dogs, including fighting dogs. James told him about the pit bull and the odd scratch. “She’s prob’bly been rolled a few times. They either turned her out or she escaped. They don’t feed ‘em if they ain’t fightin’.”

“You think she’s dangerous?”

Billy Ray stopped loading, thought for a moment, and then looked at James.

“Dogs don’t ever want to bother anybody, unless someone makes ‘em do it. They’re not born that way. People got to take care of ‘em. If you don’t, they can be dangerous.” Billy Ray resumed loading the last bit of lumber. “There’s a little bit of dog in everybody. Includin’ you, Jimmy.” Nobody ever called James Jimmy, but it had a playful country sound coming from the smoking lips of Billy Ray Newsome.

They learned much more about each other by the time the truck was loaded. They had taken remarkably similar paths: both were in their early 30s; both had joined – and gotten out of – the Army about the same time (and for similar reasons); both had left as sergeants, and both had been part of the invasion of Iraq.

“Fuckin’ kismet, man,” Billy Ray said. “Who were you with?” James asked.

“A Hundred-and-First Airborne Assault. Screamin’ Eagles, baby. How ‘bout you?” “The Third Infantry Division. Rock of the Marne,” James said, adding: “And the

Sledgehammer of Baghdad.”

They laughed. Billy Ray said James should bring the dog over to his house because he wouldn’t mind taking a look at her. James agreed. Billy Ray dug out an old receipt from the clutter in his truck and scribbled a map to his house on the back. He had a mischievous spark in his eye and only the hint of a smile when he handed the paper to James. He said he would pen up the dogs and expect him that Saturday before noon.

“And I’ll tell ya something’ right now. I don’t like pit bulls. No sir. They got the eyes of a bear and the balls of a man. But I’ll look at ‘er.”

Billy Ray raised his face to the sky and was assaulted by 9-millimeter drops. “Well, a god damn small craft advisory has been issued: ‘All large craft are on their own.’ Better be gettin’ on down the road.” They shook hands.

“See you Saturday morning, Sergeant Sledgehammer.” “See you then.”

It was a perfect April morning when James and the dog turned down the dirt road to Billy Ray’s place, a modest old house, set back off the paved road in a shady thicket of newly blooming trees. Billy Ray was in the back, in a sun-lit vegetable patch, bent over with a cigarette in his lips, pulling grass beneath a row of what James recognized as string beans. He was shirtless, indistinguishable tattoos on his biceps and shoulders, thickened within sun-baked skin. Like James, he was wiry and fit, though a bit hairier. Billy Ray stood as the truck stopped, exposing a small beer paunch. His dogs barked from a pen beyond the garden.

“Ah, Shut up!” Billy Ray said, silencing them, and then turned toward James. “How ya’ doin’ pard’ner?”

“Fine. Just fine,” James said, admiring the rows of beans and tomatoes and okra and other produce in the patch.

The dog followed James out his door. She ran a few steps and spotted Billy Ray. She stopped, abruptly, on guard. Billy Ray stood still. The two of them studied each other through similar spheres of black ice. It occurred to James that both had the eyes of a bear, but only Billy Ray had the balls of a man.

“Yeah, you got them killer eyes, too,” Billy Ray said squinting through a sunbeam of cigarette smoke. “But you’re a hell of a lot prettier ‘n I am, and nothin’s meaner than ugly.” He broke the stare and grinned at James. “Come have a seat in my office, Jimmy.” He sauntered toward a bench in the barn. James joined him and lit a cigarette.

The dog found shade a few feet away. She lay down and watched the two men as they talked the talk of getting acquainted. They learned that they both liked George Jones, James Brown and Radiohead.

“The fuckin’ kismet continues, man,” Billy Ray said, producing rolling papers and a bag of crop grown in an exclusive part of his garden. James began to feel at ease. His senses grew acute. Birds sang above a troubled world. The aroma of the new season wandered into his head.

Billy Ray noticed the dog inching toward them. “Come on over here you ugly, big- headed bitch. Let me have a look at you.” She walked slowly to him. Billy Ray caressed her head and neck. Her eyes warmed and she rolled on her back. He rubbed her stomach. “She was prob’bly a schoolin’ dog by the looks of her. Those sons of bitches prob’bly bred her for pups

and then rolled her with the males when she wasn’t breedin’, but it looks like she fought back. All her wounds are on the front, ya see? I’ll bet she’s a gamer.”

Billy Ray began examining the wounds. “Looks like they put a heavy collar and a chain on her. They have ‘em haul around logs or somethin’ else heavy. It builds strength and stamina.” He didn’t like the scratch marks beneath her ear either. “Dogs don’t make scratches like that. I had a dog get into a fight with a raccoon. It looked a little like that. The damn thing had rabies and I had to put the dog down. You might want to keep a close eye on ‘er. Make sure she keeps takin’ water. If she’s got the fever, you’ll know. But if she’s got it, she might run off too. They do that sometimes.”

James pushed that out of his mind. Something else had begun working on him. It had been a day much like this when he entered Baghdad with the vanguard of U.S. troops, and James was inexplicably overcome with the urge to tell Billy Ray about it. He didn’t know what he was going to say until the words left his lips.

