The Left Right Man (Colin Palmer)

 by Colin Palmer

Warning: Graphic Content, not suitable for the easily offended

1 — Virgin Killer

The bullet entered from just behind her left ear. I timed it so I fired just as she was exiting the car and most of the resultant mess sprayed outside the vehicle.  I didn't like blood.  And the bloody gore from shooting somebody at point blank range was about as bad as it got, especially in the head at point blank range.  Poor bitch.   She knew she was gonna die; I hadn't made a secret of it but I wasn't that callous that I'd taunted her either.  Shit, don't get me wrong.   It wasn't as if I did this sort of stuff on a daily basis you know, knocking off innocent people, women.  But she'd served her purpose and I had never lied to her about what that was.  

Carol her name was, had been, still was I guess.  But it was now Carol whoever, deceased.  Dumb bitch.  

How many times do you have to tell women, don't pick up hitchhikers, never give a lift to a stranger, never accept a drink off somebody you don't know in a bar, don't walk alone anywhere after dark, all that sort of stuff?  How many times do you have to tell the dumb daughters of bitches?   

Yeah, I was so experienced at this shooting game too, let me tell you.  Like, I had shot so many people before I got to Carol, a regular serial murderer I was.  Not!  Until Carol, I had been a virgin.  Oh God no!  I didn't do anything to her like that while she was alive or dead!  What the fuck sort of sicko do you think I am?  I mean a virgin shooter I was; oh fuck; that isn't right either, I didn't go around seeking out and shooting virgins.   What I mean is that I'd never shot anybody before lifting that 9 mm Gloch and pumping that single round into Carols' brain, and I'm neither proud nor gloating about it here either.  I'm just stating the facts.  Nothing more, nothing less.  

So why'd I do it?  Like I said before, she had served her purpose and now she was a loose end.  Well, before I shot her she was a loose end.  Now she was a dead end!  Poor Carol.

I needed to get out of town see, and Carol just happened to be at the service station filling up when I came out of the public toilets.  I heard her mention to the cashier that she was on her way back to Sydney and it was perfect for me really.  Stupid woman stood chatting with the cashier while I slipped out and into the back seat of her Honda CRV. I could have just taken the car 'coz the bitch had even left the keys in the damn thing, not to mention her hand bag sitting on the passenger's seat AND her mobile phone in the hands free charger mounted on the dash.  But if I'd just taken her car the cops would have been on to me before I'd gone twenty kilometres so I needed her see?  

Fucking women are dumb.  And they wonder why they end up being kidnapped or raped, murdered, or simply victims of stolen cars, purses, mobile phones and the like.  "Reclaim the Night" their banners shout when they march en-masse to show their superiority as a gender.  Reclaim your fucking common sense day and night would be a better catch cry for them.  

Carol would learn her lesson the hard way, the ultimate way.  But being the charitable soul that I am, I knew my very actions would save the lives of other dumb broads who hopefully would learn from Carols' mistakes.  Even if it only saved one, I guess it was worth it, wouldn't you say?  

Killer POV

The Author in this week's Spotlight, Colin Palmer, submitted a short story and has given permission to showcase it on the Scribbler Adventures blog. Yes, here. It's titled TheThe Left Right Man. The story is absolutely fantastic, a bone-chilling adrenalin rush, the POV (point of view) unique. I have not read anything written from a killer's POV that was realistic or entertaining. Until now. And it prompted this blog post... 

At some point I believe we all wonder what makes a killer a killer, what makes a psycho tick, what makes a lunatic lose his mind, what happened when they were but wee pups to make them so terribly sick. We want inside the tangles of their thoughts. We wait, like starving rats, for the crumbs to drop. We want details that will tame our demons, that will give our nightmares higher octane fuel! 

We glamorize and idolize the most heinous of monsters; the sickest, most wicked and twisted, are the minds with which we are most curious, some to the point of obsession. We lie to ourselves, believe we have not lived or worked side by side with killers in a society that loathes and fears their existence. 

I assure you that you have, more likely than not, met a socio/psychopath or a simple homemade murderer at some point in all your years of roaming naively through the labyrinth of life. You simply could not see past their disguise. They are masters of manipulation and impersonation; they are the very thing each of us want them to be until they lose the need to be anything for any of us.  

1 in 25 people are diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder. Not all are killers, but all are capable, all, remorseless, unempathetic. We become enraptured by the mind-warping brutality of these beasts, captivated by the blood and the gore and the gruesome details and the sheer reality of their insanity. 

