March 15, 2010
This was an "assignment" from Jim Lundy, emcee of Monday Night Poetry and Music (aka Monday Night Blues) held every Monday at 8:00 at the East Bay Meeting House. He challenged us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. I researched Ginsu® steak knives, they have a website, they are still available.
I am at rest,
set in my appointed slot
set in the block of wood
set upon the kitchen counter
set for service.
Hold my ergonomically designed handle,
perfectly balanced,
in the palm of your hand;
let my stain and rust resistant
stainless steel blade
do the work—
gliding over sinews,
releasing hot juices.
Another slice?
My serrated teeth,
that are never in need of sharpening,
chew the flesh,
part it as I pass,
its tenderness no match
for my razor sharp wit
ness, ness
my cutting power.
I have served,
you are satiated.
In time,
the local law
find me set,
set within
the twenty-fifth fatal wound.
Film at eleven.
Showing posts with label murder mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label murder mystery. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Couple of Old Private Eye Short Stories
Don't have a date.
Here are a couple from the files. I think I wrote these late at night (I mean really late at night) while working at Waffle House as a cook, late nineties/early 00.
No Free Lunch
I lit another cigarette. My seventh since I’d been sitting in this run-down diner on the wrong side of the tracks. The smoke twisted and turned like a crappy mystery novel up toward the ceiling, then hung there like a bad omen. I was an hour early. Forgot to set my watch back from daylight savings. Never saved me any daylight. Anyway, it gave me some time to wolf down a grilled cheese and glass of milk (eases the ulcer). Hadn’t eaten in a couple of days.
The waitress poured my third cup of coffee (irritates the ulcer). She didn’t seem to mind this old fart sitting here sipping java that was probably fresh ground during the Nixon administration. I was her only customer. Seemed to be a nice kid. A little homely—chubby in a bad way, lousy complexion, bad teeth, one eye a little higher than the other—the proverbial face only a mother could love. Her blond hair in need of another bleaching was done up nice and her inch long nails were recently painted in a shade of red that reminded me of fresh blood on concrete. Two kids, two fathers (must have been drunken sailors in a really dark bar). Lived with her mother who drank too much and needed to see a chiropractor twice a week for neck pain caused by a little fender bender two years ago. She was going to school at night to become a paralegal. I encouraged her. The legal profession needed more nice people like her.
I was early, but now my snitch was late. Buzz Buzz (obviously not his real name) was never late, even according to my newly corrected watch.
I crushed out my cigarette in the pile of ashes in the cheap aluminum ashtray, left a ten spot under the half empty coffee cup, and told pretty girl to keep the change. She smiled at me like I’d just given her an early Christmas present. My gut was churning—maybe from the coffee, maybe from a bad feeling.
Buzz Buzz had information for me that should crack this case wide open. Information that would put some influential people in a bad way and me in a good way—professionally and financially. My supersized meal ticket. But I needed to know what Buzz Buzz knew and was hoping nobody else knew that he knew.
I walked out onto the quiet sidewalk. The afternoon sky had turned a yellowish overcast making the dingy neighborhood look even more dingy. The air was still. That proverbial calm before the storm.
A dozen cars, including my old Buick, were hunched against the curb on either side of the road. Most looked like they’d been parked there since the Reagan era. Not another soul was in sight.
I pulled my keys out to unlock the door. Habit—there’s nothing inside to take and the Buick isn’t worth the spare parts to steal. My first stop after this case would be the new car lot. As I heard the familiar thunk of the lock as I turned the key, I spotted Buzz Buzz sauntering across the street just down the block. Back in the day I would have busted his ass for jaywalking.
Just as I was about to call out to him, the scream of rubber on asphalt pierced the silence. A black BMW with tinted windows (much too dark to be legal) raced around the corner like the proverbial bat out of hell and made fresh roadkill out of Buzz Buzz. My last link to becoming a respected dick flattened on the pothole infested pavement; my down payment on new wheels downed.
I walked back in the diner and asked pretty girl to dial 911. Maybe she wouldn’t mind later showing an old fart a really dark bar.
No Pain, No Gain
This is going to be my last cup of coffee. The stuff really works my ulcer, but going without puts that proverbial monkey on my back. And I was out of cigarettes. Been scrounging butts out of ashtrays. Sometimes you get to choose your pain. Sometimes…
I don’t know how far down this bottomless cup in this all night dive I can go. I haven’t slept much this week. And my ulcer is starting to talk to me. I’ve been working a routine spousal check for a man you’ve probably never heard of that was anything but routine. Loverboy has been sitting in a booth at the other end of the diner as long as I have. And I have no idea where this case is going. All I know is I need some nap time.
But my client is paying me well. Too well by most standards. But I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting for cash like a driver waited for gas during the crisis of ’77. Or was it ’79? And my tank is running on the proverbial fumes. I’m really hurting. I’ve got enough for this coffee, tip and a phone call.