“Fuckin’ dogs and flowers.”

Billy Ray stopped stroking the dog. “What’re you talkin’ about?” “Dogs and flowers in Iraq, man. I just can’t get that out of my head.”

Billy Ray’s eyes grew more serious. “Go on then. Get it out of your head,” he said. It put James more at ease. Billy Ray pulled a leg over his knee and sat back. “Go on, brother.”

He didn’t know where it was going, but James began to talk.

“We rolled in on a blue spring morning, like this one. Air support had wiped out most of the tanks and artillery. But it was strange, there were flowers everywhere along the road – bright red and yellow and purple, all colors, blooming everywhere – right in the middle of war. The

Iraqis love flowers. I didn’t know that before I got there.” James lit a cigarette without looking at Billy Ray.

“We practically waltzed right into the city. Then the Fedayeen started coming at us, driving those damn little pickups right into Bradleys and even the god damn Abrams tanks. Some of ‘em ran right at us with bombs strapped to ‘em. We called ‘em the Nissan Division. We thought it was funny, but thinking about it now, they were pretty badass.

“I killed I don’t know how many of them. I’m pretty sure I killed some civilians too.

They were people like you and me, just trying to get out of town. But we had no way of knowing who was who. You know what happens when you shoot someone with a high explosive shell from a 25-millimeter Bushmaster chain-fired gun?” James took a pull on his cigarette and exhaled. “He explodes into red dust…Crazy ass Fedayeen, man. They didn’t care who got killed.” James looked at Billy Ray. His gaze was cool, revealing nothing. James continued.

“There were dogs everywhere. They ran in packs. They fed right on the dead, man. I guess I was sort of oblivious to it at the time. It didn’t really bother me then. I was in warrior mode, you know. Everything was clicking. I could see, hear and smell everything so clear. I could even taste the air. It tasted like smoke and metal. I was a fuckin’ killing machine. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. But things keep coming back to me now.”

The words were just coming out. James still didn’t know where they were taking him. “By the afternoon, the sky wasn’t blue anymore. It was gray with smoke and damned if it

wasn’t snowing ashes. Bodies, man. Everywhere. The roads were lined with ‘em. There was a woman and a baby on the roadside. They were dead but she was still holding on to her baby. There were flowers scattered all around ‘em. She still had some of ‘em in her hand. For some reason she’d been carrying ‘em before she died. What the hell was she carrying flowers for? God

damn. Then the dogs came, and damned if they didn’t start ripping into that woman and her baby.” James sighed. “Shit, man.”

And then he was quiet. He suddenly understood where he was going. He became aware that he was on uncertain ground. He’d been around soldiers who refused to negotiate with their conscience, preferring to leave the guilt of killing locked up and segregated far away. He had been one of them before this very moment. He risked rejection if he broached it with Billy Ray, but he couldn’t help it.

“It was all some random fuckin’ shit, man. We killed all those people. For what?”

Billy Ray exhaled and leaned forward, looking down. “Who knows, Jimmy boy? The big dogs ‘re gonna have their reckoning for that someday. It’s on their heads, not ours. We were the property of Uncle Sam. We did what we had to do. And it’s as simple and final as that.” He paused and looked James in the eye. “It’s good to get that shit out of you. It’s good to talk about it, man. You got too. I’ve known some brothers who’ve gone crazy. I’m here if you need me.”

“And I’m here if you need me, brother,” James said. They popped hands together in a spontaneous wrist-shake. It was brief. The sudden warmth was uncomfortable. Billy Ray cooled it.

“So what did you do about those god damn man-eating Iraqi dogs?” he said, stamping out a cigarette.

“I turned the mother fuckers into red dust,” James said.

Billy Ray’s brown eyes glowed playfully serpentine. He lit another Winston. “God damn Sledgehammer of Baghdad.”

James laughed. Billy Ray grinned. The dog walked slowly to Billy Ray. He squatted and stroked her. James heard him talking to her but couldn’t make it out. Billy Ray’s voice had taken

on a soothing, muffled tone. He released the dog after a short spell. “Now get on outta here you anvil-headed bitch.” The dog got in the truck.

They agreed to meet again. “Yeah, maybe I’ll tell you a few things about the siege of Samawah,” Billy Ray said. “Screamin’ Eagles, baby.”

“See you soon,” James said, putting the truck into gear. “God damn right,” Billy Ray said as he pulled off.

The dog limited her patrols to the front porch. She was always lying there when James got home. He’d never even heard her bark. “You’re one hell of a security dog,” James told her. She wagged her tail.

But she wasn’t there the next day. Thunder and lightning blasted the sky as James went looking for her. He heard something rattle by the barn and found her huddled beneath a deep heavy bench in the lean-to. She shivered with each boom of thunder. She saw James and wagged her tail but wouldn’t come out. James tried to coax her, but she lowered her eyes.

James was going leave her there, but she bolted toward him when he took the first step toward the house. She stopped when he opened the back door, looking up at him through the soaking rain.

