A Cold Bite

"You can't tell me these aren't human," the officer pointed to bite wounds on the victim's leg.

Dr. Urquist pulled a deep breath.Gads he was tired of the perpetual stream of rookies. When would the metropolitan police manage to hang onto officers long enough that knowledge would be respected?

 "Officer Dupree," Dr. Urquist said, "perhaps you will grant me the kindness of waiting until I finish my report before you question my findings."

"Come on, doc. What you're saying makes no sense. The guy was found in his bed, no animals in the house. Unless those bites were made by Sasquatch they have to be human."

Lifting the cadaver's leg, Dr. Urquist bit into the cold flesh. "THAT is a human bite pattern. Does it resemble the other wounds to your trained eye?"

The Taste of a Song

She likes to mix her liquors. Not the long island iced-teas or Singapore slings that bartenders concocted but shot glasses lined up on the oak coffee table in the den. There are twelve shot glasses with a bottle standing behind each - vodka, rum, tequila, gin...you get the idea.

Her Saturday night ritual is to crank her husband's fifteen thousand dollar sound system until the very foundation rattles. She puts the music database on shuffle and goes with the flow. Santana's Black Magic Woman calls for a shot of Captain Morgan. Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville leaves no second guessing.

Tonight she is two hours into it but could still walk the line if she needed to. Walking the line - that makes her think of Johnny Cash. Johnny was definitely a malt whiskey.

Aging Memory

You know you are getting old when:

While waiting for the water in the shower to get hot you realize you used the last of the shampoo the day before.

On your way to the linen closet you find yourself in the kitchen and decide the only reason you would be there would be to start breakfast.

After putting bread in the toaster you decide to kill two birds with one stone by making the bed while the bread is toasting.

While throwing on the bedspread you smell something and rush to the kitchen.

After tossing the charcoal black toast in the trash you start to wash your hands and then remember you haven't had your shower yet.

Returning to the bathroom you realize you never got the shampoo - but it doesn't matter because the hot water is gone.

When the Time Comes

When the time comes, promise you will hold me.
When the time comes, promise me your strength.
When the time comes, promise me tears of happiness.
When the time comes, promise me your willingness to be silent.
When the times comes, promise me a kiss.

When the time has passed, promise you will remember.
When the time has passed, promise you will live.
When the time has passed, promise you will laugh.
When the time has passed, promise to share love.

When the time comes, I promise I will be waiting.

Spoofing the New Guy?

Jason knew the brick office building was a repurposed psychiatric hospital. During his tour of the building on his first day of work several of his new coworkers warned him not to be last one to leave, never to stay after dark without someone expecting you at home by a specific time, and never to go into the basement alone.

Certain the warnings were jokes every new-hire had to endure, Jason nevertheless matched the serious facial expressions and conspiratorial tones of voice when acknowledging the friendly advice.

But by the time his tour guide led him to the basement, Jason wasn't so sure all those warnings had been jokes. Brick cells lined the outer walls, interiors visible where solid steel doors stood ajar. One cell was used as a storage room for copier paper. When the overhead bare light bulb was flicked on, Jason saw iron rings mortared into the brick. From those rings hung iron chains with metal cuffs that would have locked around an ankle or wrist.

Spooky, huh? A voice whispered from behind. The whisper was followed by a metallic click followed by the sound of a chain being dropped. Jason felt the sudden weight on his left arm as the light went out.

Impossible Defiance

The wind blew, the ocean surged, and a ripple stirred.
The ripple built to a swell. The swell gathered speed and rose into a wave.
Greedily sucking water back from the shore the wave doubled, then tripled in size.
A curl formed, the top of the wave outracing the concave belly.
Bait fish sparkled silver in a graceful free fall from the rushing ridge.
The tip of the curl hung in impossible defiance of gravity.
Wind swept spray from the watery ridge.
Sun highlighted the shifting patterns of salt -
Mini continents drifting across the deep green.
Then all was erased in a pounding crash of white foam.

Roses and Bedsheets

It could have been a joke. It would certainly fit David's twisted sense of humor. But Julia wasn't laughing.

More likely the wilted black rose in the oblong box of shiny cardboard was David's commentary on the emptiness of social niceties. Julia had been hinting more frequently that a display of affection other than twisted bedsheets would be nice.

Look what that had gotten her.

