The Dectective

This is from another 10 min. writing session I did. I really enjoy these, and I might try to make a habbit of doing one every friday.

The Detective

            Thoughts came fleetingly, they pass through the mind in butterfly kisses. So tantalizing and yet just hovering out of reach. When one makes a grasp their fingers slide away and they are left empty handed.

            Those were the words written in the book sitting on the table. It was opened about half-way through to page 162. What is the significance of that number? I did not know, only I thought it was worth mentioning. It reminded me of a dream I had once. There was a long dark hall way and at the end a door, painted on the door was a number. Was it that very same number? I do not quite think so.

            There was a woman with green eyes; it appeared almost as if she were watching me. She "sat" in a chair just across from the book. I had to wonder, was it her book? But there was no way to know for certain. It seems there can be no answers.

 It almost felt as if her ghost was in the room and my attention was drawn to the window. I could hear the sound of birds just outside as I watched the sunny day beyond this dreary scene, but still as if by some old instinct I could almost taste the rain that was to come.

Somewhere beyond monks prayed for the sound of church bells could be heard ringing outside the window, but here there was nothing left to be done. Witnesses had been questioned and no one saw the gun that delivered the final blow. Somewhere came a sound, and then voices began to surround me and I was brought back out of my thoughts to the present reality.

I found in my hand a cup of coffee, and I knew this was just another day for me, but at times I had to ask myself how much more of this could I take? I felt the pressure weigh me down and it felt for a moment like I couldn’t breath. That is when the smell of death and decay began to get to me and I had to leave.

5:16 PM - 1/19/2007 - post comment

For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. ~The Monk

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