Coming 28th July 2017: Volume One #amreading #amwriting #kdsuspense #newrelease

About two weeks ago, when Didi and I wrote our last story for Kim and Didi’s Suspenseful Collection weekly writing challenges, I said we’re taking a short break because it’s “the quiet before the storm.” I’ve  hardly blogged the last few weeks, now you know why .


And yes at your request, New York’s first female serial killer Lisa Vanacilli is back! In part two of “It Was The First Time I Killed A  Man.” Plus we have two never seen bonus stories.


The Suspenseful Collection Volume One Ebook Cover.jpg

A suspenseful novel with a twist. Eight short stories, by two suspense authors, from diverse backgrounds. From opposite sides of the Atlantic these stories have been created. One author started the tale and the other ended it. No discussion, no pre-planning. Just creativity with the use of writing prompts, to craft one tale, with two different writers. This anthology of suspenseful, fast paced and engaging tales covers multiple genres. From heart felt romance, crime, fantasy, and steamy historical fiction.

Steamy Historical Crime Fiction: It was The First Time I Killed A Man.

It’s 1972 and New York’s first female serial killer Lisa Vanacilli is in the hot seat again, ten years after her conviction of murder to the first degree and innocent plea. The ruthless but sexy reporter Tiffany Low cracks Lisa for a confession… at a price. Lisa is strong, courageous and says it how it is. This story has been extended due to reader’s demand. And is only for adult readers.

Psychological Fiction: Every Time I Hear That Voice From The Basement.

George appears to be harmless. The local neighbourhood geek on the outside, married to Jolene. In reality, he’s a very disturbed man. His path crosses with Dana, the local check out girl. This is a psychological suspense story with a twist.

Crime Fiction: The Entrance To The Tunnel Is His Only Way Out.

Juan is a wanted man, and an ex-gang member on the run from Atlanta to Mexico. With hundred grand in cash stolen from his ex-boss, he meets an unlikely fate in Mexico. A fast-paced crime fiction story.

 Contemporary Romance: When His Hands Run Up My Thighs I…

Love has no time limit, age limit or use by date. Sarah now in her fifties is reunited with her long-lost love Joshua. They last had contact in 1961. In the present day, thanks to the advancement of technology their paths cross. A heart-warming and modern tale, about long distance love, that will leave you warm inside.

 Suspense: We Only Said Goodbye With Words, I Died A Hundred Times:

Russian Femme Fatale Mila Petrov is London’s top Madam. Her entertainment house is booming, she has a team of London’s strongest women behind her. Unfinished business from her past creeps up and haunts her. It’s nothing she can’t handle. A suspenseful historical tale, with a strong femme fatale.

 Fantasy: The Ones Who Live At The Bottom Of The Ocean, Come To The Surface.

A beautiful coming of age story, featuring sixteen year old Zoe and her mother May-Li. Myth becomes reality, as Zoe finds out who and what she really is. Her mixed descent reveals more than what meets the eye. This fantasy story is set against the backdrop of a Greek island and Hong Kong, China.

Suspenseful Crime Fiction: Guilty As Charged, In Self-Defence

California’s sassy, tough, and likeable defence lawyer Catherine has taken on a case so high profile, if she wins she’ll become a partner of Martin Law Firm. Defending forty six year old Mrs. Chevelle. An ex Las Vegas show girl, now a Hollywood wife, on trial for the murder of her high-profile husband. She claims she’s innocent. Readers are taken on a fast -paced journey on a mission to seek the truth.

Contemporary Fiction: It’s A Man’s Man’s World:

A beautiful modern tale showing the love and appreciation of a woman. James Brown said it right when he said, “it’s a man’s man’s world, but it would mean nothing without a woman or a girl.


Stay tuned for more details on pre-sale! This serial novel will be available in e-book and paperback on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, ibooks

And many more platforms this month!

Kim and Didi's Suspenseful Collection

My writing buddy challenges

Wk #6 Short Story: The Ones Who Live At The Bottom Of The Ocean, Come To Surface. #fantasy #kdsuspense #amwriting #amreading

Three Day Quote Challenge 3


“The ones who live at the bottom of the ocean come to the surface.” 

Fantasy Week!




It’s approaching midnight here at Chania’s Port, Greece. I’m not usually one to stay up late on a school night, but I just moved to the area. Learning a new language has really been kicking my ass. I’ve been studying the Greek language for months. I thought I was doing great, until we actually made the move. The people talk so fast here, their words spew together in thick choppy waves. I’m completely lost. That’s not to mention the embarrassment of having a translator follow me around like an eager puppy. He’s trying to please my father no doubt, hoping for a bonus.

I need sleep, I don’t function well without it. Not like other sixteen year old girls do, anyway. My friends used to tease me about it all the time, calling me names like Zombie Zoe every time we snuck out at night. God, I miss my old friends. I’d never actually tell them, or my family for that matter, but I blame my dreams for the weird necessity I have of sleep. They consume me, rejuvenate me, and without sleeping deep and long enough to have them, my body wakes up lacking. My friends are really the only thing I miss about Canada. Well, them and the dry air. It’s only been a week since we settled in, and this damn humidity has already enlarged my pores and permanently shortened my hair with unmanageably tight frizzy curls.

My father is a businessman, he was born and raised in New York, and my mother is the daughter of a very prominent Import and Export leader of China. They met in secret during a business merger, and of course I was born just over nine months later. It goes without saying, I’ve never met any of my mother’s family. She was disowned after the news of her pregnancy by an American stranger. His African American ancestry made no difference. The affair all was a disgrace. She was sent away with the first plane ticket available, never to be seen or spoken of again. In my opinion we’re all better off, especially my mom, it sounds like my grandma was a real dick.

I power down the Greek tutorial that’s blasting into my head from a You-Tube lesson on my iPhone, and pull out my earbuds. If I put off bedtime any longer then I won’t have enough time. I need my fix, to see my little monster babies in my sleep, or else I’ll be completely useless tomorrow. I open my window to let the sound of the ocean waves chopping against the shore make their way into my room. I love that my father chose a Venetian Island to expand his business for the next several years. The water here matches the color of my eyes perfectly. I feel more at home in the darkness of night than I have my entire life. The sounds of my ocean whisper to me from outside of my window, cradling me, like a familiar lullaby. It’s pure, and I feel it deep inside my bones. The way the moon lights up the sand on my beach, and the way the night breeze here in Greece blows a calming song into my lungs. It tells me that I’m finally where I’m meant to be. My mom claims that I have an ‘old soul’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, but for some reason I’ve felt the truth of her statement on the beaches here in Greece.

I lean slightly out of the window and pull in a long draw of the thick salty air, and listen. The voice from my dreams always sings in the most delicate tone, it’s smooth and flawless. Since our move I’ve heard it whisper that name while I’m awake too. Every night before I doze off she speaks to me, calling me the name given by my dreamed sea beasts.

Ceeeettttttooo”, her voice is beautiful. It’s high in pitch and as soft as the breeze, as if sung by a Goddess flowing around me from every angle. Automatically, my mind wanders to the thought of a Dietie whispering the name underwater. The sound matches that of my dreams, and of the voice calling to me from the night air swirling atop the water, it’s perfectly distorted.

            I smile a little with contentment. It’s exhilarating to hear that intoxicating sound outside of my ulterior consciousness. I crave it like a drug, it fills my veins and leaves me to linger in a joyous question, and a sleepy pull to the monsters calling me from sleep. I love them, they’re mine. At night when I place down my head, I come alive in a distinct way. The way I care for the bottom dwelling sea beasts in my sleep is intimate in a maternal way. Every night I feed them, I sing to them, I even rub the fins on their toes and fingers the way a mother would tickle the back of her toddler’s neck to relax them. Finally, I open my eyes and reach for a hair-tie before taking a seat in front of my make-up station.

I take a long look at the reflection staring back at me from the large mirror, with a Victorian antique finished edging, that’s mounted to the wall of my new room. I have a lot of my mother’s small dainty facial features, with high cheekbones and a distinctly square jaw line. My skin is very lightly kissed with a smooth darkened tone, compliments of my handsome dad. My distinct look isn’t as exotic here as it was in Canada. In fact, if it weren’t for the language barrier I’d blend right in.

