It was autumn. The grass was a subtle strawberry blond, and the trees were clinging to their last drops of color-filled life. Leaves of orange and red fluttered in the air, tumbling to their earthy grave. A subtle kiss of the morning breeze rushed in the open car window, and against his face, as he cruised down the old-forgotten road.

It was a quiet morning, mostly because he had switched off the radio. The concern of missing a call had left him miles ago; nothing ever happens in this town anyway. At least, that was true most of the time. In fact, it was one of the most boring places to be sheriff. The next closest town was fifty-miles up the highway. It was a bad neighborhood, the kind where even grown men walk the streets with big sticks. St. Forge had become one of the highest crime rated cities in the state. Everything from vandalism to car-jackings. But not White Mountain; no, this was a dull place to live. Being Sheriff was definitely easy. Although Rick Leedham was actually only the deputy, but not for lack of skill or experience. To be perfectly frank, his promotion papers laid ready to be signed; right next to his boss’ death certificate. Thomas “Buster” Fordstrand was the sitting sheriff and that was a good way to describe him. His daily docket included morning coffee at the local diner, checkers with Rev. Dale in front of the “seed and feed” and an afternoon nap (that extended well into the third hour) leaving just enough time to clock out and call it a day. Buster left the real policing to “Ricky,” as he so affectionally referred to him. This didn’t bother Rick much. Most of the town treated him like the Sheriff and those who didn’t were usually passed out drunk or cooling off in the holding cell. Today, however, things were different. Over the past several weeks strange things had been taking place, things that hadn’t happened in a very long time. This had undoubtedly led to some intense commotion, but it didn’t phase Rick he was on a mission: a mission to live out his recurring nightmare.

“Would it still be there?” He thought to himself, not sure what answer would be more consoling.

“What if it was? What would he see? In what condition would it be? A chill ran up his spine as he thought this way; a chill which paled in comparison to the question that followed. ”What if wasn’t?“

Mile by mile he followed the small creek. Truly, his destination wasn’t any more than five miles from downtown, but today it felt like a trek across the country. Finally, he pulled to the side of the road - his tires sliding on the loose gravel. He exited his car and made his way down to the river-bank. The sound of crows overhead and broken twigs underfoot. The babbling brook ahead kept Rick alert to his surroundings. Then a sudden pause, “What was that?” Rustling foliage in the not so far-off distance. Rick peered as far as his 20/20 vision would allow, hoping that they would not play tricks on him. He placed his hand on his sidearm, conveniently affixed to his right hip. The cool air of the virgin morning reacted with the metal of his Glock 45 and surprised his unprepared hand. He unsnapped his holster, just in case. The scene was still. Was it his imagination? Had he heard something, or not? He breathed a sigh of relief. Then suddenly, from inside the bushes, a flash of grey fur darted off in the opposite direction!

A rabbit.

Rick’s heart sank and then caught its rhythm. The event took place faster than he had time to realize that he had drawn his weapon. He slowly restored it to its holster.

“What is wrong with me?” He thought.

During his time in the police academy his cohort had given him the nickname of “Stonewall.” He usually exhibited nerves of steel and didn’t jump to conclusions. But here he was, drawing down on an a rodent! Was he really going to allow these insane thoughts to cloud his judgment? He had been trained to think logically: “if you hear footsteps, think horses, not zebras!” he recited the tired phrase that his drill instructors use to quote. But if his hunch was correct, and it usually was, he was about to stumble upon a Zebra; a Zebra from the depth of hell, and nothing that his instructors taught him could have prepared him for that.

Off in the distance he saw it the old bridge that connected the two counties. It had seen better days, but it was the same bridge. Vines viciously crawled up the stone foundations reaching for the wooden guard rail that contained a long transcript of puppy-dog relationships, etched into its weathered grain. On either side, the dirt road climbed the hill and morphed into the cobblestone floor laid across it lengthwise. What was once a smooth surface now consisted of weeds and stone protruding into the air. The bridge was fairly wide; not big enough for a car but sufficient for a rider on horse-back, which was then intention back in 1815 when the town was first established. Below the bridge was a steady stream of water - a runoff from a nearby river. The current wasn’t strong though enough the carry a beer bottle, which had been a beloved passed-time for the local kids. What it lacked in width, it made up for in depth. As a child, Rick was nearly up to his shoulders. Each stone foundation sat partially submerged with a good three feet entirely under the water.

