Thomas Reilly's Blog: Growing Up in Brooklyn

Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.

The piercing shrill of the school bell reverberated within the narrow confines of the hallway as my heart twisted and sank with anxiety. Scanning the long corridor ahead of me, with rows of lockers standing like watchful sentinels, I noticed the door to my destination, the last classroom on the left, slamming shut. Resisting the urge to run, that’s a sure way of getting nabbed, I lengthened my stride and quickened my pace while silently wishing for some magical power to transpose myself. Approximately thirty seconds later, I fronted a frantic group of five students through the doorway, into Mr. Viti’s biology classroom. Scrambling to the back of the classroom to take my seat, I tensed as Mr. Viti yelled out; “You’re late. Go to the principal’s office and get detention slips.” Stealing a quick backward glance, I breathed a tremendous sign of relief as I observed him pointing at my four colleagues who had trailed me into the room. Whether by design or fate, he ignored me. I had narrowly escaped the dreaded punishment.

     Detention! I had an almost phobic fear of the penalty. Referred to as jug, to me it represented much more than an extra hour of after-school confinement, but rather an indelible stain on my good character. I had entered my first year of high school a few months earlier in the fall of 1965, fully versed in the art of proper behavior, a cumulative effect of eight years of strict, but not unkind, catholic discipline enforced by the good nuns of my grammar school, St. Anselms.  Rarely one to buck the system or create a scene, obeying rules and following guidelines fit my introverted personality to a tee. Yet here I was at Xaverian High School, struggling daily to navigate the quirks of secondary school life where a simple misstep or misunderstanding could easily land you the infamous, pink detention slip.

     The number of potential infractions seemed endless and often senseless, and over time it seemed inevitable that every student would succumb to a jug penalty. Visiting your locker between classes—jug. Talking in the corridor—jug. Going up a down staircase or vice versa—jug.  Forgetting your textbook for class—jug. Caught working on homework instead of reading an assigned book during library period—jug.

    Perhaps the cruelest injustice was the exact situation I found myself in this afternoon. At Xaverian, the end of each class was signaled by the loud alarm bell. From that moment, students had exactly two minutes to navigate the crowded corridors and congested stairwells to their next class before a second angry alarm would signal the start of a new period. Jug was a near certainty for those who appeared late. Today, my seventh-period English teacher had refused to release his class at the dismissal bell, instead opting to keep us trapped for at least one extra minute while droning on about some future assignment. That left a scant sixty seconds for a group of us to navigate to Mr. Viti’s biology classroom, located one floor higher and on the opposite side of the U-shaped building. As the Bangles sang  in their 1986 hit, “Manic Monday,”  “If I had an airplane I still couldn’t make it on time.”

      While I had several narrow escapes during my four years of high school, that one day in biology class, where perhaps nothing more than sheer luck had intervened to spare me, was my closest call with jug.  During graduation ceremonies four years later, when our principal was handing out individual honors to various students, I quietly reveled in my own personal accomplishment. Smugly I thought, shouldn’t there be a special award for someone like me who never had jug? Now that’s something to crow about.

     Of course, no such award existed. But even today, over fifty years later, I still take a certain amount of pride in knowing that in my own way, I beat the odds in high school that were so heavily stacked against me.

Chasing Time, a suspenseful and heartwarming book filled with unexpected plot twists, is available on Amazon.

Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.

While Christmas is a wonder-filled season for children of all ages, certain ones stand out for special reasons. That was certainly the case for my eighth Christmas in 1960.

      That year, the Christmas excitement in Brooklyn seemed to arrive earlier than usual. Our fourth-grade class started rehearsing its annual Christmas pageant weeks ahead of time. Almost daily deliveries to our house resulted in an early avalanche of Christmas goodies, including candy, fruit, cookies, gingerbread houses, and other treats. And a landslide of seasonal catalogs accumulated on the living room coffee table, providing ample time and opportunity to draft and revise a Christmas wish list well in advance of the big day. As the season unfolded, the net result was a swelling crescendo of unbridled excitement of the type that only young children, whose minds remained unfettered by a lifetime of difficult memories, can experience.

     Many evenings in late November and early December, my twin brother Ned and I would leaf through several of those catalogs to draft our Christmas wish list. The number of choices seemed endless with toys and games of all types and sizes leaping out of the pages and seizing our imaginations. Nightly, our register grew until we had compiled a list of approximately fifteen toys, an outlandish number for parents with six other children to indulge. With greater hopes than expectations, we submitted the list to our mother for parental consideration, approximately three weeks in advance of the 25th.