“Come on. You can come in.”

She didn’t want to. It occurred to James that she might never have been in a house. James propped the door open and walked into the kitchen. She inched her way in, stopping at his feet.

He walked back to the door and closed it. She remained at his feet, fixing her burnt almond eyes on him as he cooked eggs and sausage.

“You hungry?” She looked up at him. He had a package of grilled deer patties in the refrigerator. He crumbled them up in the dry dog food, put it in a Tupperware bowl and placed it on the floor by his seat at the kitchen table. She ate it up and then watched him as he ate.

James retired to the recliner when he was done to read the newspaper. The dog followed and sat next to him. He looked at her. Her eyes burned into him. This shook James. It occurred to him that, without him, she was alone. She lived for him.

This was sudden, and unwelcome. He wasn’t interested in loving anything. He had done that. But something was nagging at him. He couldn’t turn this dog out. That was it. He decided to name her. “Momma Girl” was the only thing he could think of.

“But I’ll tell you what. I still expect you to work around here.” Momma Girl was lying down, but she wagged her tail.

James built her a doghouse from scraps he collected from the lumberyard. He set it off the ground to keep the floor from getting wet and put an old couch cushion and a fading blanket inside. The rain, wind and thunder came in the middle of the night. James

got up and looked out the window. A flash of lightning comforted him, revealing Momma Girl dry and sleeping in the doghouse.

Days grew warmer and bluer as May approached. James took the dog on walks through the woods. Squirrels and turkeys crossed their path, but she ignored them. He tried to get her to chase a tennis ball, and then a Frisbee, but she wouldn’t chase anything. “Damn, girl. You’re not really good for whole helluva lot, are you?” They spent evenings together on the porch. James heard the call of the whippoorwill on those nights. Chip-off-the-white-oak, someone had once told him it said, and he could make that out in a stretch. He hadn’t thought of that since he was

very young. The nights were like that, hopeful and new. Sweet honeysuckle rode the soft breeze; stars upon stars dusted the black sky.

James awoke one morning to white flashes, roof-rattling thunder and the wind whipping the sky into frothy charcoal hues. Sheets of rain pelted the bedroom window. James got up to check on the dog. She wasn’t in her house. She wasn’t in the lean-to either. She wasn’t there when he got home from work. He put food and water out. A day, then two, then three passed. It went untouched. He remembered what Billy Ray said – she might run off if she was rabid. He ate dinner by himself. He missed Momma Girl.

A week later, James awoke in the middle of the night to a commotion outside. A man was shouting, screaming in agony. “Get it the fuck off me. Oh God! Shit! God” There was violent, sputtering growling and fighting. “Shoot the mother fucker. YAHHHH!” James grabbed the

Mag-Lite and raced out the front door on to the porch. Three loud blasts sent him instinctively to the ground. He looked up as a car started. A man said, “Get in! God damn it! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” James smelled gunpowder as the headlights came on. Another man whipped up coils of gun smoke as he staggered through the lights, supporting a mangled arm. The car door slammed and the engine revved. Headlights panned over a dark heap in the grass as it sped off.

James’ scalp tingled and his bowels felt like emptying. He tried to swallow, but there was no saliva. He got up slowly, turned on the flashlight and walked into the grass. The light found the dark, lifeless heap. James went cold.

His mind reeled. He still had to check the house. He walked around back and found the storm door on the back porch jimmied. They got caught just before they got in. “I guess I was wrong about you, girl.” James retrieved the worn blanket from the doghouse and wrapped her in it. He placed her by the azalea grove. He began to dig, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He

hadn’t cried in years. He was making up for it. He lowered the dog in. In the gray of the emerging dawn, he filled the hole.

A peace came over him as he finished. He felt rested and clean. He walked to the azalea grove and opened his pocketknife. By the pale light of the new day, he cut vines of flowers from the grove, some pink and some white. “Thank you, Momma Girl,” he said, placing them on the mound. He put his hand on the moist soil, as if checking the pulse of the earth. Birds sang the first songs of the spring morning, the last of the stars vanishing in its light. James watched the sunrise. A soft honeysuckle breeze caressed his face just as the sun peeked over the trees.

More from S. Thorne Harper is coming soon. Follow Genius Books for future releases.

Ready to dive in? Grab your copy of Out of Cabrini today

Midwest Book Review is a long-respected source for librarians, educators, and book selectors across the U.S., and we’re honored to have Sea of Glass recognized for its originality, emotional depth, and genre-bending storytelling.

“Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish… an impressive level of literary excellence.”
— Library Bookwatch (Midwest Book Review)

Below is the full review, reprinted with permission.

Sea of Glass
Patrick Shattuck
Genius Book Publishing

https://geniusbookpublishing.com

9781958727812, $19.95, PB, 284pp

Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/Sea-Glass-Patrick-Shattuck/dp/1958727814

Barnes & Noble
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sea-of-glass-patrick-shattuck/1148082574

Synopsis: Shannon Delaney always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Sarah. Sarah is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for Berkeley, while Shannon is unsure, overlooked, and heading nowhere fast. The only thing that’s ever been hers is Frankie - - her best friend since fifth grade, the one boy who saw her for who she really was.