My looks make absolute sense given the polar opposites that my parents are to one another. I’m a perfect blend of the two, as is my little brother. The only part of me that doesn’t quite fit are my eyes. They’re almost fully round and blessed with extremely long, thick lashes. They radiate a deep sapphire and are outlined with a bright lime green border. Even I can get lost in them if I stare for too long. Sometimes, the color in my eyes seem to move like waves on the water. I can’t be sure, and maybe it’s only me who sees it, but I swear there’s even been a few times that I’ve noticed a half white circle appear in them. It moves around the color, like the kind of wave a surfer would spend his whole life waiting for an opportunity to ride. As I run my long skinny fingers through the mess of hair on my head, there’s a light knock at the door. It’s followed by a tiny sound that’s hardly audible.


My little brother’s timid voice can barely be heard through the thick cedar of my door.


“Are you awake?” He whines.

I smirk in adoration, I just love the little guy.

“Yeah, it’s okay Drake, come in.” I tell him.

There’s a twelve-year gap between my brother and I. He was a ‘woops’, as my father calls it. With the amount of traveling he and my mom do, I’ve picked up the role of Drake’s primary go-to. I’m the one he seeks out when there’s a scary thunderstorm, and it’s always been my lap he climbs onto when he wants a story or a snuggle. I don’t mind. He makes me feel needed. Much like the sea beasts that I care for in my sleep. They love me, they’re mine, much like Drake.

He pushes the door open slowly and stumbles in, half asleep. Drake is small for his age, he’s most likely inherited our mother’s size too, just like me. His skin is a shade darker than our dad’s, and his lips are identically as full and luscious. I welcome him onto my lap and wrap his light silk lined blankie around his shoulders, to shelter them from the breeze blowing in from my window.

“Sing me song?” He asks, batting his eyes sleepily.

“I’d love to.”

A tight ringlet on the back of Drake’s scalp practically calls to me. My hand complies by twisting and circling each finger through his hair. He snuggles in close, and then rests his head sweetly in the comforting dip, between my neck and shoulder. The same secretive song that I sing to my beasts flows out of my mouth, matching the tone of the voice from the wind. The Deitie’s tune from underwater is mimicked and it doesn’t take long for Drake to doze off in my arms.

“Hush my Scylla, son so handsome. Rest your rage and sleep.

Quiet Sirin, daughter so. Soon revenge is yours to reap.

And to you my favorite Triton, locks and binds will fall.

Kraken keep you anger still, for when I wake it’s you I’ll call.”


I look down at Drake’s peaceful little face. There’s so much innocence and love. I hug him tightly to my body and carry him to bed before slipping on some loose cotton shorts, and resuming my place at the window. Hopefully I can hear her voice again, one last wakeful time before I retire and let it consume my sleep.

My window faces the most beautiful light house. A rock wall snakes through the waves, leading up to its tall white rock facing. Tonight’s full moon kisses everything it touches and forces the lighthouse to leave a shadow reaching all the way to the beach. The view is stunning. Again, I close my eyes and let the feeling of home resonate deep inside while I listen. The voice blows in, but with more than the name Ceto I’ve grown so comfortable with. The words are shocking and the sound of them send a lasting jolt of painful energy through my veins.

“It’ssss tiiiiiime Ceto, to waaaaaake them.”

My eyes snap open and an ice- cold chill runs slowly through every part of me. It feels like I’m being frozen from the inside out. Pain courses in my fingers and toes, I look at my hands to see the joints popping in and out in a pulsating pattern. The burning ice in my bones rushes outward and escapes from my skin. I try to scream out in pain, but only silence escapes me. After only a few short moments of the pulsating cold liquid ache in my body I crash to the floor.

I pant for air and peel myself from the plush carpet that cradled my fall. I feel different. Like myself only stronger. I’m not afraid, it seems right, like I’m exactly where I need to be and my water home is calling me. Colors are more prominent, and I can feel the humidity in the air absorb into my rapidly drying skin. I look down to see that my legs no longer hold the healthy mocha glow that they had this morning. There is a shimmery film covering my skin, no thicker than paper, and it’s slightly tinted with a turquoise shine. I feel strong, but my lungs are pulling breath at an alarming rate. I’m thirsty, I need salt.

I glance into the mirror, I drink in the beauty of a Goddess. She looks just like me, only older, and is surrounded by an iridescent light. The waves in her big round eyes dance violently. She speaks to me in that voice, the voice of the wind, of the ocean, of the dreams, my voice.

“It’s time Ceto. Let’s go and wake our babies.”

I nod at her with an involuntary compliance. I’ve been waiting all my life for this comforting moment.

It’s time for the ones who live at the bottom of the ocean to surface”.


The voice rings back at me. Is it in my head, or is it me talking? I can’t make out what’s real or not. Looking in the mirror I still can’t believe this is me. I study myself some more. My short frizzy hair has relaxed itself into perfect dark ringlets, around my shoulders. My turquoise skin has small raised bumps, my eyes are alive with their natural green color intensified.

“Ceto… let’s go.”

I look around my room, Drake is still fast asleep on my bed. Before I even know what I’m doing my feet take on a mind of their own. They walk me over to the open window. I look out at the deep navy-blue sky, scattered with stars. The ocean’s waves calmly roll back and forth over the shore. Ordinarily, I’d never feel brave enough to leave the house on my own, especially not this late at night. And as for jumping from a second-floor window, never in my wildest dreams would I do that. Tonight, I feel like if I jump I’ll land and be perfectly safe. My body feels different in a good way. I take the risk and I leap out. On the ground, I land on all fours. Our house is set back a short distance from the beach. Strangely, I don’t automatically

go to stand up and walk toward the shore. My first instinct is to walk along as I am on all fours, so I do, toward to ocean that’s calling me.


From the dark attic with just a candle for light, I watch my daughter’s slow and steady pace across the sand toward the beach. I knew this day would come, the day I’d be forced to explain to my only daughter exactly what she is. It irritates me that the day has come so soon, only by chance as Dane decided to relocate to Greece for business. The day he announced proudly the whole family is set for an adventure in Europe, I held my breath and hoped for anywhere but Greece. Mine and Zoe’s true home, if you believe in Greek mythology. Snatching up the phone, with a sigh I dial China’s international dial code.

“Nǐ hǎo.”

“Mother, it’s me.”

An uncomfortable silence passes between my mother and I over the phone line. In the background, I hear familiar sounds. It’s the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong’s market waking up. It brings back childhood memories.

“May- Li nǐ wàngle shuō zhōngwénle ma?”

“No mother I have not forgotten how to say hi, or speak Chinese.”

I try my hardest to suppress my annoyance at mother’s question. She raises her voice to me again. Her broken English meets my ear in a rage. I pull the phone away.

“Then where manners and respect child? Why you call this early in morning? I left strict instruction no contact… until time come.”

“Mother, I-”

“May- Li, there better be good reason for call.”

“It’s time Mother.”

I listen to my mother mutter and curse in rapid Chinese. Once she comes to her senses she addresses me in English.

“Hmm, okay, tell truth to child. She be okay and stay far from water.”

“But Mother, I-”

She places the phone down before I can finish, the line is dead.


I curse her out, in Chinese. Yes, mother dear, I still remember my mother tongue. What an ass hole. My mind drifts back to my first ever calling. I was at my aunt’s house in one of rural China’s farming towns, I was just twelve years old. A few years younger than Zoe or Liu -San I like to call her by her Chinese name. I remember I was playing by a stream and running in and out of the long grass, as my aunt watched from a distance while she inspected the crops. I remember her standing there in her large straw sun hat and kimono. It was one of China’s usual hot humid days. At times it was so hot, women would use umbrellas to shield themselves from the strong midday sun. The water spoke to me in a way that it had never before. It almost felt like it sang to me, enticing me to come closer. When I edged closer to the stream and gazed down, all I saw were fish, rockery and then a set of eyes staring out at me. Bright green eyes, that did not belong to any human. That night as I tried to sleep my aunt came into my room. She started telling me stories about the sea and what’s beneath it. I remember she spoke to me about myths, folklore and legends that have been around for thousands of years. She schooled me on each one, and how the manhunt for the truth lives on. She was preparing me for what was ahead. She was right to, a few nights later I looked in the mirror and never recognised myself. My poor baby probably experienced the same thing tonight.