Loverboy’s an athletic type; complete opposite of my client. All-star football, basketball, baseball, and track in high school; starting linebacker at the state university; first draft pick lost to major knee surgery. Doing pretty good selling real estate now. The woman is one of those intellectual types—not unpretty, just a bit plain. Thin, no boobs. Glasses. A cross between Hillary and that woman on “Ally McBeal”. Easy to see what she gets out of the deal, seems he’s getting a bit short changed. I hadn’t actually caught them in any indiscretions. I’m not really sure what the relationship is, but I’ll find out. If my ulcer doesn’t kill me first.
Loverboy was up and walking toward me. Slight limp. I’m thinking he’s headed for the single seat restroom right behind me (tells you a bit about the class of this establishment), but he’s looking right at me. He walks right up to me and leans in real close. So close I can smell the tunafish sandwich he’d just finished off.
“I’m going to hand you my cell phone and you’re going to call Mr. H_______. You’re going to tell him you have nothing further to report, case closed. Or we can continue this conversation out back and I’ll be doing all the talking, if you get my meaning.”
I got his meaning. I made the call. I don’t like these new-fangled cell phones with all the little buttons. My client (excuse me, ex-client) didn’t sound too happy about the sudden end to my investigation. Says he’s putting a stop payment on the check he just sent. Oh, well. My retirement check will be in next week. Until then I’ll be as scarce as Jimmy Hoffa. Sometimes you get to choose your pain.
Here are a couple from the files. I think I wrote these late at night (I mean really late at night) while working at Waffle House as a cook, late nineties/early 00.
I lit another cigarette. My seventh since I’d been sitting in this run-down diner on the wrong side of the tracks. The smoke twisted and turned like a crappy mystery novel up toward the ceiling, then hung there like a bad omen. I was an hour early. Forgot to set my watch back from daylight savings. Never saved me any daylight. Anyway, it gave me some time to wolf down a grilled cheese and glass of milk (eases the ulcer). Hadn’t eaten in a couple of days.
The waitress poured my third cup of coffee (irritates the ulcer). She didn’t seem to mind this old fart sitting here sipping java that was probably fresh ground during the Nixon administration. I was her only customer. Seemed to be a nice kid. A little homely—chubby in a bad way, lousy complexion, bad teeth, one eye a little higher than the other—the proverbial face only a mother could love. Her blond hair in need of another bleaching was done up nice and her inch long nails were recently painted in a shade of red that reminded me of fresh blood on concrete. Two kids, two fathers (must have been drunken sailors in a really dark bar). Lived with her mother who drank too much and needed to see a chiropractor twice a week for neck pain caused by a little fender bender two years ago. She was going to school at night to become a paralegal. I encouraged her. The legal profession needed more nice people like her.
I was early, but now my snitch was late. Buzz Buzz (obviously not his real name) was never late, even according to my newly corrected watch.
I crushed out my cigarette in the pile of ashes in the cheap aluminum ashtray, left a ten spot under the half empty coffee cup, and told pretty girl to keep the change. She smiled at me like I’d just given her an early Christmas present. My gut was churning—maybe from the coffee, maybe from a bad feeling.
Buzz Buzz had information for me that should crack this case wide open. Information that would put some influential people in a bad way and me in a good way—professionally and financially. My supersized meal ticket. But I needed to know what Buzz Buzz knew and was hoping nobody else knew that he knew.
I walked out onto the quiet sidewalk. The afternoon sky had turned a yellowish overcast making the dingy neighborhood look even more dingy. The air was still. That proverbial calm before the storm.
A dozen cars, including my old Buick, were hunched against the curb on either side of the road. Most looked like they’d been parked there since the Reagan era. Not another soul was in sight.
I pulled my keys out to unlock the door. Habit—there’s nothing inside to take and the Buick isn’t worth the spare parts to steal. My first stop after this case would be the new car lot. As I heard the familiar thunk of the lock as I turned the key, I spotted Buzz Buzz sauntering across the street just down the block. Back in the day I would have busted his ass for jaywalking.
Just as I was about to call out to him, the scream of rubber on asphalt pierced the silence. A black BMW with tinted windows (much too dark to be legal) raced around the corner like the proverbial bat out of hell and made fresh roadkill out of Buzz Buzz. My last link to becoming a respected dick flattened on the pothole infested pavement; my down payment on new wheels downed.
I walked back in the diner and asked pretty girl to dial 911. Maybe she wouldn’t mind later showing an old fart a really dark bar.
This is going to be my last cup of coffee. The stuff really works my ulcer, but going without puts that proverbial monkey on my back. And I was out of cigarettes. Been scrounging butts out of ashtrays. Sometimes you get to choose your pain. Sometimes…
I don’t know how far down this bottomless cup in this all night dive I can go. I haven’t slept much this week. And my ulcer is starting to talk to me. I’ve been working a routine spousal check for a man you’ve probably never heard of that was anything but routine. Loverboy has been sitting in a booth at the other end of the diner as long as I have. And I have no idea where this case is going. All I know is I need some nap time.