But now Frankie is slipping away, drawn into Sarah’s orbit as they compete together in a high-stakes math tournament. Then something strange happens. A mysterious blue light glows from an old glass paperweight by Shannon’s bed, revealing ghostly visions -- of snow, of love, of heartbreak. She tries to convince herself it’s just a dream, but the feeling won’t fade. The glass may be showing her the truth.

As Shannon watches her world shift -- her sister’s secrets, Frankie’s choices, her own unraveling sense of self -- one thing becomes clear: the hardest truths aren’t always the ones others hide. They’re the ones buried inside.

Critique: Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish, “Sea of Glass” by author Patrick Shattuck showcases his extraordinary and narrative driven storytelling skills that raises his novel to an impressive level of literary excellence. Blending ‘coming of age’, psychological suspense, and the supernatural, “Sea of Glass is an especially and unreservedly recommended pick for community library collections. It should be noted for personal reading lists that this paperback edition for “Sea of Glass” from Genius Book Publishing is also readily available in a digital book format (Kindle, $4.99).

Editorial Note: In addition to being a longtime English teacher, Patrick Shattuck is also a dedicated writer who holds a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and an M.A. in English from Simmons College. His short stories and poetry have been published in the Antietam Review, Smashing Icons, Lonesome Traveler, Paradigm Magazine, Fox Cry Magazine, and Evening Street Press. He is also the author of “Dawn’s Web” and “Red Moon Over Manhattan”.

Grab a copy today… Sea of Glass

Blog Article for Donnell Bell

The Book Was Better

Producers, directors, and actors deliver sight and sound in movies and television shows not available in novels no matter how well we write them. They invite us into a world filled with on-screen action and special effects accompanied by emotion-evoked soundtracks. The use lighting, camera angles, and other attention-drawing behavior for dramatic effect.

Many theatrical releases and made-for-television movies and series are based on novels. Yet, we hear comments from readers who opine, “I read the book. I saw the movie. The book was better.”

Why are some novels considered better? Novels (especially crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers) rank higher based on their sense of authenticity and credibility. Think about it. How many cinematic portrayals of inciting incidents, crime scenes, and law enforcement responses and actions included parts believed improbable and unlikely compared to the real-world?

Hooray for writers who research, show, and offer thought-provoking and emotion-evoked effects in their short stories, novellas, and novels. Readers prefer to lose themselves in the worlds created by authors who produce works filled with authenticity and credibility.

I have read books on craft written by successful writers and have taken online classes to improve my works in progress. Those most helpful to me are: Story Trumps Structure, Steven James; On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King; How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean Koontz; Plot and Structure, James Scott Bell; and On Writing Well, William Zinsser.

Craft alone proves not enough. Readers know if and when we fail to include the correct facts in our stories. Along with craft, we strive for authenticity, believability, and credibility to keep readers turning pages. Accuracy in our prose reflects credibility and enhances belief. Facts support our efforts. Facts paint the images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. In crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers, we show readers how to kill. We show them how to collect evidence, how to investigate deaths, and how to put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor must embrace appropriate facts. Facts validate scenes.

Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. Unbelievable instances in life frequently prove to be true, although many come as a surprise. When readers see events as too easy and convenient, skepticism turns focus away from the story. Like Jack Webb’s character Joe Friday in the TV series Dragnet, “All we want are the facts.”

The facts in our stories must relate to reality if we want readers to keep turning pages. Here are a few examples:

• Will a bullet or shotgun blast knock a two-hundred-pound person off of their feet?

• Are gunshot exit wounds always larger than entrance wounds?

• Does the number of stab or slash injuries offer clues to the assailant’s identity?

• Was the brain injury caused by a fall or a blow to the head?

• Will vehicles explode in a crash?

• How might you determine if a body discovered in a burned building was alive or dead at the time the fire started?

The circumstances and facts offer answers. Further investigation becomes necessary to answer and either prove or disprove each scenario. All the above questions and more are answered in Kill Your Characters, Crime Scene Tips for Writers published by Genius Books.

Here is the blurb:

There’s a dead body on the floor, and your detective character has to learn every detail about the crime in order to solve the case and bring the murderer to justice. If you’re not an experienced forensic investigator, how can you describe the manner of death accurately so that the evidence means what you want it to mean?

Kill Your Characters by former detective and forensic investigator Steve Rush gives you the tools you need to pass the inspection of all the armchair detectives (and more than a few real ones) out there. Discover your ultimate empowerment source for writing the page-turning inciting-incident you have always wanted to write. Become a master and save hours of research effort searching elsewhere for accurate information.

Kill Your Characters will help you answer these questions and more with facts to back up your fiction. When plotting the next murder scene for your story, you may run into obstacles such as how the detectives determine time of death, or the forensic evidence left by a gunshot wound. Steve Rush’s extensive experience is accumulated in a series of writing tips that will significantly improve your story. Kill Your Characters is for any author looking to elevate their murder scenes with credible and authentic details.

