I believe I had been in the library ever since breakfast. I was reading a terribly interesting account of Napoleon in Russia and I was quite absorbed, so I was rather startled by Mrs White’s yell.
(I quizzed him regarding the Reverend’s account regarding meeting the Colonel on the stairs from the bedrooms.)
You must forgive me if I forget any details, I am an old man and I have seen too many battles. The good Reverend is quite right of course. Upon looking up from the book, I had noticed it was starting to grow dark. I quickly returned to my room to dress for dinner and that is when I heard Mrs White’s exclamation. According to Black, he had been having terrible trouble with her recently, I am not sure why.
Note: The Colonel made no account of any argument with Doctor Black.
I was in my room in the North Wing, as I had been since breakfast. When I heard Mrs White’s screams, I rushed out and met Colonel Mustard on the stairs. I was momentarily surprised that the Professor was not there too, as his room is adjacent to mine, but I suppose he was busy with his experiments.
I had kept myself to myself all day as Dr Black had asked me to give a service and I needed to prepare. I was to use a passage from Hebrews regarding forgiveness, 10:12-14. The Colonel had suggested it. I wonder why he was so concerned with forgiveness on the day of such a horrible murder? To tell the truth, I had seen the Colonel and the Doctor having an argument earlier. It’s all rather suspicious, don’t you think?
Note: The Reverend had a grease stain on his trousers.
There has been a murder at the mansion of Dr Black and I have been called in to investigate. Dr Black was hosting five of his friends, an eclectic group comprised of the Rev. Green, a local priest, Colonel Mustard, Black’s commanding officer in Africa, Miss Scarlet, a prominent beauty down from London, Mrs Peacock, a wealthy widower, and Prof. Plum, Black’s long-time research partner. Mrs White, the housekeeper, was also at the residence when the crime was committed.
Dr Black was found by Mrs White in the conservatory just before dinner was to begin. His head had been caved in by a blunt object and, upon my arrival, I found a blood and grease covered wrench in the mud of the garden near by. Any prints that may have been there were washed away by the dreadful rain that so plagued my journey here.
My investigations continue.
Ending: synonym for a new start.
The snow don’t so much crunch as squelch beneath Henry’s feet.
“Finally, its thawing.” Henry had long ago taken to talking to himself. He had decided that it represented a saner kind of insanity than a complete absence of human voices would’ve caused.
The quickly melting snow didn’t help him move any faster though. Instead of marching on top of compacted ice crystals, every step now proved a rescue mission for his legs as the quagmire of slush and mud tried to hold them tight.
Suddenly he stopped, and looked around. Footsteps. Not human, not always. Henry tried to run, knowing it would be no good. Their paws were much better suited to the terrain. He could tell they were close, the howls confirmed it.
There was a wolf in front of him.
It was a wolf no more.
Sometimes I miss you most when you’re sitting right next to me. If you weren’t there I wouldn’t be reminded how much we’ve both changed. But when you are, when I can feel you close but still distant, holding yourself away from even accidental contact, it’s like the ocean has suddenly risen up leaving us on opposite sides of the world.
I know it used to be different, we’d laugh and joke, talk and cry, but holding on to those memories is like trying to hold on to my shadow. They’re always there, with me wherever I go, but they lack any detail, they’re flat, just absence. You were once the light, bringing everything into focus, and now you’re the dark void where light used to be.
I miss you, and I think you miss me. You are my shadow, and I think I’m yours too.
When you were a kid, did you lie on your back and see what shapes you could find in the clouds? I think everyone does it. If not the clouds, then maybe you saw a face in your mash potato, a dog in some smoke, Jesus on your toast. I once saw Michael Jackson in steam on a mirror. Did you know that that phenomenon, that moment of spotting a familiar pattern somewhere that pattern can’t really exist, is called pareidolia? Did you know it comes from the Greek words ‘para’, meaning alongside, or in this case wrong, and ‘eidōlon’ meaning image? I bet you didn’t, I had to use Wikipedia.
When I look up to the clouds now though, I don’t see shapes and I don’t see the ‘wrong-image’. I don’t see anything because I’m only ever looking for the right image, and she went away.