In response to a writing prompt on Reddit.
“I wish you would stop trusting me.”
John looked up at his friend, his ill fitted glasses nearly falling off again.
“Why would I do that, Andrew?” He questioned. Stop trusting the person who’d played with him on the playground when they were kids? The one who’d been the best man at his wedding?
The one who had cried the most at his funeral?
To read the prologue, you can find it here
It wasn’t every day that a middle class couple was executed in America. But then again, it wasn’t every day that you get two spies convicted of selling atomic secrets to the Soviets.
The Rosenbergs were the hot subject in Charley’s Bar: a place where men usually came to drink and smoke their troubles silently away. A frequent downtown goer would’ve noticed that us boys were completely distracted from our daily hobbies. Hell, even the cigarette smoke wasn’t all that bad. If anything was in the norm, we all still sipped away at our drinks while having arguments about the matter.
Writers! What’s your favorite genre to write? Do you like to mix up genres?
For me, it’s historical fiction. Being fond of history, I like to incorporate historical elements into my stories. That being said, the paranormal genre is a close second for me. Oftentimes, I’ll pair both the historical and paranormal genre together–which admittedly, loses some the realism in the process.
Writing can be difficult for someone starting out. For the beginner getting into fiction writing, here are a few tips:
Establish a Setting
As someone who critiques on Wattpad, too often do I see characters just dropped into an empty world. There are places the character goes to, but those places are never described. This is where descriptions come in handy. What does your character’s house look like? What season is it? Is the character in a small town or a large city?
Chicago , 1952
Anyone who knew John Joseph Cromwell Sr. knew that he was the most pious, anti-immigration, and most importantly, anti-demon senator that the United States had ever seen in its 176 years of existing. A church-goer for all of his fifty-six years, Cromwell made sure to preach about the evils of demons until his voice grew hoarse. Thirty years back, he was labeled a ‘quack’ and ‘insane.’ Now he was adored by many all over the country.
The last of the leather restraints were fastened onto the patient. He swallowed a thick lump in his throat. Granted, it was just another day of treatment in this hell-hole, but nevertheless he was dreading what was coming. From what he had overheard from the two eldest psychiatrists in his ward, he would be subjected to what they called a “more effective” treatment.
When I was younger, my pop wanted me to take up police work. At parades, I would be perched up on his shoulders with my small finger pointing at the rows of marching men. Crimson and gold uniforms flashed by us. White confetti littered the streets while horns were raised, blaring with fanfare. When the police officers came on through, Pop would say in his deep, but mild German accent, “See them? There goes a bunch of honorable men. You’d do fine in a position like that one day.”
Seventeen years later, I stared down at his bullet ridden corpse with the pistol still smoking in my hand. I wondered if he thought we were so honorable then.