Order your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1947521780

Writing a novel is a process similar to life and our correspondence with our environment. Learn the craft, write, submit, and never give up.

Bio:

Steve Rush is an award-winning author whose experience includes tenure as homicide detective and chief forensic investigator for a national consulting firm. He was once hailed as “The best forensic investigator in the United States” by the late Joseph L. Burton, M.D, under whom he mastered his skills, investigated many deaths alongside Dr. Jan Garavaglia of Dr. G: Medical Examiner fame, and was part of the development team for Quincy Technologies, an automated case management system designed for coroners and medical examiners. Steve has investigated 900+ death scenes and taught classes related to death investigation. His specialties include injury causation, blood spatter analysis, occupant kinematics, and recovery of human skeletal remains.

Two of Steve’s manuscripts placed first and third in the 2022 Public Safety Writers Association Writing Competition. His book Kill Your Characters; Crime Scene Tips for Writers, published by Genius Books on June 7, 2022, tied for first place in the 2022 PSWA Writing Competition’s unpublished nonfiction category. Steve won joint first prize in the 2020 Chillzee KiMo T-E-N Contest and was a finalist in the 2020 Page Turner Awards.

He lives in Metropolitan Atlanta, Georgia, with his wife Sharon.

http://steverushauthor.com/

https://www.linkedin.com/in/steve-rush-a20302149/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5217876

Grab a copy of Kill Your Characters today.

Subscribe now

25 Nov 2022, 23:54

[Following is an official OnlineBookClub.org review of “Kill Your Characters” by Steve Rush.]

5 out of 5 stars

Are you an amateur writer hoping to write your own crime story but not sure where to begin? Are you already a flourishing crime novelist wanting to sharpen your skills? Kill Your Characters by Steve Rush might just be the kind of book that will help you achieve all of your goals as a crime fiction writer. The book serves as a comprehensive guide on how to make a crime narrative believable by combining literary techniques with principles in forensic science.

What I like most about this book is that it is very thorough and extensive. It does not simply dictate what one must do in terms of writing crime scenes but also provides detailed explanations of elements one must consider while writing. It’s like a guide that will help a writer intelligently plan and execute his piece. There are guide questions to observe and writing prompts to follow, which can be of great assistance to those looking for a way to practice their skills.

As someone who only likes reading about crime and detective stories, it is interesting to know how much thought and research goes into writing these pieces. There are plenty of aspects to consider, such as the evidence, the witnesses, the inciting incident, and the offender’s identity. The author also elaborates on different ways a character can die, such as transportation death, asphyxia, or gunshot injury. The author advises on how a writer will be able to effectively deliver a believable story. It is also interesting to learn about some terms used in forensic science, like “rigor mortis,” which is a term used for the process of the stiffening of muscle tissues following a person’s death.

I feel like the book is already perfect as it is. It has everything a writer needs to know in order to improve his or her craft. It has a nice organization, and the visuals are pleasing to look at. The text is free of any errors, so I will then conclude that the narrative has excellent editing.

This book deserves a rating of 5 out of 5 stars. It is a comprehensive guide that every aspiring crime novelist should pick up and learn something from. I could only imagine how much research went into creating this book. I do not have anything negative to say about the narrative. If you are a writer who wants to venture into crime fiction, this is exactly the kind of book you may want to dive into.

******

View here: Kill Your Characters

It’s travel time. And I bring you along.

A Murder Victim’s Near-Death Experience

I knew a person who claimed he could examine the eyes of a murder victim and see the person who killed them. (True story. False claim.)

Imagine if the claim proved true. What did the victim see?

Here’s an example. (Not a true story.)

A near-death-experience has advantages for a murder victim like me. I saw the killer thread through a diverse crowd of three hundred before she blended in the mass of hot flesh and lavish table settings for several seconds and reappeared thirty feet to my right. The next thing I knew, someone in the back corner yelled, “Bomb!”

When someone shouts “bomb” amidst a crowd of people in a restaurant on the fiftieth floor of a luxury hotel, it is not conducive to a favorable outcome. It mattered not how much damage the explosive device might inflict with the volume of silverware lying on tables about to become flesh-penetrating projectiles. Chaos erupted in what looked like a fire drill in a sanitorium dining hall.

This murdered state certainly enlightened me.

A victim of murder goes through three phases—the approach, the process, and the aftermath—neither of which appeals to the person on the wrong end of the ordeal. Like me. If anyone affronts another with the notion that consciousness ceases when a person dies, they’re nuts. I saw it coming. In the realm of anticipatory pain and suffering, the agony and anguish instilled in me by my killer’s approach ranked near the experience of suffering the injuries inflicted on me.

It’s not as if any salvageable parts existed for procurement and transplant into another person, which might allow a semblance of life. I’m a goner. Adios. It’s travel time. I cannot describe the injuries inflicted on me and must rely on a forensic examiner. I hope whoever conducts the procedure will do it with the accuracy necessary to solve my case. Otherwise, justice might as well have met its demise along with me. Thank goodness nothing perforated my body and exited my hind side or I might’ve drawn unnecessary attention when I passed gas in two-part harmony.