Look it would get David - no more twisted bedsheets

April Splendor

It was an Easter bouquet that demanded a quarter of an acre.
Sun-bright forsythia rose from a carpet of purple hyacinths bordered by attentive daffodils.
All set against a backdrop of a willow tree with drooping branches that fairly glowed with the green of new life.

Such is the splendor of April.

Duct Tape and Dreams

It was held together with duct tape and dreams, she told him.

Startled, he looked up from his bowl of granola. Why would you tape a duck? It seems to me super glue would be better for reattaching feathers.

She wanted to dump his cereal into his lap. He was always deflecting conversations that mattered, conversations about the two of them.

He either didn't or wouldn't understand the duct tape and dreams referred to their relationship.  Had he really not picked up on the past tense in her statement?

She was glad her bags were already in the car. It would make things that much easier.

The cereal bowl found its way into his lap after all as she headed for the door.

Pain Released

......continued from previous post

The pressure in his chest, the pain of heartbreak, rose through his body. Acid boiled at the back of his throat. Gavin choked back the sob that wanted to escape. Then the discomfort was between his eyes, a finger point of pressure such that Gavin was certain a bulge must be forming between his eyebrows. And still the pressure grew until tears leaked out from beneath Gavin's closed eyelids.

Then there was nothing. Gavin dared to open his eyes. The room was alive with color: reds that glowed like a just-polished fire engine, greens as rich as spring grass, and yellows that could have been a saint's halo.

Here now Gavin. Get up off your knees. I'll not have you fussin over that old body of mine.

Turning with a gasp, Gavin beheld his Sarah - as full of life as the day they first met.

A Quick Passing

Gavin was alone. Sarah, his wife of fifty years was gone - dead.
Dead - the word was as heavy on his tongue as it was on his heart.
Dead - the word clearly prohibited negotiation or reprieve.
Dead - the word stood on its own.

Gavin had woken first as he did everyday. He had started the coffee then headed for the shower. By the time he had toweled himself dry, the smell of Maxwell House permeated the house. His stomach had grumbled as he pulled on his overalls.

All the same as everyday. Except that when he returned to the kitchen, Sarah wasn't there. With his pulse rat-tat-tatting a foreboding beat, Gavin returned to the bedroom. The blankets still covered Sarah's still form.

Gavin knelt now at Sarah's side of the bed. Her body was cool, her fingers stiff, her chest still.

They had both wanted it this way. A quick passing without pain. But Gavin had never imagined the pain that would be born by the survivor. He was glad Sarah had gone first.

They had promised each other there would be no extravagance. No costly funeral. No viewing. No embalming. They shared a fear of premature burial and had agreed no one would be called for three days.

Gavin was prepared to spend those days right here. On his knees. With his beloved.

A Horse is a Horse.. Unless of Course

...continued from previous post.

Unable to fee himself from the clinging vine, Ian toppled headfirst and dangled like a wild animal caught in a snare. Staring into the wall of tree trunks and broken branches, Ian watched in horror as the same choking vines holding his ankles crept toward his neck.

From behind him Ian heard the stacatto of horseshoes striking stone. Horse hooves pranced around his head in a vicious dance, then went still went an agonized shriek filled the air. A heartbeat later the stranglehold on Ian's ankles released and his face squelched into the muddy ground.

Spitting foul smelling peat, Ian found his feet - but astonishment dropped him back to his knees. The wizened face of a bearded wizard topped the neck of Ian's stallion.

The wizard spoke. The memories of your mount cast you in a fair light, else I would have left you to the yamouk.

Regretted Decision

The rains had left the freshly plowed field a sodden mess. Tracking the spirited stallion had been easy - until now. 

Ian would have sworn he knew all two hundred acres of the family farm, but the barrier before him was unfamiliar. Years of accumulated deadwood intertwined with thorny brush formed a wall as impenetrable as anything man might have built. It seemed impossible the young stallion could have vaulted the barricade, yet here the tracks ended.

Searching for a way through the dead fall, Ian took notice that the swirling morning mists curled back on at this border. Ignoring the suggestion that even nature absented what lay beyond, Ian climbed upon one of the more recently fallen tree limbs. In the short moments that he stood searching the shadows cast by false dawn, Ian felt vines constricting around his ankles. Sensing that if he didn't either retreat or advance, he would become just another part of this unnatural barricade, Ian struggled forward.  And quickly regretted his decision.