It was Mother’s decision to send me way from Hong Kong, once I fell pregnant with Zoe. It was more out of anger and punishment, for diluting what little was left of our heritage as sea monsters. She planned for me to marry “one of our own kind” to keep our bloodline strong. I upset her and that was unforgivable. As the wife of one China’s leading men, she always got what she wanted. Sue-Li was never crossed by anyone in all of Hong Kong. According to her I was damaged goods, no respectable Chinese man of our bloodline would look at me now that I had a child. She paid me off with a million Yen and I was disowned. I decided I didn’t have much choice but to head to New York with Dane. Life has been good, we made a home in Quebec, Canada once Zoe turned one. I went back to school did a master’s degree in Linguistics and became fluent in French, Russian, Spanish and Italian. I started working as an interpreter, even though Dane’s business thrived I never needed work. Once Zoe started day care, I had an urge to exercise my brain and feel useful.

Dane has no idea about mine and Zoe’s heritage. I’ve managed to keep it away from him. I’ve learned to control myself around lakes and rivers. Something Zoe will need to learn too. I look out the window across the beach, I search the ocean for a sign my baby is okay.


All around me I see darkness, the deeper I swim under the sea the darker it becomes. I’m shocked at how strong a swimmer I am, and how far ahead of me I can see, it’s almost pitch black. My body quickly takes on a new form. My legs disappear completely and morphs into a beautiful fin. It whips behind me as I swim deeper toward the sea bed. I move quickly through the water. I have no idea where I’m going, but I’m pulled to the sea bed for some reason. I’m comfortable, it feels right, as if I’m driving a familiar road home. I reach the bottom, it’s pitch black, but I can see clearly through the darkness. The little sea creatures rushing toward me all speak in a strange high- pitched scream. The language feels familiar like I’ve heard it before, but where? My gosh, it’s Greek, these small tiny creatures call to me.

“Welcome home, you’re home.

I understand it, for the first time Greek feels like a comfortable language for me. I hear myself respond to the small creatures in fluent Greek.

“What am I doing here? And why do I dream about you each night?”

“You mean you don’t recognise us?”

“Recognise you? I don’t even recognise myself, where am I and how come I can speak Greek so well?”

“You’re home … Mama. But we were calling Ceto, we thought you’d bring her too.”


“Yes, Mama. You don’t remember us? It’s good to see you but you better get back and ask Ceto’s daughter to explain.”

I watch the tiny turquoise creatures swim off into the distance. I try to follow them but I lose them. I slowly make my way back up to the surface, I pass sharks, fishes and mysterious looking creatures lurking at the bottom of the sea bed. They don’t bat an eyelid at me as I move quickly through the water. I better speed up, Mom may notice I’m gone.


I open the attic window and breathe in the salt air, she’s okay I can sense it, but she’s confused. I keep watch for her petite figure making her way up from the sand. My enhanced vision will seek her out regardless of the dark navy sky. Two minutes later I see her. I close the window, open the large chest of draws in the corner, and then dig out my precious but tattered book on myths and legends. The same book aunt Jia- Sun showed me when I was twelve, back on the farm in rural China. Holding the book close to my chest I then make my way to Zoe’s bedroom, and wait.

“Mom, what are you doing here? Please don’t be mad I sneaked out, I…”

I cut her off and address her in Chinese, using my “mom voice.” You know the one all moms reserve to calm children down, or lay down the law. I only speak to her in Chinese when there’s no time to play. Having spent all her life in Quebec, Canada, on an everyday basis we speak French mainly at home. In firm Chinese, I tell her to sit down I must share something.

“Zuò xià wǒ yǒu dōngxī kěyǐ gàosù nǐ.”

Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Liu – San, sit now!  I won’t tell you again!”

I sigh as I make use of her Chinese name too. Back in Canada she started to call herself Zoe to fit in. With her exotic looks and green eyes. It’s not often you see a child of mixed heritage with a Chinese name. Dane and I agreed for her to have an English name too. I open the large tattered book and place it between us on both of our laps. I revert to Chinese as I question her, this is serious business.

“Do you know who this is?”

I ask pointing at a picture of a woman under water with turquoise skin, four arms, a fin for her legs and black Medusa type hair whipping around her. Liu- San responds respectfully, with a small nod of her head in perfect Chinese. One thing Chinese culture boasts is a natural respect for elders. My heart swells I feel proud of her and her ability to pick up  Chinese and address me properly when she hardly speaks it. She’s been practicing somehow.

“Yes mother. This is Ceto the Greek Goddess of the sea.”

“Good. What else do you know?”

“Well she’s a myth apparently, we learned about her at school. Just some old folk tale.”

I fix my dear naive daughter with a stern stare. The Chinese language spills out of me with a loud shrill, high pitch voice. I sound just like my own mother… Ceto herself.

“No Liu -San. Ceto is not a myth, this is your Grandmother. You’ve never met her. She’s alive and well in Hong Kong.”

She lets out nervous laugh. Out of respect Liu- San tries to respond in Chinese. This time it’s not perfect but I understand.

“Mom, stop kidding around.”

“Liu- San, I know where you have been and I know what happened to you tonight. Your body changed it happened to me too when I was a few years younger than you.”

She looks into my eyes and I can see the tears threaten to spill over. I place an arm around her and point back at the picture of my mother, Ceto.

“Your descent is more than you think Liu- San, your biology also makes you part sea monster. Those tiny creatures you saw tonight are your children. My Grandchildren and Ceto’s great Grandchildren.”

“What? Mom I’m sixteen how can you say that?”

“It’s true. For thousands of years many have thought Ceto is a myth something to be dismissed. She’s a powerful woman. Both in her sea form and human form. She rules the land underwater and Hong Kong for that matter. Your father knows nothing of this, and it’s to stay that way. It’s been too many years.”

Liu- San looks down at her lap. In a muffled voice that threatens to break with tears, she tries again in Chinese. I can just about make out what she’s saying.  Now I see she can understand the language better than she can speak it. This must change.

“Mom, I’m really scared.”

I hug my baby tight.

“I know, I was the same. Tomorrow night you’re taking the evening off from your studies. I will call the nanny over. Once Drake is in bed and your father’s at work,we’re heading to the beach. I’ll explain more and I will take you to Hong Kong’s sea underworld.”

“Mom, we’re going to Hong Kong?! How? we need a plane.”

“Hmm. Yes we’re going. And no, we will get there faster than any plane. You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Mom, why did you keep this from me?”

“Because I was not sure if your time would come, your father is full human. I never knew if my genes were strong enough for tonight to happen. I had to wait it out and be sure.” “Get some sleep I know you’re tired, tomorrow all will be clearer.”

Liu-San gets to her feet and bows neatly toward me, before she hops into bed.

“But Mom, what that just happened to me?”

I stand up, smooth over my red and gold kimono, before I adjust the chopsticks in my hair in the mirror. I walk toward the bedroom door and turn slowly to Liu- San on the bed. In basic simple Chinese, so she can understand fully, I explain to my first born…

“Life sweetheart, that was life. You must learn to live a double life. When the urge calls you to the sea you can go, but you must never get caught. You’ll end up in some researcher’s laboratory, for years. Those who believe in Ceto’s myth have been searching for evidence, and you’re it. We are the ones who live at the bottom of the ocean and come to the surface, now you know who you are.”

Thank you for voting and thank you for reading our first attempt at writing the fantasy genre. We hope we’ve somewhat done all our author/writer friends of this wonderful genre proud!  Didi  and I both love to read this genre.

Who wants part #2 of this story?…. Didi and I are kinda feelin’ this story :).  We enjoyed writing our scenes. I think we can whip up a few more scenes in Hong Kong.