    When Christmas finally arrived we were not disappointed. It seemed that nearly every present on our list was included in a stack of brightly wrapped boxes piled high in our demarcated section of the living room floor. Exalting in our haul, we spent the day chasing our pet cat Lester with a motorized yellow bulldozer, firing salvos of shots from the turret of a metal tank painted in camouflage green, and engaging the whining engine and rotor of a large white helicopter. An array of books, games and other toys completed our stash. It truly was a Christmas for the ages!

    In the frenzy of activities on that day, I hardly had the time or inclination to reflect on the one present that did not make the cut. Our wish list had included an additional toy, the Flying Fox. It was a model airliner mounted on the top of a console containing a dual set of controls for manipulating the revving engines, triggering the blinking wing lights, retracting the landing gear, and controlling the directional movement of the plane. Oh well, there’s always next year.

    A few days after Christmas, my brother and I were playing in the basement. Playing is perhaps too mild a term to describe our true activity that evening for, in fact, we were engaged in brutal tug and war sessions with my younger sister’s jump rope to determine the stronger of the two. At one point in a tense standoff, my brother proceeded to wrap his end of the rope around one of the circular support beams that ran in length from floor to ceiling. Thinking that a few turns around this beam would suffice to hold the rope in place, despite my energetic pulling on the opposite end, he let go. As the resistance to my tugging force suddenly abated, I was launched in violent backward propulsion in accordance with Newton’s First Law of Motion—an object will remain at rest unless compelled to change its state by the action of an external force. Of course, Newtonian physics was the last thing on my mind as I landed in a crashing thud on the hard cellar floor.

     Momentarily paralyzed by the throbbing pain in my right shoulder, I yelled out in agony as I realized that something was definitely amiss. Slowly crawling to the staircase and ascending, step by step, in a snaillike fashion, I could feel the quivering in my shoulder bone at the newly formed fracture line. Fortunately, my older sister who was on babysitting detail that evening met me on the staircase and gently guided me upstairs. With my parents unreachable for the evening, due to a dinner in Manhattan, she phoned the family’s closest friends, Aunt Ag and Uncle Joe Kearns, who lived down the block. Minutes later, Aunt Ag appeared and drove me to the local hospital in her large silver Cadillac, providing comforting words of solace along the entire route.

     X-rays confirmed a broken collar bone, a common injury in kids. In fact, it was the fourth time in my short lifespan that I had broken a clavicle, twice on the left side and now, twice on the right. That night spent in the hospital with a newly casted shoulder passed like a blur as I started my recovery from a broken bone as well as a concussion that I had suffered in the fall.

    A few days later, when the major aggravation of my injury had been reduced to the constant itching of my cast, I eagerly anticipated one more event, a kind of late Christmas celebration. In recognition of my “bravery” during my ordeal, Aunt Ag had promised me a trip to the toy store where I could pick out any single present I desired.

A week or so later, she drove me to Rosen’s, the local toy store, where I wasted no time in selecting a large box containing the one toy that hadn’t made the cut on Christmas day, the Flying Fox. Our holiday season was now complete, thanks to the incredible generosity of the Kearns, a trait they would display to my family countless times.

   Ned and I spent hours with that toy plane, navigating through storms and other perils as we directed the aircraft through its paces. It proved the culmination of a most unforgettable Christmas, where our every wish was fulfilled, even if it took a broken bone to make it happen.

Chasing Time, a suspenseful and heartwarming book filled with unexpected plot twists, is available on Amazon.

Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.

“You better cover your base son.” 

     These words echoed in my ears as I stood well off my third base bag, totally mesmerized by the speed and athleticism displayed by my teammate and center fielder, Teddy Adams. He was sprinting furiously towards the gap in right-center, trying to intercept a scorching line drive off the bat of the opposing team’s clean-up hitter, John Hanson. Third base, my position, my responsibility!  And here I was, playing the role of a passive spectator captivated by the theatrics in the outfield while completely neglecting my job to cover the base.

     The umpire’s words immediately shook me back to reality. I hustled back to the base just as Teddy corralled the ball in deep center and in one smooth motion, unleashed a perfect rocket to third with his canon of a right arm. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Hanson on the base path, rumbling towards me at third like a runaway freight train. A momentary fear seized me as I realized Hanson was considerably larger than me, a fact that I had never fully appreciated until this very moment. This may not end well!