But my client is paying me well. Too well by most standards. But I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting for cash like a driver waited for gas during the crisis of ’77. Or was it ’79? And my tank is running on the proverbial fumes. I’m really hurting. I’ve got enough for this coffee, tip and a phone call.
Loverboy’s an athletic type; complete opposite of my client. All-star football, basketball, baseball, and track in high school; starting linebacker at the state university; first draft pick lost to major knee surgery. Doing pretty good selling real estate now. The woman is one of those intellectual types—not unpretty, just a bit plain. Thin, no boobs. Glasses. A cross between Hillary and that woman on “Ally McBeal”. Easy to see what she gets out of the deal, seems he’s getting a bit short changed. I hadn’t actually caught them in any indiscretions. I’m not really sure what the relationship is, but I’ll find out. If my ulcer doesn’t kill me first.
Loverboy was up and walking toward me. Slight limp. I’m thinking he’s headed for the single seat restroom right behind me (tells you a bit about the class of this establishment), but he’s looking right at me. He walks right up to me and leans in real close. So close I can smell the tunafish sandwich he’d just finished off.
“I’m going to hand you my cell phone and you’re going to call Mr. H_______. You’re going to tell him you have nothing further to report, case closed. Or we can continue this conversation out back and I’ll be doing all the talking, if you get my meaning.”
I got his meaning. I made the call. I don’t like these new-fangled cell phones with all the little buttons. My client (excuse me, ex-client) didn’t sound too happy about the sudden end to my investigation. Says he’s putting a stop payment on the check he just sent. Oh, well. My retirement check will be in next week. Until then I’ll be as scarce as Jimmy Hoffa. Sometimes you get to choose your pain.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Murder in the Second Person
(1999?)
A high school English teacher once told us that stories are told in the first or third person. Never the second. Ah, a challenge.
YOU!
Yeah, you.
You know you’re guilty.
You were there.
Maybe not in flesh, but in spirit.
Because you knew all the details.
Yeah, you had access to all the info.
Maybe not every time,
but when it was all over, you knew.
Yeah, you knew.
At the very least you’re an accessory before, during and after the fact.
In fact,
you’re the reason all these crimes were committed.
Don’t deny it! It’s true. Oh, yeah, it’s true.
All those senseless murders are your fault.
YOUR FAULT!
All right.
You didn’t actually with your own hands commit the atrocious deeds.
But you paid for ‘em.
You bought ‘em.
What’s the legal terminology for hiring an assassin?
Oh! the price of blood. Spilled blood. Cold blood. The life was in the blood.
(Do you like that word “blood”?
A kinda blunt word, blood.)
And for what?
To entertain your passion,
your love of the hunt;
the chase.
And never the same.
No, sir. No one can pin an M.O. on you.
Except for maybe who does the killing.
You might stick with a certain “craftsman” of the trade,
but you demand they vary their methods somewhat —
just to keep it interesting.
A gun.
A knife.
Exotic poison.
In the dark.
In the open.
Nobody knows. Everybody sees.
The more bizarre and fantastic,
the better.
And yet,
you really don’t care how they die,
just
as long
as
someone is dead.
Dead for your pleasure.
And you just couldn’t resist
the temptation for one more.
Just one more.
Seduced by the deception…
the uncertainty…
the romance.
You know you’re guilty as sin.
You know you never could resist a good murder
mystery.
A high school English teacher once told us that stories are told in the first or third person. Never the second. Ah, a challenge.
YOU!
Yeah, you.
You know you’re guilty.
You were there.
Maybe not in flesh, but in spirit.
Because you knew all the details.
Yeah, you had access to all the info.
Maybe not every time,
but when it was all over, you knew.
Yeah, you knew.
At the very least you’re an accessory before, during and after the fact.
In fact,
you’re the reason all these crimes were committed.
Don’t deny it! It’s true. Oh, yeah, it’s true.
All those senseless murders are your fault.
YOUR FAULT!
All right.
You didn’t actually with your own hands commit the atrocious deeds.
But you paid for ‘em.
You bought ‘em.
What’s the legal terminology for hiring an assassin?
Oh! the price of blood. Spilled blood. Cold blood. The life was in the blood.
(Do you like that word “blood”?
A kinda blunt word, blood.)
And for what?
To entertain your passion,
your love of the hunt;
the chase.
And never the same.
No, sir. No one can pin an M.O. on you.
Except for maybe who does the killing.
You might stick with a certain “craftsman” of the trade,
but you demand they vary their methods somewhat —
just to keep it interesting.
A gun.
A knife.
Exotic poison.
In the dark.
In the open.
Nobody knows. Everybody sees.
The more bizarre and fantastic,
the better.
And yet,
you really don’t care how they die,
just
as long
as
someone is dead.
Dead for your pleasure.
And you just couldn’t resist
the temptation for one more.
Just one more.
Seduced by the deception…
the uncertainty…
the romance.
You know you’re guilty as sin.
You know you never could resist a good murder
mystery.
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