December 13, 2025

Dell Sweet

The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth.
I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.

#Crime #Readers #BookWorms #KU #KindleUnlimited #Amazon #DellSweet #WriterzNet


Home: https://www.wendllsweet.com


Over 50 Manuscripts available

1. Working title “Escape to the Past”

Plot Overview

The story follows Ben Watson. He is almost 70 years old and his life is in shambles. He has been married 4 times, and each marriage has been progressively worse. Now he is with a woman Sarah Horton, twenty years his junior and has learned to have a real relationship. She has been through trauma of her own, including a 25 year marriage and three children with a man who abused her, cheated on her and she finally worked up the courage to leave. Ben has three children of his own. Neither Ben nor Sarah see their children.

Main Story lines

  • Ben and Sarah: The two are living together and circumstance get worse. Ben is sick. He needs heart surgery. Sarah is also sick from undetermined illness that keeps her depressed and suicidal.
  • Robert Lake: They have a friend, Robert Lake who works for the government. Unbeknownst to them, Bob is in a top secret project involving time travel. He was assigned to watch them and use their lives as examples. But over time Bob begins to actually care for them.
  • The Clandestine mission: Bob attends several clandestine meetings where the abilities of the team are discussed. They can send people back to a specific date in time that has already occurred, but they can not bring them back, and their ability to communicate with them ends shortly after they arrive in the time. They never hear from them again.
  • How it Works: They use test subjects to find safe places to send soldiers. It is soldier volunteers they use to go back and check out the past. They use test subjects first, involuntarily, because they do not know where exactly the will arrive. Maybe in the middle of a body of water, a rock, a road where they will be hit and killed. The test subjects allow them to find safe places.
  • The Betrayal: The time has come for Bob to deliver Ben and Sarah to be test subjects, most likely killed. He can not do it and so he talks to Ben and Ben talks to Sarah. They come to realize they will be forced to do it. They decide to go back, but through a safe window Robert knows about. It will land them in 1968

2. Series Working Titles “Survive” 6 manuscripts dystopian survival series.

Plot Overview

The book follows survivors of a worldwide catastrophe which destroyed governments, cities, and social structures. Small groups of people band together to survive, rebuild, and create a new society.

Main Storylines

  • A small group of survivors on the East Coast, camped near Manhattan, must decide their next move a midst the ruins.
  • Adam takes charge of a group in Manhattan, fighting to protect them from gangs and violence.
  • Conner and Katie provide safe haven for others, leading to a showdown with rival factions.
  • Mike, left for dead, seeks revenge and reunites with his group
  • The series progresses through the six books. Character names are replaceable…

3. Working Title “Living in the ‘Nam” War, action, thriller, military survival.

General Plot: A group of men fight their way through the jungles of ‘Nam and Cambodia. Based on a short story I wrote a few decades ago. This follows the company of men assigned to patrols, seek and destroy missions. Here is a sample from the manuscript…

The hulking silhouettes of the Huey helicopters, their rotor blades a thunderous percussion against the bruised dawn sky, began their descent. Sergeant Beeker, helmet already snug, felt the familiar vibration hum through the soles of his boots, a premonition of the chaos to come. Below, the shoreline of Vietnam, a ribbon of pale sand fringed by an impossibly verdant jungle, beckoned with the promise of both mission and peril. The air, a thick, suffocating blanket, tasted of salt and the metallic tang of distant ordnance, a pungent perfume that immediately stripped away the sterile calm of the transit. It was a sensory assault, a brutal welcome to a war that had already claimed so many.


The roar of the engines, an all-consuming presence, seemed to drown out the ceaseless, percussive rhythm of the ocean’s surf crashing onto the beach. This was no tranquil shore; it was a contested threshold, a place where the known world bled into the terrifying unknown. Beeker’s men, their faces a mixture of grim determination and thinly veiled apprehension, shifted their weight, the heavy bulk of their rucksacks and gear an immediate reminder of the burden they carried, both physical and metaphorical. Each man was a walking arsenal, his life dependent on the mechanisms and ammunition strapped to his back, but also on the mettle of the souls beside him.


As the choppers settled, kicking up clouds of sand and spray, the ramp dropped with a clang that echoed Beeker’s own internal alarm. The men spilled out, a river of olive drab flowing onto the alien sand. The humidity seized them instantly, clinging to their skin like a second, sweat-soaked uniform. It was a damp, cloying embrace that promised no comfort, only discomfort and the constant threat of chafing and exhaustion. The sand itself was a deceptive carpet, shifting and soft underfoot, betraying the firm ground they had left behind. Every step was a conscious effort, a battle against the terrain before the real fight even began.