The encounter was much like a vehicle crash. Perception and reaction time of one and a half seconds added to 180 milliseconds passed in a flash compared to the mind’s response. When people claim their life flashed before their eyes, should they not have said past life?

My body acted the part of a vehicle destroyed in the crash while my soul and spirit survived, exited, and surveyed the damage. Not looking too good.

Trapped in a near-death-experience like this one has its advantages, don’t you think? If only I could tell someone about it. Oh, wait. Experts will speak for me. These experts include police officers, detectives, crime scene technicians, forensic investigators and medical examiners.

I hope they know what they are doing.

Back to reality. For fiction, this is imagined reality.

Readers identify the experts in the world of true crime and fiction as authors. Authors must become the ultimate authority on their stories. Readers require them to know what they are doing to present a credible story. This includes authentic crime scenes, incidents resulting in death, the fact-finding process, and prosecution.

Enough talk. Let’s get to it.

Come with me and I’ll share my show-and-tell presentation of how authors kill their characters. Here is the link: https://geniusbookpublishing.com/products/kill-your-characters

What is the cliché? For pennies a day (for ebook) or the cost of a cup of specialty coffee? Why not enjoy both? Order your copy today.

Writing Crime Scenes: Authenticity and Credibility

1. Do you write in more than one genre? In addition to my latest release Kill Your Characters: Crime Scene Tips for Writers, I write suspense/thrillers and have three nonfiction books in the Christian market.

2. What brought you to writing? I began writing after reading multiple novels and watching the masters unfold stories page after page. A homeless man’s murder prompted me to write my first novel (Façade, written pseudonym Shane Kinsey) after I identified the deceased by skin removed from his thumb. (In the novel, a killer uses skin from a dead man’s thumb to leave a bloody thumbprint at his murder scenes.) Wings E-press accepted and published it in 2010. I was hooked.

3. Where do you write? What, if any, distractions do you allow? I write at home ninety-nine percent of the time. I shut off my surroundings and become a spectator in my characters’ world. The other percent is in a hotel/condo while on vacation or a weekend getaway. I get involved to the extent I have no clue of anything happening around me.

4. Tell us about your writing process: I am a pantser. I tried to outline and found myself deviating from my notes more and more. I have an idea of story and denouement and write as the story unfolds in my thoughts. I like to ask “What if?” and go from there.

5. What are you currently working on? I am writing about a high-school senior who lost his parents in a fire-bombing.

6. Who’s your favorite author? Dean Koontz

7. How long did it take you to write your first book? Several years writing while working a full-time job which required travel across the U.S.

8. Do you ever kill a popular character? If so, what happens to your story? My latest book is all about killing characters, so, yes, I kill characters when necessary to advance the story and keep the others honest.

9. What authors did you dislike at first but grew to enjoy? Stephen King. The first novel of his I read left me wondering if he is a writer I should continue to read. I read The Green Mile and others and believe King is in the top five of the best-writer lists.

10. Do you base any of your characters on real people? No.

11. Where do you place your settings—real or fictional locations? Both.

12. Do you have any advice for new writers? I will elaborate below.

Add suspense. Increase tension. Write what you know.

Writers and editors differ in opinion when it comes to book-length fiction. They suggest we turn off our self-editor and get words on the page. Edit the work after we have a first draft. While the advice works well in most cases, some authors prefer to edit along the way. One author reviews and edits the writing done in a previous session. Another author edits while writing. (Both are New York Times best-selling authors.)

Some authors are outliners. Others are pantsers. I am a pantser. I find editing along the way works best for me.

Whatever method you choose, the most crucial aspects to remember when writing inciting incidents, especially crime scenes, are authenticity and credibility. This is where more-than-a-few writers see a stop sign. How can we write what we know if we don’t know it?

Facts support our efforts. I learned this from the cases I investigated as a homicide detective and forensic investigator. They prompted me to write, Kill Your Characters—Crime Scene Tips for Writers.

Facts paint images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. We show readers how to kill. We show how to collect evidence, how to investigate deaths, and how to put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor must embrace appropriate facts.

Elements of story direct readers where we want them to go until a twist of facts proves otherwise. This includes misdirection. Some facts inserted in the story alter the outcome. Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. Unbelievable instances in life frequently prove to be true, although many come as a surprise to us. When readers see events as too easy and convenient, skepticism turns focus away from our story.

The next step begins when the protagonist arrives and examines the scene. Choices rest on their training from that time forward. The difference between a protagonist’s competence and incompetence depends on their level of expertise. That expertise, or the lack thereof, comes from the facts we give to them.

As writers, we share ideas visualized in our minds. We invite our audience to see our inciting incidents. We reveal bits and pieces of the story one scene after the other. We perform our job well when we grab their attention and keep them reading.

True-to-life facts support and give credibility to our stories. What better way to intrigue our readers?

About the book: Kill Your Characters—Crime Scene Tips for Writers

There’s a dead body on the floor, and your detective character has to learn every detail about the crime in order to solve the case and bring the murderer to justice. If you’re not an experienced forensic investigator, how can you describe the manner of death accurately so that the evidence means what you want it to mean?