     Teddy’s throw reached my outstretched mitt a microsecond before Hanson plowed directly into my body, sending me sprawling in the air and landing hard on the ground in a cloud of dust. To this day, I clearly remember the umpire standing over me, waiting for the dust to settle. After what seemed like minutes, he examined my gloved hand with the ball safely tucked inside and cried out in one of the most rewarding shouts I have ever heard—OUT!

     That Saturday afternoon little league game between my Jaspers and the opposing Redmen was the pinnacle of my organized athletic career. As a thirteen-year-old eighth grader at St. Anselms Grammar School, I had developed into a competent if not spectacular ball player after three years of junior varsity ball with the Tigers, and now my final season at the varsity level with the Jaspers. I enjoyed everything about little league: the practices; the escalating tensions in warm-ups before games; the excitement of closely fought battles on the field; and most of all, the spirit of comradeship and brotherhood that teamwork promoted. Baseball transformed kids that were too cool to even acknowledge my existence in school into rabid cheerleaders every time I strode to the plate to bat or assumed my defensive third base position. However, in terms of individual moments of glory, there really were none over my four-year career.  At least until that play at third base ended the inning and preserved our fragile one-run lead over the Redmen, then the first-place team in our division. As my teammates rushed out from their field positions and bench seats to congratulate me, pat me on the back, and repeat over and over again; “What a play,” I thought to myself, probably for the first time in my life; So this is how it feels to be a star.

     We went on to win the game that Saturday morning, and a few weeks later, my organized baseball career ended. However, that one play is still etched in my memory, some fifty-five years later. I suppose it may have laid a foundation for several life lessons that have served me well over the years. For example, it reinforced the fact that we all need assistance from others at certain times in our lives.  It emphasized the notion that even small accomplishments can have lasting meaning.  From a more practical standpoint, it underscored the important maxim that daydreaming too much on the job may prove dangerous. However, in the final analysis, its most enduring impact has been the perpetual smile evoked whenever I recall that joyful and almost comical event. 

#Brooklyn #Blog #Book

Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.

     Twelve years was just too old for trick and treating. That’s what my twin brother Ned, our best friend Frankie, and I decided that year, 1964.  Eighth grade was the time to finally escape the childish routine of donning costumes and canvassing house to house for stacks of candy, and instead, delve into the true essence of Halloween. But what activity would capture the holiday’s true spirit? Brainstorming in our basement that October 30th, I came up with an idea. “Why don’t we egg cars?”

     My suggestion was greeted with energetic approval by my two collaborators.  All the pieces were in place. Right down the street from our house in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn ran Ridge Boulevard, a busy two-lane thoroughfare where vehicles speeded by, unhindered by stop lights. Eggs were always available in mom’s fridge, a necessary staple for feeding a family of ten. And finally, Halloween fell on a Saturday that year, so there would be no problem in escaping the house at dusk for our antics.  It was settled; tomorrow we would revel in a manner appropriate for the occasion.

    The following evening, Ned and I took advantage of an empty kitchen by smuggling out an unopened carton of eggs from the refrigerator. Making our way down the block, we rendezvoused with Frankie and set up our station on the corner of Ridge Boulevard and 81st street. Cradling an egg carefully in my hand, I tensed and waited for an appropriate target. Spotting a large truck racing toward us, I yelled out; “let’s hit that.” As the truck roared toward our position, three eggs were hurdled at its back end. A satisfying smacking sound followed by a cascade of yellow and white splattering indicated we had hit our target. The truck sped on, unimpeded by our missiles. 

    Well, that was easy, I thought. With greater confidence, we decided to attack more challenging targets. Next, a passing station wagon was pelted. Once again our aim was true,  and as before, the car didn’t even slow as it continued racing down Ridge Boulevard, seemingly oblivious to the blemishes that now sullied its body.  

   This is fun, I thought,  like taking target practice with no danger of being caught. Eagerly identifying our next target, a four-door sedan of some generic make and model, we launched the third round of our fragile ammunition. This time, only one of the bullets reached its mark but the results were satisfying—a direct hit on the front, passenger side window. As we stood there admiring our handiwork and trying to identify the sharpshooter among us, a sudden screeching sound assaulted our ears. To our utter astonishment, the car jolted to a sudden stop, both driver and passenger doors flew open, and two large figures emerged and immediately launched into a sprint across the boulevard, directly at us. These guys meant business!

