Posts Tagged ‘murder’

This was originally written to be the prologue to something, but I have no idea what. It basically came from one of my many moments where I was reading something and thought, “I can do that better.” And even though I like it, I sadly have no idea what to do with it. I thought maybe making it something for D’arc Lyte, but since I can’t figure out what to do with him either, it sits and does nothing. But, it’s in the notebook that I’m writing ‘Stiym’ in, so it keeps staring at me, and telling me to do something with it… so this is me doing something with it. It might get reused elsewhere, but for now, it’s here…

English: Chest of drawers in the Herkimer Hous...

English: Chest of drawers in the Herkimer House in Danube, Herkimer County, New York. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A smell fills my mind—the memory of a sweet perfume. It calls to me, it rumbles in my mind like a long starvation. My hunger for the flooding tastes of the salty, sweetness with its lasting trace of iron.

I look at my chest-of-drawers—the place where it slumbers. The image of it burns like a glowing ember. It calls for my hand—it calls for my feet—it calls to run free. It calls…

The memories telling me it’s wrong—scolding me to shame as I curl up tighter. I shut my eyes to ignore the burning, but it’s still there to blind me beneath my eyelids, demanding to be served. The memories scold me…

I curl ‘til I feel myself floating—falling. Down into the deep depths of the darkness—my god, the darkness…

It lulls me into submission like a siren’s call—it drowns the memories that tell me “no,” it smothers them as they gasp to silence. And my body responds and I rise…

My existence floats to the chest, slides the drawer where it waits to be brought from its slumber. The objects that hide it are shifted, and I move a false back away revealing its small casket of a box. It creaks as I raise its lid.

I believe it smiles at me as it sees me… and it knows… it’s time to feast.

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Robert Mitchum as Jeff Bailey and Jane Greer a...

Robert Mitchum as Jeff Bailey and Jane Greer as Kathie Moffat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was asked by a writer friend of mine to tell her the story of how we met… except to make up the whole story. Many responses to this were interesting, mine for some reason conjured up my detective character. I have so far used him in a complete short-story only once, plus several unfinished works (with this one now being among those–I’ve just never found the flow for modern mysteries despite the many attempts… just too much damn forensics and crap these days). The character’s name wasn’t used in this because it was supposed to be me in this situation, but for reference, his name is Darc Lyte (in one of my incompletes there’s actually a story behind that name–some other time perhaps). Although I didn’t finish this–didn’t even technically plan to finish it–but after writing the bit that I did, it got my head running on how it actually would of worked out… and even though it’s not written, I have it all in my head how it happens. To amuse myself though, let’s see if others can figure out how it could have worked.

So this is the mission, read my short bit, and tell me how it all ends by responding in comment.

It was a dark and stormy night—a muggy early summer storm. I was sitting in my office, sorting away old case files, when my intercom buzzed.

Anne, or Beth, or whatever the new secretary’s name was spoke through the crackling speaker, “There’s a Miss… um… Mist… there’s a woman here to see you.”

I wasn’t expecting any appointments, and I don’t normally accept walk-ins. I was about to hit the respond button and have the secretary send the lady away with a threat towards her further employment in my office, but before I had the chance, the door opened and a well-endowed, full-figure, red-headed woman walked in, dressed in a tight Victorian style, with well placed leather—business is slow, I figured I might as well give her the chance to tell her case… just to see if it can make ends meet, and pay bills—that’s all.

She spoke with a sensual tone that created an allure only to be challenged by the fragrance of her perfume, “You are the private… dick… of this office?”

“Thank you, the complete discomfort I’m feeling answers why we don’t normally call it that anymore—but, yes, ma’am, I’m the private detective here. How may I help you?”

“Well, detective,” She went on, “This is difficult to explain, but I need you to solve a murder.”

“Oh,” I exclaimed, and almost regretted the required response, “Have you gone to the police about this yet?”

“Yes, of’course I have, but they turned it away without hesitation because… you see,” She paused in search for words, “The murder I need you to solve… is my own…”

I stared in shock and confusion, and if it wasn’t for the frightened composure and her visible attempt to keep from breaking down in tears, I would have assumed her crazy and had an army of white-coats taking her away.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said, “But you look a bit healthier than most murder victims I’ve seen—“

That’s when she lost her battle for composure and her eyes became faucets, “Oh, detective, I only wish you would be able to say that two days from now… but… I know I’ll be dead by then.” She got out with me trying to figure out if I translated the crying-woman speak correctly.

Before I could try at any level of rebuttal, she immediately got up from her seat, slapped a file-folder on my desk and stormed out of the office, back into the night and rain. I never saw her again.