The Very Bad Detective, Part 2

Catch up with Part 1.

The officers were lined up along the hallway. Their heads were erect. Some of them had smiles on their faces. But most had an appropriately stern, but satisfied, look. The front door of the police station swung open. A bit of the lashing rain fell inside. Marching into the building were Detective Hatts and Grimes.

Between them was a large man, bound in handcuffs. His face was pinched and angry. The expression could have curdled milk. The police officers glared at the brute as he walked passed. Hatts and Grimes pushed the man along, serious as headstones. But they did allow the occasional wink and smile at their colleagues. At one point, Hatts indulged in a high-five.

The police watched as the detectives marched the man to a holding cell. They waited until the cell door clanked shut, before bursting into cheers. One of the grisliest murders the city had ever seen. And their own detectives brought in the culprit.

Maxwell Brogue missed the moment. He was in the bathroom.

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September 4, 2019September 4, 2019

A Small, Sad Dwarf Part 3

Catch up on the story: Part 1 and Part 2

A small sad dwarf found an abandoned home. What will he find inside?

The small dwarf entered the house. Creaking, the door swung shut behind him. It was dark inside, but his eyes were slowly adjusting. He thought he saw a small, bouncing ball of light, floating just outside his reach.

Floorboards creaked as he explored the house. It wasn’t very impressive. Just a single room with a pair of beds in one corner, a fireplace with a rusting cookpot, and a table in another corner. The dwarf looked at an old shelf against the wall. Strange, brown lumps were stacked side by side. He assumed they used to be books.

Everything about the house was brown and dirt-covered. Dust was kicked up into the air as he walked around. He reached the table, pulling out its one chair. It was a chair for a much taller person. A man, perhaps.

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August 27, 2019September 11, 2019

There’s No Such Thing as “Writer’s Block”

Or, How to Overcome “Writer’s Block”

Okay, I get it. Saying something like there’s no such thing as writer’s block is a pretty controversial thing. Even experienced writers say that writer’s block is real.

Some have written entire books on the subject. I’ve read about writers who stare at a blank page for hours, unable to come up with a single sentence.

I know, sometimes it’s hard to write. In fact, it can be very hard. But the concept of a mental “block” that prohibits you from finishing your story is not real.

But there is a real challenge that many writers face. One that can derail or upset the progress of a story/manuscript. A problem that is often mistaken for writer’s block is very real. But it can be overcome if you’re willing to work.

Oh yes, writing is work, just like any other craft. Writers just don’t sit down at a computer and watch the words fly onto the screen. Even the most prolific writers—who have produced countless books—didn’t start there.

The secret to all great writers is this: they write… A LOT.

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August 20, 2019September 11, 2019

The Very Bad Detective, Part 1

The flashbulb went off, illuminating the scene with a grizzly, stark light. Blood splattered the walls like a sick Jackson Pollock. And that was the nicest thing about it. The less said about the entrails, the better. Police officers and detectives gingerly stepped around the room, collecting what might be evidence.

Maxwell Brogue, however, was getting sick.

He stood at the door, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. The smell. Oh God, the smell. It permeated the room like a vile perfume. I don’t know if I could describe to you the kinds of smells present at a murder scene. Let’s just say, it makes a bus station bathroom more desirable.

Maxwell swallowed hard. He was fighting to push back the bile and late dinner rising in his throat. He knew he shouldn’t have sprung for a steak and fries at 10:30 at night. Also, the chocolate shake and apple pie. But how was he to know he would have gotten a call so soon after he paid the check? How did the police find him at that greasy spoon diner so quickly?

I guess he was getting too predictable. That’s not good, for a detective.

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August 13, 2019August 20, 2019

A Small, Sad Dwarf Part 2

A small sad dwarf sat at the end of the world. He remembered his name… now what?

There, at the end of the world, a small sad dwarf stroked the flower in his coat. The world around him was bleak and dark. Smoke floated away in an army of clouds. He had remembered his name. But he remembered little else. That was a start, at least.

The ground rumbled and he remembered something happened.
The dwarf kept walking across the field of blackened, burnt earth. There was not much to see. Through a break in the clouds, he thought he saw stars. Little twinkling fires, set in an ever-changing space. It wasn’t black, as he expected. There were reds and blues, pinks and orange like fire.

He wondered if there was something out there, tucked behind those little fires. But how could he find out?

And how would he ever get there?

It seemed as if the ground was rumbling harder. Or was it he was walking toward the source of the shaking? The wind kicked up, rustling the little flower in his coat. The dwarf cupped a hand over it, protecting it from blowing away.

But the wind grew stronger. It gusted like it was angry. Angry at the dwarf? Who could say? He had to crouch over, to prevent from being bowled over. The wind kicked up dirt and dust. The dwarf squinted his eyes. He considered turning back around to where he had come.
There was nothing back there. Why should he bother?

The dwarf found a hill and climbed it. It seemed like the wind calmed down just a bit. Below, the ground was a little less burned and little less… well, dead.

Somewhere in the distance, he saw something, sticking up out of the ground. It was big, bigger than a stone or boulder. The shape was kind of boxy, with straight square walls—

They were walls! Walls of a house. The dwarf had missed it earlier, because it was almost as black as all the rest. Dust must have covered the house, but it was still standing. Could there be something inside the house? Something that could help him remember?

Could there be someone inside?

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