Some Great Mysteries on Steemit, You Might Be Overlooking! Check them out!
For all the controversy he stirs up, @markrmorrisjr does one thing well, he tells stories, and if you're a reader, you might want to check them out.
Right now, he's got two hot mysteries on his shelf, with "The Wishmonger" and "8 Minutes to Sunday".
Not to be held to a single genre, Morris is just as comfortable writing a gritty, action packed "adult" novel (think PG 13, with some "R" influences) as he is inside the head of his fourteen year old hero, Roger, in The Wishmonger.
Both books are worth taking a look, here's an excerpt from each to give you a taste of what you might be missing.
From "The Wishmonger" by @markrmorrisjr
The town of Wishful was beautiful in moonlight. Everyone said so. It gleamed off the bronze dome of the town hall. It pooled on the lawn behind the library filling the bandstand gazebo with soft, pale light. It glinted off the steely bayonets of the rifles held by the steadfast soldiers of the war memorial.
In short, it pointed out all of the things Wishful should have been, a sleepy Victorian village, peaceful and serene. But there are things that moonlight will never reveal, places it cannot go, for instance; the dark, dank, basement below the library where blackout curtains forbid its entrance or the back room at the Wishful Thinking Billiard Parlor. And let’s not forget the darkened heart of one man who stood on a hill overlooking the town.
He was dressed all in black and even in the darkness a tight-fitting pair of dark glasses hid his eyes. His shadow seemed to dim the moon as it stretched out over the sleeping town below, he smiled icily.
From "8 Minutes to Sunday" by @markrmorrisjr
I’d been trying for over nine months to remember my name. Ever since two Kansas cops had found me sleeping in an old Chevy truck on the side of the road. Remember anything, really, from more than nine months ago. But today, it was my real name I missed the most.
“Dalton West!” a voice called.
It was about the 900th call for help I’d answered that day. I was really starting to hate that name.
It wasn’t my name. But it was, sort of. I’d read it on the chrome dealer’s emblem on the back of the truck the cops had found me in. ‘West Dalton Chevrolet’ so, when they asked for a name I told them.