Kill Your Characters by former detective and forensic investigator Steve Rush gives you the tools you need to pass the inspection of all the armchair detectives (and more than a few real ones) out there. Discover your ultimate empowerment source for writing the page-turning inciting-incident you have always wanted to write. Become a master and save hours of research effort searching elsewhere for accurate information.

This book will help you answer: How did your character die? What were the circumstances of the murder? What weapon did the killer use? What evidence was left behind? How can you build a rock-solid case against the suspect?

Kill Your Characters will help you answer these questions and more with facts to back up your fiction. When plotting the next murder scene for your story, you may run into obstacles such as how the detectives determine time of death, or the forensic evidence left by a gunshot wound. Steve Rush’s extensive experience is accumulated in a series of writing tips that will significantly improve your story. Kill Your Characters is for any author looking to elevate their murder scenes with credible and authentic details.

Order your copy here: Kill Your Characters

About the author:

Steve Rush is an award-winning author who won joint first prize in the 2020 Chillzee KiMo T-E-N Contest and was a finalist in the 2020 Page Turner Awards.

His experience includes tenure as homicide detective and chief forensic investigator for a national consulting firm. He was once hailed as “The best forensic investigator in the United States” by the late Joseph L. Burton, M.D, under whom he mastered his skills, and investigated many deaths alongside Dr. Jan Garavaglia of Dr. G: Medical Examiner fame. Steve has investigated 900+ death scenes and taught classes related to death investigation. His specialties include injury causation, blood spatter analysis, occupant kinematics, and recovery of human skeletal remains.

https://www.steverush.org

https://www.linkedin.com/in/steve-rush-a20302149/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5217876

Reviewed by Liz Konkel for Readers’ Favorite

Kill Your Characters: Crime Scene Tips for Writers by Steve Rush is an ideal resource for mystery and crime fiction writers and contains crime scene tips that will help authors improve their writing. The book breaks down crime scenes and provides useful information and prompts that take advantage of Rush’s first-hand knowledge derived from years as a detective and forensic investigator. The goal is to empower writers by giving them the information to make their books into page-turners. The book will no doubt allow writers to answer important questions by making available the facts surrounding a character’s death including evidence, weapon, investigation, and suspects. The vivid details, advice, and prompts will help create realistic scenarios that will lend reality to mysteries and crime fiction.

The goal of the book is to help seasoned writers to strengthen their writing skills and allow beginners to break into the mystery genres with vivid and accurate details that will help to establish a credible plot. The book is broken down into key aspects such as the crime scene, investigation, and evidence which will provide useful data and visuals. The book is beneficial whether you are writing cozy mysteries or murder mysteries with facts that will permit your PI (private investigator) or AS (amateur sleuth) to put together a case. These facts show how to place the details in a concept-conflict-climax story structure which allows you to set up the inciting incident, the offender’s identity, and the investigation. Further details include wounds, autopsy reports, and various causes of death.

The book contains writing exercises and prompts that take what you learn from the chapters and apply it to the beginning stages of writing, such as whether the facts support the scene’s integrity, red herrings, and prompts that help set the scene. The book also has fill-in-the-blank worksheets that cover suspects, venue, and cause of death. A time of death table is included that details the stages of body decomposition. These features make this book one of a kind and a must-have for a writer’s shelf. An empowering read, Kill Your Characters is the go-to handbook for writers looking to step into the mystery genres with thorough details that will make writing murder mysteries and crime fiction a breeze.

Grab your copy today! Kill Your Characters

For years, my go-to insult for any detective I didn’t respect has been to say they “couldn’t solve a wet dog turd on the living room carpet.”

It’s such a fun insult. You are saying they are regarded so lowly as to be tasked with determining the source of a lump of dog poop, and also that they are so inept they are doomed to fail. Plus “turd” is in it, because the person is not even important enough to warrant a proper cuss word.

If there is a more satisfying way to malign the reputation of a detective, I haven’t heard it.

So you can imagine my shame as I sit on my own personal “who soiled the carpet” caper without a suspect in custody.

Desperate to solve this before my humiliation hits the media, I am opening my case file to the readers.

Please help me!

Incident Report

On Friday, October 17, 2025, at approximately 0455 hours, I, Barney Doyle, was traveling by foot from my bed to a pack of chocolate chip cookies concealed in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

While en route, I felt wetness on my bare foot just outside the threshold of the master bedroom. Disoriented by the darkness and the time of day, I did not immediately recognize the significance of the swampy carpet.

I continued to the kitchen where I consumed a perfectly reasonable number of cookies. On approximately cookie six, I became suspicious about my damp toes.

I returned to the floor outside of the master bedroom and observed an area of wetness approximately eight inches in diameter. The carpet had been dampened with a substance that I recognized from my training and experience as consistent in color, odor, and texture with a fluid commonly known as “pee pee.”

Because of budget constraints, no samples were taken for laboratory analysis.

A neighborhood canvas yielded no suspects, no eye-witnesses, and no surveillance video.