Beeker scanned the treeline, his eyes, trained by countless hours of instruction and grim experience, searching for any flicker of movement, any anomaly in the otherwise uniform green. The jungle loomed, a dense, impenetrable wall of vegetation, its silence unnerving. It was a silence that screamed of hidden dangers, of watchful eyes and coiled muscles. The distant artillery, a low, guttural rumble, served as a constant reminder that this was no isolated incident, but a theater of war, vast and unforgiving. The ocean’s roar, a primal force, seemed to mock their fragile human endeavors, a reminder of nature’s indifference to their plight.


Corporal Davies, his face tight with strain, adjusted his M16, his knuckles white. “Hot here, Sarge,” he muttered, his voice a rough whisper swallowed by the din.


“Keep your head down, Davies,” Beeker replied, his gaze never leaving the jungle’s edge. “It’s always hot.” He knew the heat was more than just the oppressive climate; it was the simmering tension that permeated the air, the unspoken fear that clung to each man like the sticky humidity.


The men began to spread out, fanning across the beachhead, their movements practiced and efficient, yet underscored by a palpable urgency. They were a small island of ordered chaos in a sea of natural indifference and potential hostility. The objective was clear: establish a perimeter, secure a foothold, and prepare for whatever came next. But the sheer scale of the task, the vastness of the enemy territory they had just infiltrated, weighed heavily on Beeker. They were a single unit, a mere handful of soldiers against an unseen enemy who knew this land intimately, who could melt into its shadows and strike with deadly precision.


Private Miller, barely out of his teens, stumbled slightly, his pack riding high on his shoulders. Beeker caught his eye, offering a curt nod of acknowledgment, a silent reassurance that he saw him, that he was accounted for. Miller’s youth was a stark reminder of the innocence being stripped away, piece by piece, with every step they took deeper into this conflict. The boys who had left home, full of bravado and patriotic fervor, were slowly being chiseled into something harder, something more resilient, but also something irrevocably altered.


The beachhead was a treacherous expanse, a narrow strip of vulnerability between the vast, indifferent ocean and the dark, menacing embrace of the jungle. It was a place of transition, a point of no return. The initial moments were critical, a race against time to establish a defensive line before the enemy could exploit their exposed position. Every man understood his role, the importance of his contribution to the collective survival. They moved with a focused intensity, their senses heightened, tuned to the subtle shifts in the environment that could signal danger.


Beeker felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his gut, a constant companion on these deployments. It wasn’t the fear of death, not exactly, but the fear of failure, the fear of not being able to protect his men, the fear of making the wrong call that would send them all into the abyss. He trusted his training, his instincts, but he also knew that in this war, intuition and experience often warred against a capricious and brutal reality. The dice were loaded, and the stakes were lives.


As the perimeter began to take shape, a series of hasty defensive positions dug into the soft sand, a low hum began to fill the air, different from the helicopters’ departing thrum. It was a subtle sound at first, easily dismissed as the wind or the persistent insects. But it grew, becoming more distinct, more… purposeful. Beeker’s head snapped up, his gaze sweeping the treeline with renewed intensity.


“Hear that?” he barked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.


A ripple of apprehension went through the men. They had been trained for this, prepared for the sudden eruption of violence, but preparation could only do so much against the visceral shock of contact. The enemy was always the unseen variable, the ghost in the machine, capable of materializing from nowhere.

Dozens of manuscripts ready now, or tell me what you need and I will supply it. I may even have what you want already written, Dell Sweet

Contact info: radsandboxofficial@gmail.com Subject: Ghostwriter

Info: Manuscripts are finished to the point where you can edit and make them yours. The story lines are completely written. The manuscripts average about 100 k. There are character names and place names, they can easily be edited and mass changed.

You can check out my work on Amazon to see how I write and to satisfy yourself that I am legitimate and professional as well as a quality writer. Over 50 manuscripts available in many genres.

Dell Sweet, one of my popular pen names: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Dell-Sweet/author/B01N24V05N?ccs_id=755e0992-d485-44ee-8d16-5d450d6f6a88

Geo Dell, another of my popular pen names: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Geo-Dell/author/B00BI08VNY?ccs_id=74f99b9e-a89b-42a4-870c-cfe7c0a556cf

Private Investigations 1: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 1 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories by W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition

John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…

Book one:

The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…

#BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye


Home: https://www.wendellsweet.com


The end has come for most of the world’s population. Small groups of survivors are picking up the pieces… Learning to live again…

When the sun began to peek over the top of the ridge on the opposite shore of the Black River, everyone filed out to the two remaining trucks. It had been decided that Mike and Jan would stay behind while the others went in search of the stolen truck. They switched on and tested two sets of F.M. radios.

#Dystopian #ApocalypticFiction #Horror #Readers #BookLovers #KU #KindleUnlimited

Frequent Walker is a song I wrote about drugs and my time spent in that life and how it affected me and what I felt like.