Rick made his way to the bank, and stared at the westside foundation contemplating his next move. He stood quietly as the water moved passed his eyes. He knew what lied just below the surface. After what seemed like an eternity, he decided that he had to see for himself. He walked back to his patrol car, placed his utility belt in the trunk, stripped down to a t-shirt and underwear, and carefully analyzed the horizon. What’s the use, this place was long forgotten. He crept back down to the water and stuck in his bare feet. The icy shocked delayed to register, but once it did it more than made up for the pause. At this point there was no going back. He had to know. Rick trudged through the water and stood near the old stones of the left bridge leg. Rather than his shoulders, the water now came up to his waist. He crouched down to his knees, taking a moment to allow his body to adjust to the temperature. Then he lowered his head. Now completely submerged he was only accompanied by the sound of blood rushing through his ears. He could feel the rocks. His vision was useless because of the cruddy water. Finally, among the stones, he felt a wooden square - then a handle. He tugged on it, but there was no give. He tried again and again, but nothing. After six or seven attempts, he had to come up for air. He took a moment to regain his faculties and then plunged again into the coolness. This time, he positioned his feet onto either side of the door and pulled with all his might. After a few seconds, the door gave, hinges and all. He looked down at the dark doorway, it was much smaller than he had remembered. Then he swam in without giving it another thought. Halfway in he began to panic: he was stuck. Terror set in as he considered the possibility that he might not be able to free himself. As if death wasn’t bad enough, he would never be found - he knew that for a fact. After several failed attempts he broke free and thrust his head above the water inside the stone structure. He was inside an abandoned smugglers hutch. It was unclear exactly why the structure had been built hollow (the foundation opposite was rock-solid), but rumors were that moonshiners had used it during prohibition. But, for the past thirty years it had housed a secret, one that Rick had worked hard to forget. As he gasped for air, he took a moment to gain his composure. He suddenly became aware of the screaming silence surrounding him. Although it was pitch black, he knew his surrounding well. He couldn’t see it, but he knew that there was a shelf in front of him. It must have been in front because his back was against the wall. He reached his hands out and waded toward that direction. He reached the shelf and hesitated.

Thoughts scurried through his mind like the maggots he expected to find.

His heart sunk as he felt the splinters of the empty wooden shelf. He frantically felt around hoping for something. Anything. But no. It was gone.

Title: Water Under the Bridge

Genre: Thriller/Suspense

Age Range & Target Audience: I’m not exactly sure, but I would think it would appeal to readers between 21-35.

Word Count: 1500

Author Name: Devin “D.L.” Peterson

I believe this sample is a good fit because it demonstrates my ability to set a scene for the reader, quickly (yet precisely) introduce characters, and leave the reader wanting more.

Water Under the Bridge is a thriller centered on the investigation of a series of murders in a small town. The lead investigator, Deputy Rick Leedham, can’t help but notice a connection: a secret that plagues his past. While still children, Rick a group of friends have a party that leads to the death of one of there own. They hide the body where no one will find it and swear to take the secret to there grave. Unfortunately, for most of them, the grave is where they end up. Is there long lost friend come back to seek revenge! Or is there a much more sinister element involved. The burden of guilt is a heavy weight, and it often leads to psychological torment.

I am a very complex person: my personality is multi-layered. I spent my childhood traveling, a new city every week. I learned to adapt to my surroundings on the outside, but often delving deep into my own imagination and creativity. I’m good at blending in, but I have a very unique side that lies below the surface. This self is often seen more in my writing than anywhere else. I have lived in Dallas, Texas for all of my adult life. I am an educator and pastor. I have served as a chaplain in several hospitals, and thus have well accustomed to the emotions associated with death. Writing has been my outlet to decompress. I have learned to squeeze out my emotional pockets on paper when I have become overwhelmed by the things I’ve heard and seen. I earned my Bachelor of Ministry in 2014 and my Master of Divinity (with Greek and Hebrew) in 2019. I am married to my beautiful wife of five years, and we are expecting a baby in April. I love to write, and I would be honored to be able to make it a career.