My journal of big words and pretty pictures
Triplets, May, April and June, each blonde with skin like porcelain, played on the front porch of a renovated Victorian house. A Clinchburg landmark, the house was owned by local business owners, Sonny and Rainey Yeardley. Rainey was outside with her young daughters watching them dress and undress a myriad of wild-haired Barbie dolls with … Continue reading What’s your number
“What is the last thing you remember?" It was a rhetorical question. My inquisitor didn’t expect, nor want a response. Any answer was irrelevant, his asking merely a formality. The increasingly unstable rabble was impatient for the spectacle to begin. Rubbish was at the ready, repugnant missiles aimed not only at me, but also my … Continue reading Heads will roll
She boasted that she never in her life put gasoline into her own car. When her Lexus’ gas gauge edged toward E, she would call her husband at work and in her most vulnerable voice cajole him into leaving his office to come home because she was stranded. Her long-suffering spouse would come home uncomplaining … Continue reading Too good
Previously: "Paisley, rosemary, and time." Homicide Det. Sean Webster and June Chapel, social worker and advocate for Paisley Fleming, sat in a police interview room comparing notes in the investigation into the murder of Selene and Todd, Paisley’s parents. The couple, found dead in their hotel room, had been poisoned. Their daughter was a material … Continue reading Stone cold killer
Gallagher wasn’t an overly tall man, so storing his swords and épées in a stone pot that reached past his waist seemed impractical. He would be unable to cleanly draw any of his weapons should the need arise. Funny, that my first thought was of the readiness of his arsenal, and not that he possessed … Continue reading En garde
Previously: Paisley, rosemary, and time A half-eaten deli sub, still partially wrapped in its butcher paper sleeve, lay bleeding olive oil on Det. Sean Webster’s desk. His rumpled shirt and tie were splattered with the greasy effluence and tiny orts of focaccia dotted the thighs of his dark, too-tight pants. June Chapel sat across from … Continue reading Drawing blood
Thin spiral notebook 