Sneak Peek at Confessions Of An Organ Donor

Sneak Peek from Confessions Of An Organ Donor, releasing June 21st.


“Irregardless”: it’s not a word, even though Webster says it is, and this guy who’s rambling like a derailed train has said it three times now. He’s also said “supposedbly,” which we all know isn’t a word, either. Strange that people say these kinds of things. In this day and age, it’s not hard to Google something on the internet to guarantee you don’t sound like an idiot.

You can call me Ishmael. Not really. I just finished reading Moby Dick and think the opening line is overrated. I’m in the minority on this one, since all of those literary scholars rate it as one of the best opening lines in literature. What do they know? Not sure what they’re comparing it to, but I don’t see it. Anyway, I digress. You can call me anything you want, but I may not answer.

My name is Beckett Wentworth – the third, mind you. Everyone calls me Trip, because, well, for obvious reasons. Maybe it’s not obvious to you. The name Trip comes from triple, and I’m (waves) the third. At least I’m not a Trey. One out of five children is named Trey, at least according to Them. You know, the elusive Them.

This guy is a chatterbox. I know I should be paying attention to him—he’s giving me, well, all of us, a stern lecture— but he lost me at the third “irregardless.”

“This is a very serious matter. I don’t think you kids realize that,” he says.

A kid is a baby goat. Not a human guy or a human girl. Why do people insist on calling other human beings by that term? Did you know that a mother goat will communicate with her baby by bleating? It’s a unique call that only the two share. Can you imagine if humans did this? Sometimes I wish I had my own special calling mechanism. I guess that’s what cell phones are for, with the variety of ringtones. My mother doesn’t know this but I use “The Imperial March” for her.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he adds with a hardening glare from his beady brown (or hazel, I can’t tell) eyes. His eyes squish into his round, puffy cheeks.

I think we all know we’re in trouble – no need to state the obvious. It’s not often (let’s say never) I find myself sitting in an interrogation room with two police officers playing good cop/bad cop (just like the cheesy 1980s cop dramas), treating me like I’m some sort of vandal hoodlum who goes around causing a ruckus. They’re even recording us. Millicent has waved at the camera at least three times now, which made Puffy Cheeks irate.

I knew there would be trouble the moment Millicent Huxley entered my life. Sounds cliché, doesn’t it? It’s like a line from one of those 1930s movies. I picture myself wearing a fedora, talking real fast, and referring to ladies as “dames” with “gams.”

You know when your instincts tell you to run for the hills? Yeah, that’s what mine told me when I met her. But I still got sucked into her like a vortex. Bad pun, but Millicent is like that: she lures you in. You want to breathe the air she’s breathing. Maybe being the most gorgeous, yet bizarre girl I’ve ever met has something to do with it. All I know is I wouldn’t be sitting here with two trigger-finger cops if it weren’t for her.

“You don’t have any proof that we’ve done anything wrong,” Millicent says.

The one cop laughs in a smirky, grate-on-your-nerves kind of way. “I’d say that stolen casket in your truck bed is proof enough.”


Content owned and copyrighted by author Shannon McCrimmon – cannot be reproduced with permission from the author.