Don’t forget... this is the last story for Kim and Didi’s Suspenseful Collectionfor two weeks! We have a new twist, all will be revealed when we return with week #7’s writing prompt voting poll. If there are any stories you’d like to read part #2 of , please leave us a comment. We know Lisa Vanacilli has a lot of votes for part #2 for the story  “It was the first time I killed a man.” Thank you!


Read week one- six stories here, click me.

This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  The super easy steps are as follows:

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday we’ll post a voting poll with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.) Once the winning prompt is announced you can join us and write a story too. Use #kdsuspense to link in.
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt.
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!! Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes with  British English spelling, and one of us in American English spelling. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)

Kim and Didi's Suspenseful Collection




We Have A Winner & Final Week For Kim and Didi’s Suspenseful Collection…. #kdsuspense #amwriting

“The ones who live in  the bottom of the ocean,come to the surface.”


Featured Image -- 13999

Thank you for voting, it’s fantasy week people. Yours truly is a bit on edge but excited about this week. This is one genre I know I love to read, but find it hard to write! So thanks for the challenge. I mean that from the bottom of my heart, it’s all about growth as a writer.

In other news, Didi and I will take a very short pause. This is the last story!



 Don’t worry we will be back. This is the quiet before the storm…Kim and Didi’s Suspenseful Collection has a new twist. Ummm hmmm! We’ll see you Tuesday for week six’s short story. We’ll be back in about two week’s time with week seven’s story and a new twist. Join in with us for week six, write a story using the prompt you all voted for and #kdsuspense,  when you share it on social media, so we can find you. Or post your link to the story post on Tuesday.

See you soon thank you for voting!

Kim and Didi's Suspenseful Collection


HOW #kdsuspense WORKS:

This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  The super easy steps are as follows:

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday we’ll post a voting poll with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.) Once the winning prompt is announced you can join us and write a story too. Use #kdsuspense to link in.
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt.
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!! Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes with  British English spelling, and one of us in American English spelling. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)

Read our previous stories here and see who is author one and two for week one-three.




Wk #5 Short Story: “We Only Said Goodbye With Words, I Died A Hundred Times”. @amywinehouse #kdsuspense #amwriting #amreading

Femme Fatale Week!

“We Only Said Goodbye With Words, I Died A Hundred Times.”

Author One Scene One:

Mila Petrov secured her victory rolls, at the front and side of her hair with  bobby pins. A thick cloud of hair lacquer fills the air, to keep everything just as she likes it.The rest of her hair she leaves hanging around her shoulders, in loose waves. She examines her roots closely and winces at the mousy brown shade making its way through. She is hardly Marilyn Monroe and thanked God for it too. Mila is too smart to be caught up in the love affair women seem to have with Marilyn and her style. The craze seems to live on one year after her death in 1963. The blonde bimbo act doesn’t appeal to her. Mila is the opposite in every way to the American “siren” plastered all over the TV screens. She makes a mental note to pick up a bottle of black hair dye, from the chemist on her way back from Camden Town this evening. Her roots are in desperate need of some tender loving care.

Mila lines her full lips with care using her deep red lip pencil, and then fills in the centre with precision using a thin lip brush. Emphasising her cupid’s bow. She admires how the deep blood red shade pops against her pale porcelain skin and jet-black hair. The only clue that her true hair colour was possibly not as deep as the black shade she favours, is her pale blue eyes. A pale blue shade that belongs with mousy brown hair. Picking up her compact, she powders her nose to keep the shine away and steps back from the mirror.

Tonight, her appearance is important, she has business to do and not the kind that she’s used to. Apart from her striking eastern Europe features, her height is the first thing people notice about her. Without her heels Mila stands at five feet ten inches.

Mila sweeps her eyes over her well put together appearance. A red silk blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, stockings, and a thick black waist belt to help empathise some curves to the naturally boyish figure staring back at her from the mirror. Satisfied with her appearance she steps into her black stiletto heels, adding three inches to her height. Just as she does the phone rings on her desk.

“Eh-llo” Mila’s deep husky voice purrs into the phone.

“Madam Petrov. Your driver is outside for you.”

“I come, geeive me vun second okay.”

Mila places the phone on the receiver and pulls on her black mac jacket. She places her fur around her neck, and grabs her patent ruby red clutch purse. Annoyed at the sight of a smudged nail, she throws her black polish into her purse and sets off toward the door. She stops in her tracks and eyes the vodka bottle and shot glass on the side board by the door. For Dutch courage, she pours a shot of her native Smirnoff vodka and downs it in one, careful not to smudge her lipstick and then confidently walks out the door.

As she makes her way across the landing to take the stairs from her office, she glances in all the rooms in use. Making sure all her girls are well protected and not vulnerable, she introduced see-through panels for each service room of her establishment. Better safe than sorry. The last thing she wants is a murder or rape on her hands, then the London Metropolitan police sniffing around, or even worse tarnish her name and image as London’s top Madam. It’s not worth the risk, security has to be tight at her establishment. God knows she’s worked hard to earn a clean decent reputation as a Madam over the years. Her fight has been intensified by her Russian roots which makes her an outsider in London as it is. Over the years Mila has had to fight for her Russian surname and the right to be a business owner in a foreign land. Being female in 1963 makes the battle even harder.

At times when she switched on her TV and watched the black and white images showing the fight for equality overseas, she applauded every single African -American set to join Dr. Martin Luther King’s peaceful protest for equality in Washington, in just two months’ time. She understands the struggle from overseas for quality as a woman and foreigner well. Her other battle has been attracting and recruiting drug free, classy, sophisticated and street-smart girls. Girls that are not out for a relationship or sugar daddy. Her girls are her warriors from all walks of life, and all backgrounds. When girls show up asking for her name, she asks no questions about what brought them to her door asking for work. Every one of them has a story, including herself as the Madam. Overtime once her new recruits worked out Mila as a Madam is all business– stay pretty, dress well, be street-smart, make money and save for a rainy day they soon fit right in. They share their stories once they feel at home. She protects each of their secrets, passes no judgement and runs a tight ship under the watchful eye of the London Metropolitan Police.

Satisfied nothing untoward is going on on each floor, once at reception Mila walks into the bar area. The atmosphere is relaxed, she takes in the smoke-filled room’s chandeliers, patterned carpets and men sitting around round tables nursing their drinks.

Stevie, her star dressed in a to-the-floor black dress with a deep slit at her cleavage, is on stage putting the crowd under a spell. She takes in Stevie’s pretty face and chocolate colour skin and smiles some more. She makes a note to offer Stevie some extra hours behind the bar this week. Since she joined the team men seem to return in their crowds to watch her in her glamourous dresses, and listen to her hypnotic voice. One thing about Stevie is she knows how to put on a show. A tear away, at just eighteen years old she ran away from her family home in Birmingham, a good few hundred miles from London. Mila doesn’t know her full story yet, but she likes her.

Standing the doorway of the bar entrance, Mila finds herself singing along to Etta James’ At Last  song Stevie’s performing. Her voice rings out commanding the attention it deserves from the room. Mila catches Stevie’s eye and gives her a nod. Stevie returns her boss’ approval with a wink.

“Madam Petrov, ‘ere your car’s waitin’ Ms.”

Fiona’s cockney accent calls from behind the reception. Mila spins in Fiona’s direction, dragging her attention away from Stevie’s spell. Fiona, her bubbly receptionist could talk for London well. The best place for her is on reception, greeting all the punters that come in. Pretty as a picture in the true to form Marylin Monroe sense. With her bottle blonde hair backcombed to at least three inches, Fiona was another gem to have on her team. She’s no fool, Fiona left school without a qualification to her name,but one thing Fiona knows is how to make money. Fiona is full of hustle,she has a head for figures. Mila set her up with minding the weekly payroll she trusts her.

“Yes, yes, I come now.”

Mila walks over with long strides to the reception desk.

“Fiona, vhat time Stevie finish?”

“Ah, let me just check ‘er shift Ms.” “9:30 tonight Ms.”

Mila nods and pouts her red lips.

“Hmm, I no coming back on time maybe. Tell Stevie she must see me this veek, next shift. Very important okay.”

“Righty-oh Ms.”

Mila sweeps her eyes over her establishment one last time.

