Arkansas Writer's Conference 1st Place Winner

A Day in the Life of a Serious Author

(Based on actual events. Names were omitted to protect the annoying.)

    

     If you are reading this, you are a writer. You know. Whether you write in your spare moments or full time, you’ve heard the comments. For some reason, those who are not writers seem to think that if you have an hour to write, it means that you sit down at the computer and type, non-stop, for an hour.  The uninformed say the silliest things.   

  “So, you’re a writer. It must be great working from home. How nice to have all that free time.”

     “How’s that book coming along? You still haven’t finished? How long have you been working on it?”

     “Can you run a little errand for me? It will only take ten minutes. You have plenty of time to get it done.”

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 “You can dog sit for us for the next few weeks, right? It shouldn’t be more than a month. What else have you got to fill your time?”

     While it is true that my schedule can be more flexible than the average nine to five workday; working from home is fraught with pitfalls and stumbling blocks to productivity. An average day often goes like this:

     I get up, walk the dog, let the cats out, and begin getting the husband off to work. After breakfast and a brief discussion of the morning news, I kiss my spouse and hand him his lunch as he walks out the door. The cats come in. I feed the cats, turn off the television and turn on my laptop. After a brief run through of my email and a quick glance at FaceBook, I find that it is noon. I let the cats out, step into my shoes and walk the dog. I ignore the sink full of dirty dishes and the overflowing laundry basket because I am serious about my craft.

     I open the word document that will become the novel I meant to finish two years ago. Reading through the last few pages, I find myself editing. The insistence of the meowing feline outside drags me from my chair. I let the cat in. It only takes a moment to throw in a load of clothes. (Even serious writers need clean underwear.) I get back to my desk. Staring at the blank space on the screen, I try to form the sentences to write the story I already know.

     After what seems an eternity, I’ve written four words.  The cat leaps onto my desk. I ignore him because I am a serious writer. I ignore him until he reaches out with his little paw to poke me. (He’s a poker.) I let the cat out. The other cat comes in. I spend another eternity staring at the blank screen. I write three sentences, delete two, write a few more, stare some more. The cat hops up on the desk knocking things about (she’s a little overweight) and proceeds to rub her

                                                                                                      

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face against the corner of my laptop, shoving it a bit with each rub. I get the message. I let the cat out. Since I’m up, I move the laundry to the dryer.

     I wonder, have I showered today? A quick shower revives me. I wear my daily uniform of yoga pants and a t-shirt. Since I must leave the house to run errands, I even wear a bra. I walk the dog, let the cats in, and spend the next hour jetting about completing mini-quests assigned by various family members.

     While out, I run into an old co-worker. “Are you still writing that book?” She asks.

     I resist the urge to flip her the finger and smile. “I’m working on it.”

     Back at home, I let the cats out and feed the dog. It is now nearly three o’clock. Hubby will get home at five. I spend the next hour and a half frantically doing research. (Modern serial killers, sword making, body disposal, medieval weaving, carrot cake recipes) At 4:30, Hubby arrives home.

     “Guess who got off early?” He asks. (Like I didn’t know) “I know you’re working. I won’t bother you.” He acknowledges that I am a serious author. He even closes my office door so that the television doesn’t distract me. I stare at the screen, hands poised above the keyboard, reaching for just the right phrase. I write two sentences before Hubby peeks into my office. “You won’t believe this.” He simply must show me a tweet by one of his favorite soap actors. (He’s secretly a soap fan.)

     “I love him”, I keep telling myself. He retreats from my scowl. Over the next twenty minutes, I manage to pound out a few paragraphs. Hubby’s excited visage again appears in my doorway.

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“You gotta see this double play.” I take a few deep breaths, trying not to think about how much lye it would take to dissolve his body. He’s not a big guy.

     “Seriously?” Something about my demeanor sends him scurrying back to the living room. I try to concentrate on the words in front of me but the muse has fled. It’s almost six anyway. I throw a frozen pizza in the oven for dinner. After a few mind-numbing hours of television, I do the dishes. Because I am a serious writer, my mind is always on my work.  Standing at the sink, elbow deep in suds, I have a great idea. Leaving my half-finished task, I retreat to my office to scribble down my ideas in a notebook. Three hours later, I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve written almost one thousand words. Unfortunately, tomorrow I will delete nine-hundred-fifty of them. But for now, at least I’ve accomplished something. 

     If you’re reading this, you are a writer. You understand. Seriously.

Arkansas Writer's Conference 2nd Place Winner

A RED STILLETO

The strobing red and blue lights of the police cruisers guided Detective Hamilton Tucker. He parked his car a ways back so that he might survey the scene upon approach. The activity was on the north side of the railroad tracks in a depressed and nearly deserted industrial area.

     “Hey, Tucker.” A heavy set police officer waved him over. “Have you lost weight?” They both laughed.

     Tucker patted his belly. “Don’t joke. I’ve been trying to stay in shape. And Blake, it wouldn’t hurt you to say no to a burger once in a while.”

     “Yeah. Yeah.” Blake chuckled and rubbed his round gut protruding over his belt. “I passed my fitness test.”

     Glancing ahead at the still figure covered with a white sheet, Tucker’s mood sobered. “Tell me what we’ve got.”

    

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     Blake snapped to business, pulling his notebook. “Witness, Jackson Nelson, works for the railroad.” He began. They walked alongside the train cars toward the body. “Says they were coupling cars; he was checking lines or something, when she landed right behind him. Scared the crap out of the guy.”

     “Landed?” Tucker cocked an eyebrow.

     “Looks like she fell from the top.” Blake motioned to the round tanker car up ahead.

     “And the victim?”  Tucker stooped under the yellow tape.

     Blake followed. “No ID. 20 something. Caucasian female. Blonde. Well dressed. She’s been dead a while. We’re still waiting on the M.E. for C.O.D.”

     Tucker lifted the sheet. The girl lay twisted at an unnatural angle. He squatted beside the body to get a closer look. The morning breeze lifted her blonde tresses around the stillness of her pale face.

     “Now tell me what you see, Tuck. I see those wheels turning.” Blake had his notebook at the ready.

     “You’re right about the 20 something. And the clothes are high-end. Abrasions on her face and scalp where she hit the rocks, but no blood. She was definitely dead when she landed. The question is how did a girl in high heels get atop a tanker car?” Tucker shifted his gaze from the tanker, up the tracks, and back to the girl. He peered at a single red stiletto. “Manolo Blahnik. Very expensive shoes. Let’s find the other one.”

    

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     Tucker motioned to a young, uniformed officer. “Where’s my witness?” The officer nodded in the direction of a man sitting on the metal steps of the abandoned warehouse. “Find that other shoe. Check both sides of the train.”

     The man on the steps had his head down. His arms hugged his sides. “Mr. Nelson?” Tucker’s voice seemed to startle him.

     “Yes, sir.” He mumbled.

     “Are you alright?” Tucker leaned down to make eye contact.

     Jackson Nelson glanced up into the detective’s clear blue eyes and relaxed a bit. He sat up, unwinding his body. “Yes, sir.” He spoke up.

     “Shall I call you Jack?” Tucker motioned to the embroidered name above the left pocket of the man’s work uniform.

     “Yes sir.” Jack repeated.

     “I’m Detective Hamilton Tucker. Everyone just calls me Tucker, for obvious reasons.” Jack smiled and relaxed a bit more. “Now Jack.” Tucker’s voice was low and soothing. “Tell me everything that happened, starting with…”

     “I heard this loud thud behind me.” Jack interrupted. “I jumped around and she was just layin’ there and I could tell that she was…” He began breathing heavily.

     Tucker put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Wait, Jack. Calm down. Take a few deep breaths.”

     Jack complied. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen a dead body before.”

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      “That’s okay.” Tucker’s calm voice quelled Jack’s fear. “Start earlier. Run down the hour before all that happened. Where were you?”

     “I was checking the strings. This here used to be a railyard with warehouses and such but now it’s just a coupling station. Strings of cars get dropped and picked up. We were coupling ours.” He glanced back at the two men in railroad uniforms standing with Blake.

     “Do you always check the strings?” Tucker drew Jack’s attention back to task.

     “Usually, yeah.” Jack continued.

     “And where did these particular cars come from?”

     “We had a short string on the branch line. We coupled those first. These here came from a long string back down this lead track. It stretched all the way under the bypass.”

     “And you didn’t try to move or touch the body?”

     “No, sir.”  Jack was adamant. “It was obvious that she was, you know, dead. I radioed Frank and he called you guys.

     “Did anyone touch or tamper with the car she fell from?” Tucker asked.

     “No, sir. We just kind of stood around trying not to look at her until the first cop got here.”

     Tucker handed Jack his card. “If you remember anything else, call me.”

     The young officer trotted toward Tucker with an evidence bag. “I found your shoe, Detective Tucker. Well, not your shoe.” He grinned.

     “Just Tucker is fine.” He took the bag containing a red stiletto.

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      “Butler, sir. I’m Officer Butler.”

     “Let me guess, Butler. You found the shoe under or near the bypass.”

     “Yes, sir. Uh, Tucker. It looks like someone dumped her body from the bypass on to the tanker car below. If they did it at night, they probably didn’t know there were cars parked on the tracks.”

     Tucker slapped Butler on the shoulder. “Good thinking. When the cars jostled around as they got hitched up and moved, our lady slid off the round tanker.”

     Butler looked thoughtful. Tucker noticed. “What is it, Butler?”

    Blake finished with the others and sauntered over.  “He’s got that same look on his face that you get when the wheels are turning in your head,” Blake commented. “Speak up, Officer.”

   Butler obliged.  “Well, I was just thinking. I come over the bypass quite a lot and you see trains parked under there all the time. What if they meant to land the body on a car? If it had been a flat top car, the young lady may not have fallen off at least until the train got up to speed. She could have been dumped miles from here.”

     Blake looked impressed. “That’s a good point. But, what if they were trying to leave her body on the tracks below to get run over by the train to hide C.O.D.?”

     “That’s where I come in.” The M.E. was a tall, shapely woman with hot pink hair and skin the color of smooth dark chocolate. She snapped several pictures of the body from different angles. “My preliminary findings agree with you. Your girl was dumped. The odd position of the body

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tells me that she was tossed soon after she died. Rigor set in during the hours she was up there.” M.E. Les Lively pointed to the tanker car.

     “C.O.D.?” Tucker asked.

     Les bent to lift an eyelid. “See that? Petechial hemorrhaging indicates that she was strangled or suffocated.  The absence of ligature marks says suffocated. I’ll know more when I get her on the table.” Two orderlies zipped up the body bag and loaded it into the van.

     Tucker waited while Les signed the paperwork and handed it off to the orderly. “I know what you’re going to say.” Les flashed him her thousand watt smile. “I’ve already taken her prints and sent them electronically. If your girl is in the system, we’ll know shortly.”

     Back at the station, Detective Tucker poured himself a cup of coffee. His cell rang. He answered, “Tucker.”

     “Hey, Tucker. It’s Les. We got an ID on your girl from the train.”

     “That was quick.”

     “Her prints were in the system. She worked at a daycare a few years ago. They ran criminal background checks and prints. Our girl’s name is Jessica Lincoln.”

     “Thanks, Les. I appreciate it.” Tucker poked at his computer. “Hey, while I’ve got you, anything else you can tell me about Jessica Lincoln?”

     “Not yet. I’ve got the lab rats running a blood panel and some fibers we found on her. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything. Oh yeah. She had a lottery ticket tucked into her bra.”

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     Detective Tucker found the DMV photo of his murder victim. The smiling face of the perky blond in the picture was a far cry from the pale stiff from this morning. Scribbling down her address, he grabbed his cell. He called Blake from the car. “Blake, can you meet me at 206 Cherry Avenue, apartment C? I got an ID on our girl from this morning.”

     “Sure thing Tuck.” The officer obliged. “I’ll meet you there in ten.”

     Tucker parked behind Blake’s cruiser. “Shouldn’t you have a partner?” Blake chided the detective. Tucker growled and shot him a look. They headed up the sidewalk toward apartment C.

     From behind them, a young woman called out. “Can I help you?” Two young ladies in nail salon flip flops heel walked toward them.

     “Do you know the girl that lives here?” Blake asked.

     “I live here.” The tall brunette spoke up. “What’s this about?” She looked concerned. “Did something happen to Jess?”

     The other girl exclaimed. “I’ve been texting her all morning. I knew something was wrong. I even called her mother.”

     Tucker flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Tucker. This is Officer Blake. May we come in and speak with you; maybe take a look around?” His voice was low and soothing.

     “Come on in.” The girls waddled inside. “What happened? Is she okay?” They spoke simultaneously.

     “First let me get your names.” Blake snapped open his notebook. “Do you both live here?”

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     “I’m Amanda Franklin.” The first girl was short and stout with rainbow colored hair in a short bob. “I live a block over on Blossom Court. Jess was supposed to be at the nail salon this morning for pedicures. She loves pedicures. But Lydia said she didn’t come home last night. Isn’t that right Lydia? I texted her, like a million times and even called her mother, but she hasn’t seen her since last week. Is she missing? Has something happened?”

     Blake looked at Tucker. Tucker nodded his consent. