Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9584883-20141218151039

The downtown night air was crisp and cool with the slight aroma of misery. He never thought that his life would turn out the way it did. The wife, the kid, the pride, all lost along the way, somewhere in the belly of the big, bad city, where they would never again age, remaining forever young, beautiful and full of grace. He still saw them in everything and everyone. A Homicide Investigators life is never something called happily ever after. Everyday Detective Chris Priest woke up, looked up and asked why the fuck was he still around to do it all over again. It was his punishment you see, his penance was waking up without them, still trying to make a dent of difference in this city on fire.

Staring out his window, he poured a quarter glass of Jim Beam and asked himself in the famous words of The Clash: Should I stay, or should I Rock the Kasbah? The familiar metallic taste of the colt 45 made things real at that moment. It was fear that kept him from biting the bullet. Yet, it was also his lack of fear that kept him afloat another day, doing what he did best, the only thing he cared about anymore. Fear was for the enemy, fear and bullets.

What little faith he had left hung on like a loose string. One would think Chris would have completely and utterly lost his essence, his humanity… all in a brilliant flash of ‘Fuck You’ dished out by fate. Much had occurred in his life since he swore in and began serving as a rookie Sherriff’s Deputy in Lytle Texas 17 years ago. However, in the midst of all the glory, the coolness and the climbing, Chris had his number 1 with a bullet, Abby. She was firecrackers on the 4th. They never pulled any punches, loving, laughing, living, fucking.

It was February. The view from Chris’s downtown window was covered in white, a rarity. The last time it really snowed in San Antonio was back in 1985 when he was 10 years old. He recalled that day with a warm fuzzy feeling. He and his best friend were pulled out of school together so that they may go home and enjoy playing in the snow, where they would build snowmen and partake in the clichéd snowball fight with their parents. It would be one of the best days of his existence. He liked to go there often when life chewed him up and spit him out. He wished they were by his side now. They would all enjoy the day off and play just as he did so long ago.

“Walk it the fuck off!” Chris murmured to himself as he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, opening his eyes as he exhaled. It wasn’t exactly prime conditions for crime fighting in the city today however if he spent another moment alone in that bottle of Jim Beam, he might actually choose to “Rock the Kasbah” this day. He abandoned his quarter glass of J.B. and thought “It will still be here when I get back. Let’s get into character.”

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'''Old Ghosts '''

As Chris locked his apartment door, he looked down the hallway on the right to see if anyone was coming or going for the day. Mrs. Bonner was slowly walking towards the stairs as she did every day to check the mail. Chris imagined her as expecting some special letter from a special someone that never arrived. She was fanatical about the mail. He knew that he would walk past her and she would greet him friendly as always and start to make small talk. Most older folk just want a little company. People preferred to ignore rather than talk to her. It wasn’t that she was annoying or unpleasant in any way, everyone that resided in the Comino Real Apartment building was stewing in their own misery and preferred to do so alone. Mrs. Bonner was just a lonely old woman who would talk to strangers just to   satisfy that basic need for human contact. Young people never give thought to the fact that one day they will need to fill that void as well. They will feel the hesitation of youngsters walking past them, looking strait ahead, trying to avoid a conversation, busy with their lives. Too busy for an old person.

“Good morning Chris. Going out in this mess?” She said casually.

“Good morning Mrs. Bonner. Bad guys won’t take the day off, I can’t either.” He responded with a smile. He figured the least he could do was take a minute or two or three to indulge her. He understood what it was like to be all alone. At some point, everybody hurts. Mrs. Bonner   visibly brightened up.

“Ha! You’re a comedian. Well, it hasn’t snowed here in about 30 years! Do you remember that?” She asked Chris.

“Yes, I do. That was a really good day for me. Played in the snow all day with my best friend. And you? What were you doing that day?”   He asked.

She looked away from him for a moment down the hallway. “My Husband left me for another woman that day. That was not a good day for me Chris.”   She recalled looking down at the floor momentarily.

“But, the asshole married her and she left him two years later… took him for everything he had!” she admitted with a big smile. Chris laughed and held up his hand for a high five. Mrs. Bonner high-fived him laughing.

“Have a good day Mrs. Bonner.” He called out as he walked away.

“Please Chris, Mrs. Bonner was my Mother, call me Delia.” She answered.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hm… That’s the name of my favorite Johnny Cash song.” He smiled looking back. With that he took his leave down the stairs. Delia was beaming.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris opened the door to the old apartment building. The cold punched him in the eyes as he let out a loud “Fuck!!”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">His cell phone chimed. A text message from Michael Rodriguez, his partner (or his babysitter as he referred to him after the Captain assigned them to work together).

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: 11651 Alamo Lane, King William District. Already here. Not pretty.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Some weather we got here huh? On my way Sunshine.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Placing his cell back into his jean pocket with winter leather gloves on was difficult but he managed. He looked around at the streets and sidewalks all covered in white. His gaze found his own car parked along the curb, a 1987 Camaro, black paint chipping away. His black sunshine. Chris bought the car from his Aunt when her Son died of a heroine overdose. While his family was still alive, Chris was putting time and money into the car. He hoped to one day pass it down to his Son Connor when he came of driving age. Connor would help his Dad with minor repairs and modifications on the Camaro from time to time. It was their special project. The only time they really ever got to talk and hang out anymore, usually on the weekends. However, Chris was always on call. He kept the car because it reminded him of the happy time with his Son. Connor was only 12 when he passed.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The Camaro was Chris’s only baby now. He walked over and brushed off some of Mother Nature’s blow only to find most of the car was covered in ice. He would need to let her warm up for a while.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">'''Lemon Man '''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris walked up to the beautiful Victorian home nestled in the cozy well-to-do Historical King William District. C.S.I. was walking out of the home, down a large, covered wooden porch. The outside stucco walls were covered in thick green vine, Boughganvillias surrounded the outside property line. The grass was St. Augustine and the lot in general was immaculate. Someone put a lot of love and money into its overall look and upkeep.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris carefully walked up the steps (in case of ice)and met with Michael at the door.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, Good morning, old man!” Michael commented upon seeing Chris make his way carefully up the steps.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Good morning young Padiwan.” Chris responded to Michael who was his Jr. by 9 years.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael smirked and began with the run down.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“We got a one Max Von Drack, Caucasian male, age 68. His throat was slashed, his eyes gouged out and placed into his mouth. It appears it was done while he was still alive, he uh… bit down on them. The vic was also clenching a lemon his right hand. He squeezed the shit out of it too. “

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris being the smartass he was, couldn’t resist “You don’t think he was making lemonade do you Detective?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Really? Lemonade? That’s just wrong Chris. Anyway, He also has something carved into his left arm, a link to a website. I already checked it out. It’s a link to a horror fiction website called Scarypasta.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Scarypasta?! What the fuck is that?” Chris asked with an expression like he just smelled something rotten.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael raised his eyebrows “Yeeeah… Scarypasta.com. It’s a horror fiction website where writers post all kinds of short horror stories. It has quite the cult following apparently. The link is to a story called “''A Tale of Him Holding a Lemon.” ''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris laughed “Are you fuckin’ for real?”   He shook his head and looked Michael right in the eye. “Ok, let’s have a look.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The S.A.P.D. Detectives made their way inside the lovely home, which would likely sell fast on the market regardless of the crime. The hallway led to the living room which was finished in a nice oak. Dark polished wooden floors, bookcases and a china cabinet rested against the old walls. On a large blood-soaked Persian rug, lay a man in a blood covered yellow sweater vest, white dress shirt underneath and black slacks. His shoes had been removed. He had a grey moustache and wavy hair. He looked to be small in stature, about 5 foot 6. His eye sockets were empty and bloody, blood covered the areas of his mouth and neck. The long cut on his throat was visible. His left shirt sleeve had been rolled up and the link to the story was indeed carved into his forearm. The wounds on his arm had begun to dry and scab over making the carvings even more visible.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Anything taken?” Chris asked. It was not the first time he had seen horror like this.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No. It appears that the killer or Killers wanted the attention to be directed only to the killing and not known as some random act of violence. “

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Do you think there was more than one killer?” Chris asked over his shoulder.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Not sure. We got C.S.I. running tests”.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, we know that the killer was left handed. He or she would have had to carve with the left hand on the left arm. Just look at this angle.” He pointed at Mr. Von Drack’s arm.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah maybe, unless they lifted the arm and kneeled on the vic’s left side while carving with the right hand, making it appear that they were left handed.”   Michael shot back.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well look at you with the foresight and all…. Tell me more about this scarypasta crap.” Chris walked away from the body on the floor and toward Michael.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast. Let’s go to Dennys, I’m buying. “ Michael offered.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yes you are. I bought last time.” Chris patted Michael on the arm.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I had a cup of coffee! That was all!”   Michael shook his head in disbelief.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, the system works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it..” Chris placed his hand on Michael’s back leading him toward the front door.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked around at the C.S.I. and patrol officers and said loudly “Carry on my wayward Sons!”

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">'''Shot Down in Flames '''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The Denny’s restaurant was nearly empty due to the snow. Like all Denny’s or Lubys restaurants, there was the stereotypical retired guy sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, basically loitering. It had all the charm of a funeral home. The air was so thick with misery, you could cut it with a machete. Although Chris was depressed in general   since the loss of Abby & Connor, he still had an appetite. He wolfed down a Grand slam with scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes, with a glass of orange juice. He was on his second glass. Michael had coffee and a ham & cheese omelette. It was warm inside the restaurant and the staff liked having the cops around since the sheer number of daily weirdo’s was something to take note of.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“So whoever killed poor Mr. Von Drack (cool name by the way), wanted us to find this story… uh scarypasta?” Chris asked. Michael nodded his head.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Have you read any of this story yet?”   Chris asked before gulping down some o.j.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No, not yet. I figured I’d do that at the station or at home. It looked pretty long. The guy who wrote it, lives in Detroit and is originally from Bulgaria. He’s here on a student visa.” Michael informed Chris.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, let’s read it and give him a call. I’ll leave the tip.” Said Chris.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, how’s Misty & the kids?” he asked as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a 5 dollar bill.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael sat up from the booth and put on his beige trench coat “They’re good. Mickey started crawling yesterday and Eva loves Kindergarten. Misty is good.” He nodded.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“That’s good. Hey, you spend as much time as you can with those little rug rats! They grow up fast. “ Chris said as he placed the open 5 under his glass.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey uh, why don’t you go home at lunch and spend it with Misty. I’ll go back to the station and read the story. Just text me the link. I’ll fill you in on the cliff notes later.” Chris insisted.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, ok. Thanks man.” Michael thanked Chris’s kind gesture. He felt sorry for Chris. Everybody did. Everyday they saw death and violence of all types: Shootings, stabbings, suicides, strangulations, decapitations, rape. Yet, other cops couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine losing their families to the darkness of the streets. Chris Priest had been that cop who had it all. Then in a brilliant flash, he lost what was most important. The spark, the fire, that which kept him from losing his mind after seeing all of the ugly that he had seen, his saving Grace. <ac_metadata title="Writing a novella. Early stages.  How is it going?  Feedback please."> </ac_metadata>