“Keep close eye, any undercover pigs you follow plan.” Mila fixes Fiona with a stern look.

“Yes Madam Petrov, I know the score.”

Fiona does a small salute to the boss lady and smiles.

Mila nods. Without so much as a goodbye to Fiona, she turns on her heels and sashays out to her car. Fiona watches her boss and smiles.

“Evenin’ Ms. Petrov.”

Mila slides into the back of the slick black Cadillac behind her driver. Before she even acknowledges his greeting, she pulls out her long black cigarette holder and removes a slim smoke.

“Gowood evening Stanley.”

“Where to Ms.?”

Mila lights her smoke and takes a long calming pull.

“Camden Town, to the old vare-house. Stanley vhere you put vodka?”

Stanley leans over to the glove compartment, and hands Mila a quarter bottle of Smirnoff. She takes it and stares at him confused.

“Vere shot glass? Lipstick very important.”

Mila’s husky playful voice, and deep Russian accent fills the car. Stanley laughs and hands his favourite client her beloved shot glass, and set off toward London Bridge to cross the river from south London to Camden Town.

Thirty minutes later Mila places her heels on the ground as she steps out of the Cadillac, mindful of the puddles. It started to rain and she forgot her umbrella. Cursing London’s unpredictable weather, she prays that her hair lacquer is strong enough to hold her victory rolls in place, and her fur is not ruined. She hands Stanley a note to pay her fare.

“Keep change, meet me ‘ere in vun hour.”

“Right you are Ms. as you please.”

Stanley tips his hat and set off in the direction he came from. Mila turns and knocks on the large steel door. A tall black male opens up and tips his hat.

“Madam Petrov, evening. Just this way, Mr. Startskiv is through here.”

With attitude Mila pauses her red lips and lifts her chin, as she gives him a nod and follows behind him. Mila enters a dimly lit den with five men in sharp suits around a table playing poker. The air is filled with cigar smoke and a black and white movie is playing in the background. Five pairs of eyes turn her way and sweep her over from head to toe.

“Madam Petrov, please sit, nice to see you.”

“Mr. Startskiv, vhat I owe you on ‘dis visit? I ‘ave business to run.”

“Yes, Madam I know your time is precious, please sit. Vould you like vodka or something cool to drink?”

“Mr. Startskiv, I Russian like you, vhat you think I drink, vater?”

Mila responds full of light sarcasm.

Mr. Startskiv snaps his fingers, one of his men pours Mila a shot of Smirnoff and places it at the sixth seat at the table. Mila’s heels click on the concrete floor as she walks over to the table, undoes her mac and removes her fur. She eyes the men around the table as she sits down. With her legs crossed at the knees all men eye her like a piece of meat. Mila pulls herself up to her full height, refusing to be intimidated by the dicks in the room. She picks up her glass and knocks back her shot of Smirnoff, then slams the glass on the table. Mr. Startskiv breaks the silence in the room.

“Madame Petrov, the Russian mafia have had some dealings ‘ere in London. We need your assistance. We ‘ave a man we need to take down. He not playing ball .”  Mr. Startskiv uses his hands as quotation marks around playing ball, to emphasise his point.

“Dis is where you come in. You don’t know me, but my sources tell me you are London’s top Madam with a busy… er… how you say? Entertainment ‘ouse. You don’t know me but you can trust me, one Russian to another.”

Mr. Startskiv gives Mila a sly smile and a wink, flashing perfect white teeth against his pale skin and slicked back blond hair.Mila leans forward on the table and raises one of her thin black penciled eyebrows in Mr. Startskiv’s direction.

“Vhat you vant? I no put business or girls in risk… never.”

“Don’t worry… Mila if I may call you that?”

Mila’s heart jumps into her chest no one in London knows her as Mila anymore how does he? She keeps her poker face in check.

“No risk. I need a… how you say Femme Fatale to catch man, go to bar or party catch him in trap and keep him for me at hotel. You understand yes?”

“No, I business woman now I not  risk my business or living for silly Russian man games.”

Mila gets to her feet, the four other men around the table except for Mr. Startskiv stand up, and move toward her. Mila throws her head back and laughs out loud at the men.

“I see, I ‘ave no choice, is ‘dis it?”

“Madam Petrov you ‘ave choice, play ball or lose life. Choice yours?”

Mr. Startskiv responds with a casual tone from his seat across the table.

“Why you choose me?”

Mila demands her annoyance on full show.

“You Russian, can’t trust English girl they take money, no do good job. You understand vhat business means. I pay you well. Plus, every man vant to be seduced by London’s top Madam. From vhat I hear you are very successful and desirable. Forbidden fruit, no blonde bimbo… real woman, Russian woman.”

Mr. Startskiv slides a picture across the table, Mila glances down from her standing position and drops to her seat as she snatches up the picture. My God, it’s him?

Mila moulds her pretty pixie like features into her business poker face. Reserved for all the male dicks that try to push her around.They have no clue how bad this bitch is, a true rebel for a woman of the sixties, she never conforms. She knows how to deal with men like Stratskiv who see her as a pretty face, and think flattery will get them everywhere. She brushes a black fingernail across her chin as she studies the picture with a pout. Her long eye lashes slowly raise to Mr. Startskiv. In a low drawl she commands his attention.

“ ‘ow you know this man?”

Her hands shake as she holds the picture, she tries to control it.

“And vhere vodka?”

“Mr. Startskiv snaps his fingers again for her drink. In record time her shot glass is refilled. As one of the henchmen turn to leave her side with the bottle of Smirnoff, she grabs it from his hand and slams it down next to her.

“Leave ‘ere. Vant vodka. And you, answer me now ‘ow you know this man?”

Mila turns her attention back to the man across the table.

“He is our marked man, I can’t say how we are  connected let’s just say unfinished business.”

Mila’s heart drops into the depths of her stilettos. The man staring back at her in the picture is her estranged husband. She’s sure of it, he hasn’t changed. When she arrived in London, fifteen years ago aged twenty with not a penny to her name from Russia, she met and fell in love with one of London’s most feared men. His name was enough to send chills down any wanna be hard man’s spine. They married and had a rocky two year marriage. Gangsters are not husband material. She learned the hard way. One night he did the classic “going out for cigarettes babe” and never returned home. She was left abandoned, penniless and barely spoke English. To keep a roof over her head, Mila worked the streets of London, turning tricks in every grotty backstreet alley you could imagine. That was until she got fed up. She found a job as a cleaner at a hotel for the rich and famous over in central London. That’s when she discovered rich men like to take women to hotels for sex in this country too, not just alleyways.

She saved her money and worked her cleaning job every hour she could, while she took English lessons in secret from an aging Madam whose business had gone to pot. Her path crossed Madam Laurence’s  one night at a bar in central London, when she stopped off for a drink to drown her sorrows over her losses and homesick feeling. She had little friends, not many she could trust.

Madam Laurence was looking for a hardworking successor. The two women hit it off like a house on fire, regardless of the forty year age difference with Madam Laurence in her sixties and Mila in her early twenties, a sisterhood was made. The relationship and affiliation was kept a secret, in fear the other working girls would become jealous. Once Mila’s English was good enough, she was never seen again at Madam Laurence’s but they stayed in contact. Once she passed three years after they met the old Madam left her business to her. Mila took over, by age twenty five she reinvented herself. She dyed her hair black and teased it into the biggest beehive,  perfected her make-up routine, learned how to walk in the highest of heels and pencil skirts, and became Madam Petrov to anyone who asked. She left Mila the helpless Russian mousy brown doll behind.

By then the girls at the establishment she once knew had moved on. The moment she placed her heels across the threshold of Madam Laurence’s old establishment things changed. Skirts above the knee were sent home, heels lower than three inches were not allowed, and nails always manicured. Mila’s vision included classy girls of every shade on show, sexy but not whores.  That’s the only way they could get away with charging premium prices for their services. Her girls were not whores, more like business women. If men were dumb enough to pay for it, her girls would exploit it and make a killing in the process.That was ten years ago. Now aged thirty five, almost fifteen years after the bastard left her they would meet again. They only said goodbye with words, Mila died a hundred times.  Could she do it? Could she help seal her estranged husband’s fate? Or would she fall for him again once she saw him. He’d never recognise her now, at least that’s what she thinks. She looks so far removed from the Mila he once knew.