   I don’t think I have ever been so scared in my life. Momentarily fearing the dire consequences of being caught, what would mon and day say, I turned and started an all-out sprint down 81st street with Frankie at my side. I had no time to worry about where Ned was; at this point, it was every man for himself. I had never run so fast in my life as the fear-induced adrenaline pulsing through my body powered a murderous pace. Down the street, we sprinted, all the way to the next major crossroad, Colonial Road. Sneaking a quick peek behind me as I crossed the large street, I noted with panic that one pursuer was actually closing the distance between us. Another long dash took us all the way to the next thoroughfare, Narrows Boulevard. My gosh, he’s still there! Steering Frankie left, we reached 82nd street with our chaser still in hot pursuit. Breathing very hard now and reeling from the burning effect of lactic acid buildup in my straining muscles, a feeling of inevitable surrender started to settle over me. Reaching 83rdstreet, we dashed into a large driveway and crouched in the shadows of a large stone wall, desperately hoping it would mask us from this unrelenting hunter. Unfortunately, our hopes were dashed as a large man ran into the driveway seconds later and cornered the two of us.

    Before our captor could even utter a word, we were startled by the sudden arrival of Ned. Amazingly, he had taken a  different route than Frankie and me, running parallel to Ridge Boulevard for two blocks and then turning down 83rd street to eventually wind up at the same destination at almost the same time Must be some kind of twin thing! His pursuer followed him into the driveway and joined his colleague in facing the three of us.

    Now came the moment of truth. Taking the initiative, I pointed to my brother and yelled out. “Honest, it wasn’t us, it was him.” Frankie lent his support to our cause  by shouting, “we don’t even know him.” Of course, Ned retorted in the expected fashion. “I never saw them before in my life. They threw the eggs, not me.” So much for, “all for one and one for all.”

    After these mutual proclamations  of innocence, one of the men turned his wrathful glance at me for several seconds and then, in turn, at Ned before exclaiming in a sarcastic tone, ”Oh right, you two don’t even know each other.” Both of us had failed to consider the fact that our genetics was a dead giveaway.

   It turned out that the two men were more lenient to us than we had any right to expect. After a warning about the dangers of throwing eggs at passing cars and soliciting our promises never to repeat the juvenile activity, they actually bid us goodnight and walked back in the direction of their car. Relief could not begin to describe the emotion the three of us felt at our escape.

    Gathered around the breakfast table the following morning, my mother suddenly declared to no one in particular.  “I know I bought a fresh carton of eggs yesterday, but I have no idea where they are.” Sneaking a conspiratory glance in the direction of Ned, we both recognized that at least for now, last night’s episode was a tale best left untold.

Chasing Time, a suspenseful and heartwarming book filled with unexpected plot twists, is available on Amazon.

Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.

      Especially today, in an era that will be chiefly remembered for the devastating impact of the COVID epidemic, a special date reminds me of the eager anticipation, boundless excitement, and humorous absurdity of an earlier era. As a student in St Anselm’s Elementary School many years ago, the first Wednesday of June was my favorite day of the school year. On that day, the band of altar boys and choir boys, who toiled during the year serving the needs of the parish church, were rewarded with an excused day from school to enjoy a day trip to Bear Mountain, a beautiful mountainous park nestled along the Hudson River, located approximately 45 miles north of New York City. It was my last altar boy trip to Bear Mountain, on that first Wednesday of June 1965, that turned out to be the most memorable, but not for the reasons I would have expected.

    Excitement permeated the air as a large group of approximately 80 boys rendezvoused in the church parking lot shortly before 8:00 a.m. Chiding the passing parade of unfortunate students on their march to another tedious school day, we exalted in our freedom from the confines of the classroom. The collected group enthusiasm reached a fever pitch as we watched three streamlined motor buses pull into spaces across the street. Our chariots to freedom and adventure had arrived!  Forming a snaking line to board, we eighth graders reveled in our seniority that privileged us to ride the first bus, reserved for altar boys only. Junior servers had to share their ride with some choir boys forming a hybrid population in the third bus.

