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The first collecton of short stories by J. R. Kruze.
Known for a unique take on common situations, and a dry wit, Kruze is also able to look at usual circumstances and see unusual aspects to write about. These stories will let you start wondering about the world around you.
Contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, romance and science fiction are a few of this mixed genre collection.
Enjoy seeing your world through J. R. Kruze’s eyes…
This anthology contains:
Death by Advertising The Lazurai The Autists Story Hunted Her Eyes Max Says No A Nervous Butt A Goddess Visits A Goddess Returns
Excerpt from Death by Advertising:
Tess was sitting at Judy’s desk, in Judy’s chair. And still dressed in form-fitting black. It was Wednesday. The service had been on Tuesday, and Tess had given the office staff the day off to attend or mourn as they wished.
But for Tess, today was another workday with deadlines. Of course, anyone else could take the day off. Tess knew she had to be there. Just to answer client questions. Because she knew they would ask. And they knew she would be there. And would get constant calls at home if she wasn’t. Madison Avenue isn’t known to be one ounce more polite than they needed to be. Another sigh for the old times. Politer, more considerate times. Flyover country courtesies discarded in frantic-paced bicoastal cities.
Tess had pulled the keyboard across the ad-covered blotter to answer a certain client’s question. The one that Judy would have answered. While most ads were on the server, Judy often got big clients emailing her specific details. In this case, the email had gone unanswered.
A knock on the frame of the open door to Judy’s office startled her. The aluminum frame rattled the Plexiglas, a holdover com the earlier occupants. Judy and Tess had the only two real offices there, the rest of the staff worked in the open floor in desks lined up like the old news agencies. Back in times when news was real .
A tall man stood there, in a rumpled light gray trench coat, opened in front. Hanging off his broad shoulders straightened a few of the creases. I’m Detective Johnson with the NYPD. I’m sorry for your loss and hate to intrude. There are some questions I need to ask. The typical fast clip and run-together sentences from living in a city that never slept.
Come in Detective. Tess rose to shake his hand, and motioned to a chair that wasn’t covered in either print samples, design layouts, or bouquets from well-wishers. Sorry about the mess, we haven’t had time to tidy up since the funeral.
I completely understand. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Unfortunately, her death raised some questions. And those brought me here.
Tess sat. Like punctuation. So did the detective. While she sat in a high-backed, ergonomic, swiveling, rolling, modern chair, Johnson sank down into a tufted, red-leather period piece.
Detective Johnson felt uneasy at this, since the deep cushion and padded arms kept him from writing on his notepad. So he scooted forward to sit on the seat edge. In this way, he was able to use some of the clear space of the large faux-teak desk to write on, however precarious.
The first question was - why did you sent the death certificate to the Coroner’s office?
Tess jaw dropped. I never… And silence ruled for a minute
….