Author Two Scene Two:

Mila forces her breath to even and her hands to still. The face in the photo has aged some, but those eyes are unmistakable. They pierce into her like a knife, raising the question she’d asked herself over and over for years. How could that heartless prick just up and leave the way he did? Another shot is downed, and Mila can feel every eye in the room as they stare her down with anticipation.

She looks around at the burly men, all muscle and no brains. Mila has never had much respect for the muscle, even when she was married to Dmitry. It’s probably what attracted her to him in the first place. He was smart, a leader, much like this Mr. Startskiv that has somehow managed to track her down and force her into such a tight spot. Her back is straight with courage as she takes a deep look into the faces of each man surrounding her and then addresses the mindless Russian thugs directly.

“You might as vell sit. ‘Dis take time.”

All heads turn to the head of the table. Silently they wait for their boss’ permission. They can’t even sit back down without the go ahead from their master. Mila rolls her eyes at the notion and watches as Mr. Startskiv sweeps an arm in front of himself, indicating for his men to have a seat. His other hand rests on the table, drumming fingers on the dark cherry wood. She locks eyes with him, allowing one corner of her perfectly painted lips to match the upturned smirk of his.

This could be her chance to get back at Dmitry for leaving her the way he did. On the outside Mila sits tall, her body language is cool and collected. On the inside she is writhing with her body’s recollection of all the pain and violation she endured by the hands of men throughout the years, all because of Dmitry. She’s made up her mind, but not because of the threat on her life. Mila wants revenge on the man that spat on her life. The only man she has ever truly loved yet detested all at the same time. The man who took her youth and left her to rot as an outsider in an unfamiliar place. The prick will finally pay for what he done to her.

“Vhy you pick me? You tell real reason Mr. Startskiv. Or there no deal.”

A thick rolling laughter bursts from his lips. The other men chuckle lightly in tow, following his lead.

“Vhy Mila, you ‘ave all de spunk I been told.”

The sound of her name spewing from his lips sends a white hot chill up her spine. Mila pulls a new cigarette from her case and lights it, taking her time. After a long relaxing drag she leans across the table on her elbows, giving the boss man a teasing view down the neckline of her classy silk shirt.

“You don’t pick me ‘cause I Russian.”

She smiles, flashing perfectly white veneers.

“How you know my name? You tell truth, and we play.”

All the chuckles disappear and the feel of the room turns to that of serious business. Mr. Startskiv isn’t there to play childish games, and neither is Mila. He explains to her that she’s been checked in on from time to time since her marriage, but refuses to reveal by who. Apparently Dmitry was a wanted man by many, and him leaving her was no coincidence. Not only did he leave Mila to rot, but he also took millions of pounds from the wrong men.

“So after all vem years, you still look for him, da?”


Mr. Startskiv tilts his head to the side and glances at Mila down the length of his pointed nose. He waits a moment for her to process all the information, watching her closely until her cigarette stops smouldering in her long black holder. She taps it out in the tray, swallows another full shot, and then nods to herself while in thought.

“Vhy me? You still no answer. Any voman could do job.”

“Dmitry a smart man.”

Mr. Startskiv says, finally leaning forward to mirror her body language.

“He don’t go to rooms vith other vomen. We try already. But you, Madam, we know he have veakness for a voman like you. You change, but you still remind him of who you vere.”

Mila understands perfectly the game Mr. Startskiv is playing at. She also knows the danger involved.

“Vone condition.” She says.


“Ve do dis now. Tonight. My girls, my place, ‘ave nothing to do wit dis.”

Mr. Startskiv nods in thought and rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. She’s right, and he knows it. Dmitry moves around way too often. If he’s going to let Mila live once it’s all said and done then she can’t keep meeting with him or be taken to a different city. There can’t be any ties or suspicion. She’s also right about keeping her girls out of it. They can’t be trusted, none of them. If Mila is willing to follow through without force then he needs to act on it. Mr. Startskiv locks his gaze on her enchanting blue eyes.  

“Alright, Madam. We do ‘dis your vay.”

Mila removes her elbows from the table, sits straight in her chair, and runs a hand down her blouse to smooth away any wrinkles. A diamond plated watch tells her the time and she smiles to herself. This is going to be too easy. Dmitry surely hasn’t changed much, and he isn’t as smart as Mr. Startskiv is giving him credit for. If there’s one thing she’s learned as a Madam, is that men are predictable. Even the smartest and richest men can be creatures of habit.

“We ‘ave vun hour.”

She says, faced smoothed, showing no emotion.

“Dmitry drink scotch, same time every night. If he at hotel, he’ll be in bar at midnight.”

Mr. Startskiv smiles an evil smirk. He likes the way she thinks, and is growing eager to hear more of her quickly formulated yet still sure plan.

“Go on.”

He encourages before swallowing a shot of vodka himself.

“Clean, simple. You get room now at same place. ‘ave men vait in room, and I bring him to you before vun-oh-clock.”

“Thirty minutes?” he chuckled under his breath. “Are you really so confident?”

Mila puts her best grin on display,

“Mr. Startskiv, I can do it in ten.”

“Done.” He agrees.

The place is small, and the music is soft. It’s the type of hotel bar that mostly business men spend their time in. The tables and stools are tall, sitting on heavy metal frames. The bar top is made of thick marbled granite, the floors are tile, and the drinks are expensive. Mila doesn’t bat an eye at the price, she also doesn’t mind being the only woman at the bar. Two men have offered to buy her a drink, and she’s waived them off with a mere flick of the wrist, and then tipped the bartender substantially to decline any further offers on her behalf. There is no time for the nonsense of wanting men, there is only one man in particular that she’s interested in seeing tonight. She orders a dry martini to sip on and waits. Cool and collected, she’s imagined an opportunity like this to present itself for a very long time.  

It’s been years since Mila’s allowed herself to be the bait, but for Dmitry she’s willing to revisit such unpleasantries. As a cooling sip of the dry martini sloshes through Mila’s teeth she thinks of all the men who had their way with her. Back alleys and cheap hotels played too big a part in her life, and soon Dmitry would pay for it all. A nervous heart thumps in her chest, if only she can get through the night without the butterflies in her stomach taking over.

Just as the big and little hand on her watch were both pointing straight up Dmitry sauntered in. The scent of his cologne and the sound of his voice gave him away before his face  even came into view. The predictable bastard still wears the same scent, go figure, she thought. He slides himself casually onto the barstool next to hers, of course he does. Being the only woman in the bar, and dressed for success, she isn’t surprised that he moved right in.

Out the corner of her eye, Mila drinks in her prey. He’s dressed in a well tailored suit, and  the colour of his skin has been darkened some by a clear kiss of the sun. A healthy glow radiates from him, just as it always had all those years ago. Even through the fabric of his suit Mila could tell Dmitry had kept up on his physic. His long arms were still thick, and shoulders wide. She always knew he would age well, there was never a doubt about that. If anything, she was surprised that he had lived as long as he had. The lifestyle he always led didn’t exactly scream retirement.

It’s showtime, she thought. Mila’s husky voice was low yet very sexy, a clear giveaway of her once buried identity. If nothing else it could easily be a giveaway to her estranged husband. She’d have to use other means to lure him in than conversation. She’d used the hour gap wisely, despite the growing effect of vodka in her veins. Bright green contacts covered her once beautiful blue eyes, and a fresh coat of lipstick and powder perfected her facial features. Mila had even gone to the extreme of a deep blush to accentuate the contours of her cheekbones.  One more step to alter the babyface that Dmitry once knew well.    

Mila turned gracefully on her backless stool to face him, and with a straight spine, and legs crossed at the ankles she leaned against the bar on one arm. When he looked up into her face, their eyes locked. Mila batted her thick blackened lashes and pushed her full red lips into a slight pout in his direction. She looked deep into his eyes, searching his soul for answers to all the unanswered questions swirling in her mind. God, he was still gorgeous. A few moments of an unspoken energy pulled the two closer together.

