Synopsis for "The Designated Hitter" (Tim Howell)

Barry “The Bolt” Holt woke up from his dream of becoming a major league pitcher a while back. Occasionally a day or two go by when he doesn’t even think about it.

Holt was a “closer” in the minor leagues before he finally called it a career due to various arm ailments. The closer’s role requires a short-term memory to block out negativity. It also requires a kill or be killed mentality, as the game of baseball can be cutthroat.

Holt later learned that these unique gifts could also be handy in a different type of endeavor. Holt has been a contract hit man, or “designated hitter” since he left the game of baseball five years ago.

When Holt’s boss called him up with an assignment that required him to report to a minor league training camp disguised as a minor league hopeful, he was all over it. All Holt had to do was pretend to be on the team for a week or so and then get his man.

It sounded easy enough. Play some ball, do his thing, and then get paid. The only way this gig could go wrong is if Holt actually made the team. No way the sore-armed thirty-something could pull that off.

Little did Holt know that he still had some lightning left in that right arm of his.

Two weeks into minor league camp and his intended target is just as alive as Holt's baseball career. His velocity is up and he’s been lights-out. He's been so good in fact that he has been offered a different type of contract—one that might fast track him to the major leagues.

Finally, Barry Holt is within an arm’s length of fulfilling his lifelong dream. That is, if he can stay alive long enough.

Holt's boss is getting antsy, and if he doesn't produce soon, he will become a target himself. Is Holt's lifelong dream of becoming a big leaguer worth dying for?

Writer-cize #2(Tim Howell)

When I'm scanning the Internet for a baseball-related article, what turns me off is too much front-loaded sabermetrics talk. I'd rather read: "A.J. Burnett's acquisition provides excellent upside to the Pittsburgh Pirates, as he brings statistics that in some ways are better than Philadelphia's Cliff Lee—for a fraction of the cost."

I'd rather not read: "FIP (fielding independent pitching) converts a pitcher's three true outcomes into an ERA-like number. The formula is (13*HR+3*BB-2*K)/IP, plus a constant (usually around 3.2) to put it on the same scale as ERA. (I think I just threw up a little).

Sure, that's an extreme example. I guess it just boils down to personal preference, as the "sabermetric" example is a "hook" to those looking for that type of analysis.

When it comes to a short story, I'm a sucker for really quirky openings (i.e. Raymond Carver) and am turned off by rambling wordiness (some Agatha Christie).

Here's an awesome opening line by Carver:

"A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house."

—from "Viewfinder"

For me, the Carver hook works on multiple levels. For starters it's clear and concise. It throws you into the story immediately with a ton of questions—impressive since the sentence is only 16 words long.

How does a man without hands knock on the door (or does he scratch)? Who buys photographs of their own home? I'd like to see these demographics. Why/How did this man lose his hands? What senses are compensated if you lose your sense of touch? Carver was a master, and perhaps his excellence is at least in part derived from his ridiculous ability to "show" and not "tell." This opening line transports us into the twisted world of Carver, and what a fun ride it is.

The Last Dance of the Donkey

Freelance Investigator, Jack Windsor, was having a pretty solid weekend. He had an insult-free conversation with his ex-wife on Friday night. On Saturday he beat his good buddy Brian O'Mare on the links.

Windsor didn't have much time to savor his victories, however. On Sunday while at a Benton Burros baseball game, he got a phone call from the Chief of Police, Windsor's recently defeated golf friend, Brain O'Mare. And this phone call didn't have anything to do with sports. Unless you count murder as an extracurricular activity.

The baseball team's mascot, Buddy the Burro, had been murdered—found on top of the fireworks launch station with a bullet in his head—and there was no shortage of suspects—one of which was Windsor's ex-wife, Gabby, and possibly her new boyfriend, the Centerville Centaur.

Can Jack Windsor help his old friend O'Mare find the murderer? Follow Windsor as he learns if he's got what it takes to solve a murder in a town where no one is who they seem.

Think I'll Call it Morning

Elisha Faith Lawrence has lived a charmed life, everything proceeding according to plan. Then she loses her job, and her mother’s health crisis forces her to move back home. When Elisha’s friend Chantell offers her a position at the downtown Community Center, Elisha takes the job, even reluctantly agreeing to become a mentor. After a bad beginning, a friendship warms between Elisha and Center director Malachi. But, just as Elisha regains her footing, she stumbles upon a family secret that delivers her the worst loss of all.

On the other side of town, poverty makes life a struggle for nineteen-year-old DeAndre Davis, especially when his mother Brenda leaves town to nurse her wounds after being beaten by a boyfriend leaving DeAndre to care for his sister Shawntrice. Neighbor Mavis lends a hand and though DeAndre appreciates her efforts, she can’t convince him there’s more to life than the bleakness he sees. His best friend Jermaine is deep into a drug game that DeAndre’s determined not to play. Girlfriend LaNea offers support, but wants more than DeAndre’s able to give. When Brenda reveals a devastating secret and unwelcome news from LaNea follows, DeAndre makes a hasty decision that could change his life.

Desperation pushes DeAndre to a breaking point and his life intersects with Elisha’s in a fateful moment when they discover what separates us is not as strong as the ties that bind.

Synopsis for "One Dead Donkey" (Tim Howell)

Freelance (sounds better than “unemployed”) Investigator Jack Windsor was having a fine time losing money on the links when his best friend, Police Chief Brian O’Mare, called him up with some strange news.

Windsor’s “special abilities” were needed at a downtown crime scene immediately. O’Mare and company were at a loss as to who would kill a smiling, bespectacled, eight-foot donkey. That’s just messed up.