The damaged and broken, disturbed and deranged, these are the minds that capture our curiosity, entangle us with fascination. Their existence alone created an overwhelmingly lucrative market for horror tales and thrillers and psychological torture stories, a steady march of dark demented art through the streets of Hollywood and onto the shelves of Barnes & Noble alike. 

Not many stories are penned from a killer's perspective. We need more stories like The Left Right Man, stories that wrap us up in the darkness that cloaks the Killer, give us a glimpse of life through the eyes of a narcissistic sociopath oozing with misogynistic thought bubbles and outbursts. 

I think authors shy away from characters that they themselves cannot fall in love with, but that is exactly what they need to do. Fall in love with the killer. Stop portraying the bad guy as two dimensional creatures. It is not realistic. Readers want to hate them so they are written to be hated. But... Killers are people, albeit mostly despicable, undesirable, disgusting people but people nonetheless, people with dreams and goals and fears just like the rest of us, just add a dash of bloodlust and subtract all those mushy lovey emotions and viola!

To write from the Killer POV means to think in that POV, not an easy task for most. It's a psyche hard to grasp as a caring, loving, normal human. As a writer, challenge yourself:

Create a dark, disturbing, lunatic that you feel bad for hating. Make your reader feel guilty for empathizing with a monster. Stand in those shoes and look through those eyes and show us what is going on inside that cracked noggin! 

Here's a little something to help in your killer creation:  5 Tips for Writing Believable (and Creepy) Serial Killers


*Please Note: If you are easily offended by fictional dialog from the POV of unsavory characters, this story may not be for you. For those that desire a peek inside a twisted, demented psyche, step inside... The Left Right Man


Write like it's criminal! 


©Jen Snow 

Colin Palmer: Author Spotlight

Q. Where are you from?
A. Queensland, Australia but I live in Ukraine, Eastern Europe now.

Q. What genre(s) do you write?

1. Paranormal, fantasy, horror, thriller.  

Q. What genre(s) do you enjoy reading?

1. I read everything!

Q. What is the first thing you ever remember writing?

1. An essay for school, a story about my summer holidays except I made it exciting with ghosts and goblins. I was eight!

Q. What/Who are your inspirations?

1. Who inspires me? Everybody!  I’m an observer, and so many ideas come from seeing somebody do some ordinary everyday thing, or I read or see it online or the news channel on TV. The sources are endless really. The what is two things, seeing the story unfold before my eyes (I’m a pantser) and that feeling of wonder, surprise, relief or sometimes even anger when I finish a story.  Both are awesome and keeps me writing nearly every day.

Q. Do you have a favorite author(s)?

1. Stephen King, Dean Koontz but I read everything and anything. (King? Koontz? This may very well be the reason I enjoy Colin's work so much —J. Snow)

Submission Call!

I am looking to publish authors, new/ underrepresented and published alike, along with their short story, poem, memoir, essay, any writing that wished considered.

I want to see work from writers that push boundaries, take risks, dive into the darkness without worry of the ripple.

Make me laugh. Make me bleed. Make me weep or scream or recoil in disgust. Make me crave life, love, death. Offend me, enrage me, hurt me, but please, please, pleeeeease don't bore me with safe, unscathing, inoffensive 'Friends' episode remakes, especially if there is a complete lack of humor.

DEADLINE
 to be determined

Submit your work for consideration to:  Email with subject line as:

Submission call — < title >

Body of Email: 

Paste entire submission if under 5000 words

or

Send link to Google Docs if over 5000 words

If chosen, you will be contacted for sales links (if applicable) websites, Facebook page(s), contact info / author bio 

Your work will be published on our website and shared with all credits on Twitter, my Facebook Author page, and all other sources in which I partake including the Scribblers Chamber Writing Group, across all mediums and groups with a possible 50-80K audience reach.

Write like it's criminal!

Valeria (G Dean Manuel)

By  G Dean Manuel

My name is Valeria. I was a warrior of Ancient Greece. To me was given many laurels from many important people: Senators, generals, kings, and queens. I had been lauded as a hero by the people. They held celebrations in my honor. Men sought my hand in marriage. I took many to my bed but let none of them bind with their ring. I was Valeria, blessed of the gods, and no man could tame me.

Then came my time, as it comes to all. I was called to my Goddess’ side for my eternal reward. As a hero I was blessed with many gifts. I ate of the fruit of the vine, sipped of ambrosia, and took my leisure upon many a man. I found out, though, a hero’s duty does not die with them.