Dmitry leans in Mila’s direction, smitten by the mysterious confidence that seemed to project out of her every pore. Who is this foreign vixen eyeing him like she was ready to swallow him whole? Dmitry was instantly smitten, and unable to pull his attention away from her intoxicating stare. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put a finger on who it was. There was a familiarity in the shape of her jaw, and structure of her shoulders and hands. He cleared his throat, using his best effort to collect the wandering thoughts.

“Hello darlin.”

Dmitry had mastered several languages while on the run, and could project practically any accent he’d seen fit. Whenever in London, he made his best effort to hide his Russian roots. He had too many enemies here, and there were way too many thugs that could recognise him if he let a smidgen of his real accent slip through. Even after all these years, Dmitry found it best to stay cautious. The woman only responded to him with a slight upturn of one side of those perfectly coloured lips. Dmitry found himself staring at the deep red tint of them and imagining how they tasted.

“You gotta’ name love?”

He watched the woman closely, as she flashed him a beautiful smile. The grin didn’t touch her eyes. There was something different about her gaze, something primal. There was wild excitement he could see past the colour of them, and it made his cock twitch. That never happens with merely a look. Dmitry noted her classy dress, well kept hair and expensive taste in jewellery. This woman wasn’t the average hooker, waiting to take a guy’s money in a business bar. She was different. The woman staring him down was independent, he could tell by just one look that she could hold her own. He waited patiently for an answer to his question.

Mila shook her head no, and then answered smoothly with a quick, “Nah,” followed by another grin and bat of her lashes.

“Oh come on.”

Dmitry pushed

“You gotta’ give me somethin’ darlin, I’m dyin’ ‘ere.”

Without taking her eyes off of his, Mila let her hand softly trial down the length of her neck. She stopped at the one inch of cleavage that was already on display and then she slowly and seductively pulled apart the next button of her top.

Dmitry’s eyes widened and he wiggled some in his seat to adjust the hardening between his legs. As if under some sort of spell his heart leaps in his chest. The inpointable, yet strangely familiar pull he felt for this vixen instantly intensified as he fixed his gaze on her slightly exposed plump chest. Wanting eyes swept over the length of her long legs, and clearly expensive black stilettos. He couldn’t help but to picture black lace panties matching the heels. Dmitry’s neck heated under his collar, forcing his hand up to loosen his tie.

Mila knew that motion well. Time hadn’t changed him by much, as he was still drawn to her chest over the rear. When they were married, it never took long after he’d adjusted his collar to be deep inside of her. No matter where they were, the heating of Dmitry’s neck always meant that he was good and ready for her. Mila took that as her que. She swallowed what was left of her drink and then slowly stood to her feet, pressing her chest in his direction while standing.

She ran her freshly repainted nails softly down his chest and stopped it at his belt, giving him a quick teasing nudge. Then she tilted her head and looked over at the door very obviously, knowing full well that he would follow her out.

Dmitry couldn’t believe what had just happened. He wasn’t one to follow a woman, or to pay money for one either. He had no desire for random hook ups, and hadn’t for years. He was too old for young tarts who would give it to any man for a buck. But, this woman was more. She was too old to be a hooker, and too beautifully independent to need a man for money. The need to know more about this quiet vixen was a stronger curiosity than he’d ever felt before. Without hesitation he followed her. Wanting eyes never moved from her swaying hips, shapely back, and tall neckline as he walked behind her through the twists and turns of the hotel halls.

As she stopped at a door and reached for her key card, Dmitry took her hand in his. A delicate kiss was placed on the tips of her fingers. After taking the key from her grasp he opened the door and pulled her into a passionate embrace as they entered the room.

Mila was taken off guard with the kiss. It was everything she remembered, full of emotion and desire. Her eyes opened a crack to look behind her lover, only to see three men standing behind them… Waiting to finish him off. She did her job and delivered Dmitry to Mr. Startskiv, yet at this very moment she wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off and remind him of what he lost, what he left behind. She longed for his touch, and to become one again, with their bodies tangled in love. It could never happen and Mila knew that.

She pulled from their kiss and whispered in the ear of her lost lover,

“Goodbye, Dmitry. I’ve missed you.”


The choppy sound of Dmitry’s quickly silenced scream echoed down the hall behind her as she made her way to the exit. The final piece of her past would be laid to rest for good. Mila knew that it was the only way, yet she would carry a part of Dmitry with her forever. Just as she always had.

Thank you for reading! We had fun this week, stepping into the shoes of a Russian Femme Fatale. So Guys Didi and I will pause on week #6 to get together a lil’ something special. This week is the last poll, we’ll do one last story then have one week to pause and step into week #7’s story/poll.  Stay tuned!

Credit to: Amy Winehouse  for the use of her song lyrics “we only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times.” 

Song: Back to Black

R.I.P Amy! Thanks For Leaving Behind Wonderful Music, To Inspire Two Writers To Write.



This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  The super easy steps are as follows:

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday well post a voting pole with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.)
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt you chose!
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!!   Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes in British English, and one of us in American. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.) 
We never discuss who should write what, or how the story starts or ends it’s a surprise for us too. 🙂

Read week 1-4’s stories here click me!

The Music Behind The Writing. #amwriting #music #kdsuspense

Goooooooood Morning!

It’s a sunny one in London. Set to be a thirty degree day today just how I like it. If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ll know Sunday is a day of music, dance and family time in my house… and a bit of housework. I woke up today, or my son woke me up I should say, and while preparing breakfast we did a dance to every artist Didi and I featured for week #5 of our short story challenge. It ran through my mind, maybe you never picked up what songs the lyrics we picked out are from. For week five’s Femme Fatale week here are the featured artist’s songs where the prompts are from.

“The moment I saw you,I went outta my mind. I never believed in love at first sight.” –  I’m Your Baby Tonight by Whitney Houston.

The perfect song to drive and sing along to, doing your best Whitney impression. R.I.P Whitney. One of my favourite Femme Fatales.


“Oh baby when you talk like that,you make a woman go mad”- Hips Don’t Lie by Shakria


I dare you to play this and not try to shake it like Shakria! :).  This is an oldie but a goldie this song. A really talented artist, I like how she uses her culture in her music, singing in Spanish and English. Also embracing her Algerian north African roots, with belly dancing. Her videos are always really cool.


“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day”- Feelin’ Good by Nina Simone

When ever I listen to this song I picture myself in a retro smokey jazz bar, sipping on a cocktail swaying to the music. Such a great song. No matter how many artists cover this song I love the original.


“Daddy-o you got the swagger of a champion”- Womanizer by Britney


I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit of a Britney fan her songs are just too catchy! I never manage to get anyone to come with me to see her live in concert. My girlfriends just won’t go for it! Britney also named one of her albums Femme Fatale.


“I find light in the beautiful sea, I choose to be happy”- Diamonds by Rih Rih


A catchy beautiful song, by a very edgy artist.  The perfect driving song.


“Got me looking so crazy”- Beyonce


Okay so this is the version from the Fifty Shades of Grey movie, not the original upbeat one. I like this version. A talented lady and for sure a Femme Fatale.


“He sat in the boudoir while she freshened up”- Moulin Rouge by Pink


Mocha cocha lata ya -ya creole lady Marmalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaade! Go pink!!! Those vocals are amazing. I know the other ladies are great too, and many think Christina holds up the song, well I’m rooting for Pink. Also what artist can sing in full voice while doing traipse tricks in the air?? Have you been to one of Pink’s concerts before? I’ve been to EVERY London concert she has played, since her first album came out in the 1990’s. She’s true performer swinging from the ceiling while sounding amazing. An amazing strong Femme Fatale in every way.

Have a lovely Sunday, see you Tuesday for the story post using the winning lyric prompt. Please do join us and write your own story too.

This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  The super easy steps are as follows:

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday well post a voting pole with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.)
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt you chose!
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!!   Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes in British English, and one of us in American. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)

We Have A Winner!: ” We Only Said Goodbye With Words” #kdsuspense #amwriting #music #amywinehouse


Whahooo! I’m so glad you all voted in this great iconic British singer’s lyrics, as this week’s writing prompt, for Didi and I. I was at this concert, in this very room with Amy in London. She was fantastic live (when she was sober). She died too young, when she did I personally felt like a part of my musical love would forever be missing something. I still to this day often play the  Back to Black album really loud.