Lyrics Copyright © Wendell G. Sweet 2010 ♪ ♫ ♪ Date Written; 10-20-2010

Song Title: Frequent Walker Style: Alternative

Verse One:

In this world… time moves by… doesn’t stop for you or me… The ones who stop and wait are the ones who never see… So my feet… move me on… though they’re weary of this flight… They will lead me to tomorrow, wipe the fallen from my sight…

Instrumental—————Short lead transition—————————————————–

Hook:

Pick me up… Fill my cup… Fix the damage in my head… Fill my soul… Make me whole… Raise me from the dead… Show my eyes what can be… shine your light so I can see…

Verse Two:

In my life… I have seen… distant dreams of futures past… And the one who filled my cup left it empty at the last… And my eyes… tired from sight… rimmed in red and slow to see… Can’t conceive eternity from the edge of what can be…

Instrumental—————Short lead transition—————————————————–

Hook:

Pick me up… Fill my cup… Fix the damage in my head… Fill my soul… Make me whole… Raise me from the dead… Show my eyes what can be… shine your light so I can see…

Verse Three:

Walk alone… Through this world… Through this cold I’ve always known… Taking only what I need from the seed that has been sown… And this world… sells itself… pretty dreams that can not be… And though we stop to look we can never truly see…

Instrumental————— Long Lead —————————————————————-

Verse Four:

Take my time… tap the glass… raise the bubbles from my cure… Pull the curtains on my pasts… and all I thought they ever were… As my soul… Finds its way… push the darkness from my mind… Lay your words upon my heart as my rest I go to find…

Instrumental—————Short lead transition—————————————————–

Hook

Pick me up… Fill my cup… Fix the damage in my head… Fill my soul… Make me whole… Raise me from the dead… Show my eyes what can be… shine your light so I can see… Verse Five: Let my heart… lead me on… from your memories in my mind… lay your coins upon my eyes… speak your magic line by line… As my sun… slowly sets… I will try not to forget… all the lessons from this world and the souls that I have met…

Instrumental—————Short lead transition—————————————————–

Hook / Xtro:

Pick me up… Fill my cup… Fix the damage in my head… Fill my soul… Make me whole… Raise me from the dead… Show my eyes what can be… shine your light so I can see… which way to walk…

Why I Wrote It: I wrote this song in one shot, most of it came as fast as I could write it. I understood what it was as I wrote it, although the lyrics are slightly obscure, or seemed to me to be (I’ve since been told by readers that it’s not so obscure but pretty straight forward.). It’s about my life ending of course. Flirtation with suicide. Drug use. Disillusionment with the world, religion, society on every level. I spent a lot of my life that way. When I was on the streets for two years this is the way, I looked at the world. Cynical, glass half full. I tried suicide, nearly succeeded. I thought how nice it would be to lay down and pull the plug. That is what this song is about. I’m not there anymore. I don’t want to encourage anyone to be there either, but some of us spent years there and never talked about it…

#SelfPenned #dellsweet #Lyrics #bmi #FrequentWalker #DrugUse

Video: https://youtu.be/8wpq1FkhVdg

Small Town Murder: A Kyle Stevens Murder Mystery (Glennville Book 12) Kindle Edition

The Small town of Glennville New York is a nice quiet place to settle down and raise your family. At least that is What Sheriff Kyle Stevens thought when he retired after being a detective in New York City for twenty years. And Glennville, for the most part was quiet. Respectfull. Safe. Until the day Kyle’s deputy for the body of a young girl out by the old abandoned school building…

#Mystery #Murder #Crime #DellSweet #KU #DellSweet

Hurricane

Amy and Diedra are best friends, maybe more, something always seems to be in the way every time an opportunity to explore the possibilities arise. Dave Plasko is serving a long sentence at Huntsville state prison, and after that he will be transferred to New York to serve more time. Rebbeca Monet is working her way up the ladder of success in the television reporter game. A hurricane of epic proportions is heading towards Mobile Alabama. The lives of the people involved will never be the same again… #Crime #Drama #Action #Readers #DellSweet #KDP #KU

Earth’s Survivors: Alabama Island

The Earth’s Survivors books follow series of survivors as they awaken to the destruction of the Earth and begin to pick up what is left of their lives. This is the first book to center on the Alabama Island survivors. Set in the former state of Alabama, it begins in New York and makes its way there via the ruined roads and fields…

Joel and Haley

They both stopped short as they topped the small hill at the crest of Main Street and stared down at the downtown area on the other side of the river.

It appeared to be more of a war zone than a city. The buildings that were still standing leaned crazily to the left or right and only the tallest seemed to have been as yet untouched. Haley wondered aloud at that.

“The taller ones are not that old. Built with federal monies. Earthquake proof…. To an extent: When I was a kid the tallest building was the Baptist church tower.” He pointed to a gray stone spire that reached into the air.

#ApocalypticFiction #Horror #DellSweet #Dystopian #Zombie #action #KindleUnlimited #Amazon