C.B. Swartz
Freelance Writer and Novelist
Writings

... The screeching of seagulls and lapping of water over encrusted rocks are evident, as my feet pat a brisk pace on the cool wet sand along the waters edge. The water temperature in the Atlantic is still in the mid sixties in February in northern Florida. In the distance, the clang of the bell on a buoy reverberating through the darkness, along with the chill in the air, adds to the eeriness. I hadn't noticed anyone else on the beach when I started my walk, but now I feel a presence not far behind me. I don't want to obviously turn my head and look back, but I know now that I can hear the faint footfalls. Could someone have followed me here from Atlanta?
Pungent salt, from the moisture in the air, jabs at my lips like tiny daggers, while the quickening footsteps behind me narrow the distance between us. A brisk wind brings with it evidence of the now absent anglers who populated the wharf farther down the beach. My mind jumps back to the night of the attack. Accelerating my pace in an effort to elude my pursuer, I suddenly twist my ankle and I go tumbling face down on the wet sand, my tender legs tangled in a thick rough rope. I right myself while spitting noxious sand mixed with coppery tasting blood as it flows from my injured nose into my mouth. ...

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... The dark dampness of the forest was beginning to play on her imagination. A bone chilling feeling of foreboding was convincing her that she wasn’t alone, that someone was watching her. Unable to shake the alarming feeling, she quickened her pace in an effort to put it behind her. Still, she could feel the hair stand up on the back of her neck as she sensed movement just outside her peripheral vision. Distracted by her looming fears, she stumbled through the underbrush of low growing palm ferns. Suddenly, the earth gave way beneath her foot; causing Clarisse to roll violently onto the ground grasping at air as she fell. 
Clarisse lay motionless in the soggy bed of tropical underbrush, a line of blood trickling from the wound on the side of her head turning her blond hair to a noctilucent henna. The jungle like forest seemed to grow even darker as the rising morning sun went behind a cloud; and from deep in the thicket, a menacing hulk emerged. It crept closer to Clarisse, as she lay helpless in an ever-deepening pool of crimson fluid. The large dark form bent down and reached out for Clarisse’s neck; then paradoxically, it scooped her up and lumbered away. ...

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 The Seagate Island Murders

... “Mac, do you smell smoke?”  About that time I saw it, a haze of smoke easing its way through the doorway.  Mac ran to the top of the stairs and looked down.

He shouted, “The building is on fire, we’ve got to get out of here.  Grab that ledger and lets get going.”

I snapped up the ledger and the agenda, took hold of my purse and started to run. Mac looked worried.  “Wait, he thundered, we can’t get out the same way we came in, maybe there’s a fire escape.” 

Running from window to window, we looked for a fire escape, but found none. “Mac, I shrieked, what are we going to do?”

The flames are beginning to make their way up the stairs. He took hold of my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes.  “Don’t panic,” he said calmly.  “Trust me; I’ll get us out of here.”  At this moment, I would walk through the flames if he told me to.  Those sparkling green eyes emit such warm assurance, I would entrust my very life to him and it looks like I don’t have much choice but to do just that.

 He says, “Follow me,” as he walks swiftly to the bedroom.  Grab hold of the other side of this mattress.”

“What are you going to do?” 

“Here, cover your head with this blanket.  He picked up a heavy chair and hurled it through huge window that took up almost the whole wall across from the bed.

“Help me drag this mattress over there”, he said, gagging on smoke and pointing toward the broken window.  Each picking up a side of the mattress we dragged it to the window.

“See that pile of boxes and packing materiel down there in the alley?”

“Yes.”

“On the count of three we’re going to heave this mattress out the window onto that pile.  One, two, three, heave ... What are you doing I said heave.

“Alright, I coughed, do it again.”

“One, two, three, heave”, and out the window it went, right on top of the boxes.

“OK, you first”

“Me first, what?”

“You first out the window, go on, now!”  The flames are licking around the bedroom door.  The heat is so intense, I can feel it burning through the soles of my shoes.

“Mac, I can’t, it’s too far.  I’m afraid I’ll miss the mattress.”

“Either you jump or I’ll throw you out.”

“You wouldn't!”

“Don’t try me.  It’s either this or stay here and fry. What’s it gonna be?”  You just can’t argue with that kind of logic.

Climbing up onto the window sill, I suck in my breath take one look and let go.  Screaming all the way down, “Oh, nooooooo …

 

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