I’ve been a fan of  Amy before the iconic Back to Black album that won so many awards, did you know she had an album called Frank too? Check it out.

The writing has commenced, I can’t wait to pay tribute to Amy and use her as inspiration to write. Didi and I will post our short story on Tuesday. Another poll will go up too. We now do polls via Twitter as well as the blog. If you follow us on Twitter you can also vote with one click of a button! This week we’ve really grown in votes so thanks. See ya Tuesday… I have a feeling this is not going to be your average “love story” with heartache. Join us too and write your own story using the prompt:

“we only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times.”

Share it and use #kdsuspense so we can find your work, or leave your link on the blog post Tuesday.

Sit tight…

It’s femme fatale week!

This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  The super easy steps are as follows:

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday well post a voting pole with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.)
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt you chose!


 Read week’s one to four’s stories here.

All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!!   Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes in British English, and one of us in American. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)

Madame Amy in yellow

R.I.P Amy


Femme Fatale: Amy, Rhi Rhi or Nina? Who is your Fav? #kdsuspense #amwriting #poll


Femme Fatale Week

It’s a damn close call for this week’s winning writing prompt guys! These three ladies are neck and neck in the voting poll. Which one of these Femme Fatale’s lyrics should Didi and I use this week?  Rhi Rhi, Nina Simone, or Amy Winehouse?

Voting closes today.  Do you have two more seconds? Good click on a lyric in the voting poll below, to tip the scales for a winner! Find out more about the challenge read previous stories here


Vote For Wk #5’s Writing Prompt: It’s Femme Fatale Week! – Song Lyrics That Rock #kdsuspense #amwriting


Femme Fatale week


Do you like music? I love music. Always have, and I always will. I grew up with it, I think I get it from my Mum. I dance to it, fall asleep to it, drive to it, write to it, cook to it. There’s not a lot I do without music. Didi from what I’ve learned also has a big thing for music too. For week five we’re having fun, we’ve put together eight well known iconic Femme Fatale  singers. Big voices, great dance moves and lyrics, the talent is endless. Dead or alive their music and lyrics live on. This week, our challenge ( you included) is to creatively write a short story, using a lyric from one of their songs, that you all vote for. Join us and write a story of your own. This is a fun week.

Who will it be? Look at the lyrics on the poll below and decide.

Note: The song’s theme is no influence on the type/genre of story we create, we’ll write as we feel not focusing on the actual type of song. Just using the lyric to be creative.  Voting will close this Friday. Find out more about our weekly writing challenges / read previous week’s stories here.


The Big Reveal: WHO IS AUTHOR A & WHO IS AUTHOR B FOR WK 1-3’S STORIES?? …. #kdsuspense #amwriting

Evening guys,

Both Didi and I have had some positive feedback from readers, about our stories. We are also both LOVING working together on them each week, it’s a shock to us to see where our story will end up, if you’re author A, as well as a shock to see what will land in your inbox to finish writing if you’re author B. Personally, I like both roles A and B I have no preference. What’s the hardest thing about working with Didi? …. Stopping writing! No matter if I’m A or B . We have both knocked out 90,000 odd word novels ,and it’s hard to put a lid on it once we’re in the groove! We Skyped about this, then guess what  we went over the word limit each again lols.. ah well. Sooooooooooooo I guess by now some of you want to know who is author A and who is author B, for the first three stories we have done. Okay your wish is our command, did you guess right…. take a look.


Week 1: It Was The First Time I Killed A Man. click here to read a steamy 18+ historical bit of crime fiction about a woman on death row.


Author A: kimknightprofilepic


Author B: Didi (1)

Yep I whipped up that crazy ass woman Lisa Vanicilli and handed her to my partner in crime to see what she’d do. Didi did not fail me! She aced the ending so well.  And you know what I loved writing Lisa. She’s nuts! This is my favourite story  so far. That said, this week’s one  for Tuesday maybe a close call. I heard through the grape vine a few of of you thought it may have been Didi  as author A. Humm maybe, as the main character is a blonde female from the USA….  “They say we write what we know “ well I’m from London,  my accent is nothing like the New York, Brooklyn accent that I love so much that we both tried to portray while writing. And I  could not be more far removed from the main female myself as a woman, but  we did tell you we’re skilled at adapting our writing styles. We’ll write anyone, any age, race, gender, sexuality we’ll try to step into anyone’s  shoes.

My First Reaction When I Read Didi’s Ending For This Story:

“Holy sh*it Didi is even more nuts than me in her character development, Lisa is crazy lols. Then I read real close again about two or three times and was like , hey you can’t even tell there was a change of writer. This is freaky it’s like one of us knocked out that story on our own.

Week Two: Every Time I Hear That Voice From The Basement: Click here to read. A psychological suspenseful story.


Author ADidi (1)


Author B: kimknightprofilepic


My First Reaction When This Story Landed In My Inbox:

When Didi sent me over the story,  in her email she was like: ” I gatta real dochebag for ya Kim. Can’t wait to see what you do with him.” I read the email and  laughed, but never expected what I read. I loved it.

When I finished reading I was like..What a freak he is! Didi can step into the shoes of anyone, she likes to write ’em crazy all right. I had so much fun with this story as I zoned in the the “disturbed” personality our main man has. The bleach part with his wife Jolene was a creative fluke. It just came to me while I was writing, focusing on his OCD ways. In fact this story was a real “fly by the seat of my pants story”. And as many of you know,  I’m  not “a panster” as a writer I like to plot my outline, then fill in with creativity as I write, I always have a direction. With this one I just sat behind the laptop and tried to craft a character that was true to what Didi whipped up, I had no direction. I think, this story was the most fun to write for me as I stepped into the shoes of a very ill man.  I dropped in the part about London and his obsession for Dana,  rather than turn him into a serial killer or let there be a murder, just to be a little different, and more creepy/ scary. I see this guy as a more passive dangerous character ,rather than an outright murderous character like Lisa Vanacili.  George is sly, very sly not so bold. He’s a plotter very calculating he won’t lash out like Lisa. Maybe Didi feels otherwise when she crafted him, we’ll see in her reveal post.

Week Three: The  Entrance To The Tunnel Is His Only Way Out. Click Here to Read It. A short sharp bit of crime fiction.


Author Akimknightprofilepic


Author B: Didi (1)

My First Reaction When I read Didi’s Ending For This Story:

Wow! I never saw that coming at all. Now that’s a surprise twist. I was very shocked at how Didi set me up to think that Juan would make it out okay, he just needed a little sleep. I think personally, she kept his character very true to what I created, Juan did not change. I also would NEVER have thought to go in that direction creatively at all, never ever.  I don’t know what was going through her head when she wrote the ending, but what ever it was did me proud.


So there you go. You know who author A and author B is for weeks one- three. Stay tuned for week four’s story which will be posted on Tuesday! Polls will go up to vote for week five’s writing prompt Wednesday. And now we have announced week four’s winning prompt…. why not write a story to the prompt with us? Leave your link on our pages and use #kdsuspense!


Have a wonderful start to your week tomorrow.




When His Hands Ran Up My Thighs I… #kdsuspense #amwriting

Wait for it! …..If this  romance writing prompt wins all the votes this week, this is the story you will get from Didi and I next Tuesday. From the votes we’ve had this one is in the lead. Not your cup of tea? No problem, see what else in on offer and vote for another short story writing prompt. If it IS your cup of tea, and you’ve not voted please do and keep it in the lead.

Voting closes today! Better be quick just two clicks of your mouse…. Go on, you know you want to. Week  one- three’s stories can also be read on the link below also.

Vote on this link here


This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!!  I hope you’re ready to challenge us by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense!  Give us your best shot!  You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple!  Here are the steps.

STEP ONE: Every Wednesday well post a voting pole with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.)
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY!  Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt you chose!
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!!   Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes in British English, and one of us in American. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)