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.
“Mark, you’re too cynical.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not cynical, I just have a realistic expectation that most things in the world are against me and that everything that isn’t is probably either too stupid or too boring to care about anyway.”
“So what am I?”
“What do you mean?”
Sally sighed. “Am I against you, stupid, or boring?”
“You know you aren’t any of those things.”
“Well, according to you, everything is one of them.”
“You’re different. You’re unique. You’re special.”
“How long has it been since you’ve actually believed anything that’s come out of your mouth?”
Mark, for once, had nothing to say. They’d had this argument, or ones like it, so many times before, but this felt different.
“You’re empty Mark, nothing but a chip on your own shoulder. I’m done… We’re done.”
She walked out. Mark stared after her. Now he really did feel empty.
Your eyes scream at me. I weep in response. It feels like blood.
“Please help.” You yell with every glance.
With each teardrop I shout, “I want to!” With each sob I whisper, “I can’t.”
You seem so small now, so shrivelled, like a grape left all day in the sun. Your eyelids droop, too heavy to hold open, your body slumps, all fight gone. You used to be full of such passion, such spirit, but I suppose that’s why it all had to end.
I clear my throat, “You did this.” It was supposed to be quiet, but it came out a shout, “You’re my husband, you’re meant to be mine.” You don’t respond. “That’s rude Sam.” I rattle the chains, still nothing. I think that you’ve gone.
I never want to swim again.
Obviously this wasn’t a good idea.
The unicorn made this really confusing.