    Now came the best part!  Standing in front of the bus door, dressed in unfamiliar civilian garb and waving wads of dollar bills in his hand like some kind of modern-day Robin Hood, Father Bogel, the director of the altar boys, greeted each of us with a gift of two, crisp dollar bills. Wow—two dollars in cold cash to spend as we wanted at Bear Mountain! In those days, where spare pennies and nickels found in pockets were considered mini-fortunes, two dollars seemed like an unimaginable godsend. I had never forgotten my first altar boy outing three years earlier when, upon arriving at Bear Mountain, my opening stop was the general store where I proceeded to spend the entire sum on my favorite candy, Clark bars. As I subsequently found out, it’s hard to eat twenty Clark bars in one setting!

    A few hours later, following a boisterous ride characterized mostly by snide put-downs of the arch-enemy choir boys following us in the second bus, we arrived at our destination. Our first task was to prepare for the annual altar boy-choir boy softball game, whose outcome would determine bragging rights for the entire year. This game was especially critical, for as eighth graders we needed a win to avoid a losing record of only one win versus three losses before the end of our four-year era. As the senior altar boys, my twin brother Ned and I, with assistance from our best friend Frankie, managed the line-up and substitutions for the seven-inning game. What satisfaction we felt watching our team roll to a sweet victory, evening our record at two and two. The remaining hours at the state park that day were a blur to me as I exalted in our victory. Little was I to know that the excitement of the game was only a prelude to the day’s events.

   The trip home was particularly loud and chaotic, as would be expected from a horde of young boys fueled by intake of uninhibited quantities of sugary treats and drinks all day long. To this day I still wonder how Father Bogel, sitting in the front of the bus, managed to maintain both his sanity and his detachment in the face of that raucous storm. After a thorough review of the earlier game’s strategies with my seatmate, Kevin O’Hare, one of the stars in our victory, I eventually surrendered to weariness and dozed off.

     Suddenly, a shouting match between Kevin and another boy named Matthew, who was standing in the aisle next to my seat, shook me out of my trance. I can’t even remember what the argument was about, but I was no fan of Matthew. With an angular nose and sporting a perpetual frown that projected little warmth or kindness, he had developed a reputation as a mean-spirited boy whose attitude perfectly mirrored his appearance. As the argument developed into a heated affair with the two combatants hurling a stream of personal insults at each other, it attracted the attention of most of the riders.  After one particular barb from Matthew, something to the effect that Kevin was a born loser, I jumped to my ally’s defense by yelling out those stirring words, “You too.”  After a few more exchanges with Kevin, Matthew ended the verbal argument but raised the stakes immensely by throwing down the ultimate gauntlet. Looking in our direction, he stated in a loud voice, “I call you out.”

   Back then, calling one out was the equivalent of being challenged to a duel in the 18th century. To preserve honor, one had to meet his challenger in hand-to-hand combat, usually in front of an enthusiastic throng, or face the humiliation associated with a public refusal. Nothing stirred the passion of 11- to 13-year-old boys like an old-fashioned fight. As expected, the bus was abuzz about the impending bout. I shared in the excitement and turned to Kevin with encouraging phrases such as, ”you can take him,” and “he’s no big deal.” As he turned toward me, I can still remember the puzzled stare on his face.

   Eagerly anticipating this epic match as the feather on the cap of a great day, I was approached by John, another one of my altar boy colleagues. Kneeling down in the aisle next to my seat, he turned to me and said, “He’s supposed to be a good boxer.”

      “That’s okay,” I replied in a nonchalant tone.

      “But what are you going to do?”

       “What do you mean?” I replied feeling a sudden nervousness growing inside of me.

       “He called you out.”

         In a panicked state, my first thoughts were, how could he call me out? All I did was say two words—you too. I responded, “Me—calling me out. I thought he called out Kevin. I didn’t do anything.”

        ”No,” John replied. “He wants to fight you.”

        John’s revelation totally shattered my sense of contentment on what had been, at least up until that moment, a great day. Shockingly, I was presented with a no-win situation—either face the humiliation of backing down from a public challenge or meet this hostile individual in hand-to-hand combat in front of a group of my peers. I suppose the crafty Matthew viewed me as an easier target than the stocky Kevin O’Hare. However, this was not how I expected or wanted my day to end! Resolutely, or perhaps out of a sense of desperation, I made the only decision that was feasible. I would fight!

