Tag Archives: Crime Fiction

My Sweetheart ( A Valentine’s Day Noir )

“My sweetheart!”..that random thought arced across the empty horizon of his mind illuminating its darkest corners like the flashbulb of a papparazzi camera.

He saw you there, there in the magazine, there on stage. there on the screen.Pristine,immaculate ; in black in white and in full glossy color.

You filled his eyes,sparkled and dazzled them in black ,in white and in full glossy..

The  hire car had taxed his already somewhat meagre budget that he’d calculated would be sufficient to draw this adventure to a successful conclusion.But it was a necessary investment ,after all anything even moderately inferior in style and quality than this latest model Porsche sports would raise furtive eyebrows here on the Boulevard Saint Michel.

And raised furtive eyebrows might become inquisitive,inquisitive as to what some tawdry, budget conscious vehicle was even doing parked in this pristine,immaculate area.

Pristine,immaculate – his thoughts strayed – just like your form,your shape.Sweet..heart! a form,a shape so casually,lazily represented as if painted by Michaelangelo in an Age of beauty and mystery.

The mystery he would soon reveal as no mystery at all.The bouquets ,the chocolates,the cards,the jewellery, all delivered by high end corporate business couriers and now on this very special,this unique occasion, Valentine’s Day,no more intermediaries would be necessary..

He sees you now. Pristine. Immaculate. Leaving your fancy apartment here on the Boulevard Saint Michel,

You are alone,You are pristine,You are immaculate;

He reaches for the syringe.And steps out to meet you..”Sweetheart!”

An Unsolved Case

the abandoned log cabin

at the foot of the mountains

far away from the nearest town ;

the place where over forty years ago

evil came to call ;

” a veritable charnel house ” ,

trumpeted newspapers at the time ;

they found crimson shaded footprints

leading off into the woods ,

the bodies got buried discreetly ,

the axes and various other tools were destroyed

fingerprints got wiped ,

no further enquiries ensued ;

the police inspector and aldermen of the town ,

cowered in a cold sweat

every night in their beds

as they listened to

the screaming …

The Winters and Their Dead

The Winters and their Dead ,
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom
do they belong ?
pale ,
withdrawn ,
forgotten ;
The small town
the jealousies that raged there ,
so very long ago ;
The hidden deeds ,
the buried bones ,
the Blue and Red lights ,
swirling and slashing
a very grey morning ;
Stirring the ghosts
re-opening their wounds ,
probing probing
for a thumbprint ,
a single hair ,
a thread of cloth on a wire ,
amid the Winters
and their Dead.