“Buddy the Burro” was famous for his crowd-pleasing back flips and breakdance moves. Buddy was every fan’s favorite mascot. Problem was, Buddy would disappear as quickly as he showed up. Leaving his legion of fans empty handed—literally.

This burro was a con artist, who had his name legally changed to “Buddy the Burro.” That’s pretty messed up, too. He robbed fans of cash, credit cards, and jewelry—whatever he could get his dirty donkey hands on. Hey, everyone trusts the mascot.

But so charming was Buddy that his victims had never filed a police report. After all, entertainment of this level doesn’t come cheap—what’s a few hundred dollars to put a smile on your kid’s face?

Three days ago, someone finally pinned the tail on this donkey. Buddy was found with two holes in his head at a sleazy downtown motel, still in full costume. Yes, that is really messed up.

Question: Who would want to kill the lovable mascot?

Answer: More people than you could imagine.

The police have no idea where to start in regards to suspects. The motel room was wiped clean, there was no sign of forced entry, and Buddy’s wallet was full of cash. They could be looking for a rival mascot, a pissed off parent, or maybe even a jealous lover (this donkey got around.)

There is only one man who stands a chance at solving the case of the “Dead Donkey.” It’s time to see if Jack Windsor, everyone’s favorite “hypnagogic hallucination” expert is up for the task. Regardless, he could use the dough.

Eulogy Experience Assignment (Tim Howell)

I apologize for being a few minutes late. I was at the doctor having some basic blood work done—been putting that off, you know how it goes. Oddly enough my triglycerides were a tad high, but my resting heartbeat was excellent! It's now actually lower than Lance Armstrong’s!

Okay. Wow, nice crowd. I thought I was the dead one.

Anyhoo, I’d like to thank you all for showing up at my wake to pay your respects. Or just to be seen. It’s whatever, folks, you're here and that's pretty cool.

And just to let you know how sincerely I appreciate your attendance, I just posted to my Facebook page that, quote: “I sincerely appreciate your attendance.” That’s just me—still keeping it real guys—I’m all up in the “afterlife,” yo!

Now it's time for the "small talk portion" of my spiel. So, how is everyone? Good. Have a decent lunch? Excellent, here's hoping you packed some Rolaids and popped a Beano, brother! Right on. Gas prices still high? Boy, they sure are! If I could get my cold, dead hands around the dude that controls the price at the pump...Yes sir, the weather sure is a tad too hot/cold/pleasant/horrific, for me as well.

Have any trouble with the security at the front gate? They tend to be kind of relaxed when you're dead and all. I mean even if there are assassins in the crowd, who are you going to kill?

Well, I’ll keep this brief. I have a ton of things to do. Now that I (ahem) have some free time on my hands, I’m going to finally complete my LinkedIn account. Damn thing has been at 75% for about three years now…

Okay, here goes.

I have not one regret. I have about one thousand. Haha. Oh lighten up, it’s okay to laugh a little, it won’t kill you, I promise. And jeez, Lou, don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to kill you either…but, wait a minute...hold on a second...I'm getting a message...from beyond...it's about you, Lou...it says..."you will die in a horrible traffic accident on the planet Neptune just outside of Uranus in the year 2055..."

Haha! Gotcha! I’m not clairvoyant either playas! I’m just dead, baby, just dead.

And no, I’m not a freaking zombie. I’ve always been pale, a-holes—perhaps now even moreso—and no, that’s not blood around my mouth, either. I was drinking a V8 juice, and some got stuck in my goatee. My bad.

Actually, that reminds me. I need a gig. Yes I know that’s random, but ADD doesn’t die with you. It lives on and on...

If any of you are thinking of writing a horror story, preferably about ghosts—or zombies, they’re so HOT right now—I think I may be able to add some “real world” assistance. Hell, I’ll even eat some brains if need be—I’m a method actor. I’m sure there are far worse things being done in Hollywood as we speak than wolfing down some "brain chowder" to land a job.

You know the drill. Just hit me up on my LinkedIn or drop me a line on my "celly."

I do have some experience writing. Sadly, as an ill-fated attempt to build my own unique “brand” I never actually attached my name to any of my published work. I wanted my niche to be the “Mysteriously Mysterious Mystery Writer.”

God, that was stupid.

Maybe not as dumb as blow drying my hair while I was still in the shower. I still don’t understand that one. Hell, I was wearing rubber shoes and grounded.

Oh well, you just can’t win them all.

Well I guess that about wraps things up. I need to add a new Twitter profile photograph. The one I have up now is way too vibrant and alive. False advertising, blah blah blah. Word 'em up.

Peace out fools!

For a complete transcript of the preceding ramblings from the wake—visit the dead dude’s new blog, at: www.DeadManTalking.com. He’s also available for children’s parties. Look him up, he’s a hard worker that’s just dying to entertain (or scare the hell out of) you.

Writer-cize #1(Tim Howell)

1. Many things inspire me to write. For example, a strange quote from a weird person (Woody Allen) is one thing that gets my keyboard a-clacking.

If “eighty percent of success is showing up” and I’m successful, can I make the missing twenty percent of that equation involve harvesting melons from a tree named Katy Perry? I mean why not? She’s attracted to success. It’s why she dumped Russell Brand.

2. I’d like to have representation from a literary agent in the next year, and I’d like to be published—old school style, in print—within the next three years. I think this is a feasible goal. Regardless, I’ll show up at least eighty-one percent of the time to give these goals within nineteen percent of my full effort (with apologies to the melon-bearing Perry tree.)

3. I pledge to write everyday.

It doesn’t matter if its fiction on my ‘fridge, or notes in my notebook. I will complete a composition. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll scribble a little until I scrawl some excellent drivel. Heck, I might even compose a story that is boringly gory.

You get the idea. I’m going to write everyday.