Dear Miss Snark,
SNITCH: a nasty word. So what does it have to do with an Old Catholic priest, the pastor of a California church? He sells his parsonage and buys a $102,000 dollar black BMW. He’s also married to one woman and engaged to another. When the authorities catch on to his money-laundering and pandering, our good priest is arrested and tossed into jail. His life will change forever when he meets Roy G. Smith, twice convicted pedophile presently being held for murder in one of California’s highest profile cases.
Roy, over the course of two months, confesses the murder to our unethical priest. When Roy realizes he has divulged too much, he warns the priest to keep the information on the low down – or else. Will the priest snitch on Roy or will he quietly go on with his jail time, and live with the knowledge of the murder, a weight on his mind which will eat away at him like a maggot feasting on garbage?
Within the pages of Snitch are plots, subplots, dramas, poetry and myths. (uh oh) The reader will explore the very timely topics of priesthood, jail and murder. Snitch is a non-fiction, true-crime book written by the author of (title) an e-book published by Cool Publications of Great Britain, and the essay, (title), soon to be published by Hillary Carlip on Fresh Yarn.
At your request, I will send you a writing sample and a book proposal. Please feel free to contact me at the address below.
True crime? What's the hook? One guy confesses to a murder to another guy. You've got it dressed up in current hot button issues of Catholic priests, pedophilia and larceny but other than that, there's nothing there.
SHARK - It was an absurd color of orange. An angry, howling cunt of an orange. The eyes above the orange were flat-black, all alone and dead, like those of a great white shark. The face the eyes inhabit exuded energy, a streaming, trenchant flow of hideous indecency. He had a supercilious expression on his face. He gazed off to the side, as if wishing he were somewhere else, or reflecting on some inner conundrum.
The mouth below the eyes rumbled, “You guys remember Lane Silva?”
I hesitated, rummaging through my memory files: short, approximately fifty-five years old, Hispanic but he looked quasi-white because of his complexion; he cut hair for a candy bar or a soup, in here for some violent crime. I can’t remember what, though. I nodded. “Yeah, I remember him. Whatever happened to him?” I couldn’t recall the last time I saw him – then a mimetic bulletin transfused up from my synapses: Lane, wearing handcuffs, a plastic bag filled with his property over the shoulder of his fireplug body, being escorted to the Hole. Black-clad correction officers on either side of him, their Sam Brown belts bristling with non-lethal weaponry: mace, pepper spray, zap guns, long shiny black flashlights of phenolic plastic, which doubled as truncheons.
The other guy of the ‘guys’, plural, in the interrogatory looked bewildered. He’s a tall man, thin. Reminds one of a balding Bassett Hound, with his sad eyes and hanging jowls. “Who?” said Bob.
Am I supposed to be shocked by the "cunt of an orange". Is that supposed to be edgy?
You've got a very short amount of time to entice me to read on. This doesn't do that.