    As the bus neared our final destination, a group of mediators met with me to establish ground rules. Although the very act of calling one out seemed a bit barbaric to me, there was a strict code of rules that had to be followed. First, I had to agree to the site. I assented to the proposed location, in front of the Bohacks supermarket right up the block from my house. If only the site’s proximity to the home could offer me a real home-field advantage?

    Second, as the challenger, I had the right to choose the mode of combat. In this case, there were only two options—wrestling or boxing. For some strange reasons that today I still cannot explain,  I chose boxing. Actually, I was a fairly good wrestler having honed my skills with years of almost daily matches with my brother. In particular, I had a very effective headlock move. In contrast, my boxing skills were lousy. Whenever I sparred with my brother, he would pound me to the ground. And I had already been warned about Matthew’s boxing proficiency. Nevertheless, boxing it would be!

     Back at the St. Anselm’s parking lot, a large throng of boys exited the bus and made their way the three blocks to Bohacks in two separate groups—the first cluster surrounding me while offering words of encouragement and warning, and a second group performing a similar service for my opponent. Reaching the site, the two groups formed one large circle with the two antagonists facing each other at opposite ends. So this is really going to happen, I remember thinking to myself as I heard a loud voice saying “go.” As I moved to the center of the circle to meet my foe, I noticed him taking a very professional-looking boxing stance. Oh boy, what have I gotten myself into? My fears were confirmed as he proceeded to launch a few sharp jabs that stung my face. Suddenly and impulsively, I went berserk. In a brawling style, more akin to a crazed slugger than an artful boxer, I started swinging my arms wildly at my opponent, pummeling him with a series of undisciplined but hard punches. Backing him up to one corner of the circle with my thrusts, I watched in grateful astonishment as he turned away and sprinted at a full gallop down the street. It was over in barely more than a minute. My boxing form may not have passed muster, but who cared? I had won!

     Even today, many years later, every first Wednesday in June draws my thoughts back to that paradoxical day. I suppose my lasting memories reflect both the depth and the scope of emotions I experienced during those hours—mounting excitement at traveling to Bear Mountain, total surprise at realizing that I was the one “called out”, abject fear at the prospect of fighting, and perhaps most of all, ecstatic relief that I had survived the encounter.

Chasing Time, a suspenseful and heartwarming book filled with unexpected plot twists, is available on Amazon.

Who doesn’t love a good suspense novel? Not knowing what will happen to the main character and how the story will develop is what keeps us turning the pages.

But is it only a good story and a few plot twists that make a good suspense novel? What are the elements of a great suspense novel?

Let’s take a look and find out:

The main character is important but that’s not all there is to a story. The other characters in the protagonist’s life, including the antagonist, are also important. Characters should be engaging and believable. Developing reader empathy is important. Understanding the characters’ motivation will add to the story’s suspense.

When readers have a character they like and can relate to, they won’t get bored. They’ll root for the character. Once they’re invested, they will want to know more about the characters and where the story will take them.

 A good suspense novel creates mystery for its characters and often throws them into dangerous and impossible situations.

A good suspense novel will be shrouded in more mystery than action. It’s pacing won’t be too slow, but won’t be too fast either. The promise of conflict between the protagonist and antagonist, will add to the suspense.

The plot line should be sufficiently poignant and dramatic to keep the readers on the edge of their seats. A good story will describe the protagonist’s interactions with the antagonist, and have him fail in his quest at least twice before achieving success against great odds. 

But a good suspense novel also has to fulfill the promises it has made to the reader. The bigger the promise, the better the payoff.

For example, if the novel suggests a final confrontation of some sort, then the author has to deliver this epic showdown.

Last but not least, a good suspense novel shouldn’t be predictable. There should be many unexpected twists and turns that keep the reader guessing.  If the storyline is completely predictable the reader will become bored.

Looking for a good medical suspense novel that will leave you on the edge of your seat, wanting more? Thomas Reilly is the author to look out for. He brilliantly stimulates our imaginations, leaving us turning each page with eager anticipation in his book, “Chasing Time.”

“Chasing Time” takes the reader on a thrilling adventure as history professor Tony Lucas seeks to unravel clues from an ancient time-bending key in an effort to save his wife from the throes of a devastating and deadly disease. The story takes the classic medical drama, historical fiction, and fantasy genres, and turns them all completely on their heads. With its sharp, precise, and witty style, Chasing Time is an engaging, must-read story like nothing like you have read before.

The book is available for purchase on Amazon.