A sketch of the scene was included for reference:

Mrs. Doyle, age undetermined, residing in the master bedroom, provided the following information: Mrs. Doyle lives at the home with her nine-year-old son, Junior, and three wonderful dogs who she loves very much and would do anything to protect. Also residing at the home is Mrs. Doyle’s husband Barney, who is a generally decent man of questionable hygiene. Mrs. Doyle is certain that neither Junior nor the dogs would have urinated on the carpet. Mrs. Doyle was unaware of anybody who had a problem with the carpet or who would have wanted to cause problems in general. Mrs. Doyle claimed to have previously seen evidence in the master bathroom suggesting her husband was not the marksman he professed to be. Mrs. Doyle indicated that perhaps Barney Doyle urinated on the hallway carpet while attempting to hit the toilet. (Investigator note: ballistic analysis of the master bathroom revealed patterns inconsistent with the present crime.)

Junior Doyle, age 9, residing in his own bedroom unless he has a bad dream, provided the following information: Junior Doyle did not urinate on the carpet and did not know who did. Junior only learned about the crime that morning when he was woken by the sound of his father hopping on one foot and cursing. Junior indicated that at least one of the home’s three dogs might not be as wonderful as other witnesses have claimed. Junior offered several mutilated toys as evidence.

Winston, age 8, no fixed address, with a criminal history of escape and disorderly dog farts, provided the following information: Winston was asleep at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom dutifully protecting his family the entire night. Winston did not pee on the carpet and did not see who did. Winston loved the floor, where he frequently found delicious scraps from Junior’s meals, and he would never do anything to harm it. Winston admitted he used to occasionally pee on Mrs. Doyle’s rose bushes, but claimed he stopped after leaning in too closely and discovering thorns for the first time. Winston claimed the “white dog” was distracted by a squirrel when let out the previous night, and may not have emptied her bladder before bed.

Zadie, age 5, residing mostly on top of Barney Doyle, with a criminal history of shedding, drooling, suit-ruining, and bed-hogging, provided the following information: Zadie was asleep in the center of the master bed the entire night and could not have peed on the carpet. Both Barney and Mrs. Doyle could confirm her alibi, as they spent most of the night disrupting Zadie’s sleep with grumblings of “move over dog,” and “get off my blanket.” Zadie did not want to spread rumors, but examined the puddle and believed the size, smell, and taste of the pee matched the “little angry dog.”

Cybil, age 100 (approximate), residing wherever the hell she feels like, with a criminal history of biting old people, biting children, and biting priests, provided the following information: Cybil believed Barney Doyle peed on the carpet himself to frame her and she demanded an attorney. Cybil then tried to bite Barney Doyle’s hand and demanded a treat.

First reader with information leading to the arrest and conviction of a suspect will get a free copy of Reckless Speculation about Murder. And if I can distract Mrs. Doyle, perhaps an angry little terrier dog to sweeten the deal.

For those who didn’t solve the crime and would still like to read the book, grab it here… Reckless Speculation About Murder

In Sea of Glass, Patrick Shattuck unpacks the emotional layers of sibling rivalry, adolescent longing, and buried truths through the eyes of Shannon Delaney—a girl forever in her twin sister’s shadow. With elements of psychological suspense and subtle supernatural mystery, this novel offers both a literary journey and a chilling twist.

Here’s what Midwest Book Review had to say about Sea of Glass:

Synopsis: Shannon Delaney always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Sarah. Sarah is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for Berkeley, while Shannon is unsure, overlooked, and heading nowhere fast. The only thing that’s ever been hers is Frankie -- her best friend since fifth grade, the one boy who saw her for who she really was.

But now Frankie is slipping away, drawn into Sarah’s orbit as they compete together in a high-stakes math tournament. Then something strange happens. A mysterious blue light glows from an old glass paperweight by Shannon’s bed, revealing ghostly visions -- of snow, of love, of heartbreak. She tries to convince herself it’s just a dream, but the feeling won’t fade. The glass may be showing her the truth.

As Shannon watches her world shift -- her sister’s secrets, Frankie’s choices, her own unraveling sense of self -- one thing becomes clear: the hardest truths aren’t always the ones others hide. They’re the ones buried inside.

Critique: Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish, “Sea of Glass” by author Patrick Shattuck showcases his extraordinary and narrative driven storytelling skills that raises his novel to an impressive level of literary excellence. Blending ‘coming of age’, psychological suspense, and the supernatural, “Sea of Glass is an especially and unreservedly recommended pick for community library collections. It should be noted for personal reading lists that this paperback edition for “Sea of Glass” from Genius Book Publishing is also readily available in a digital book format (Kindle, $4.99).

Editorial Note: In addition to being a longtime English teacher, Patrick Shattuck is also a dedicated writer who holds a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and an M.A. in English from Simmons College. His short stories and poetry have been published in the Antietam Review, Smashing Icons, Lonesome Traveler, Paradigm Magazine, Fox Cry Magazine, and Evening Street Press. He is also the author of “Dawn’s Web” and “Red Moon Over Manhattan”.

Jim Cox

Midwest Book Review

Get your copy today! Sea of Glass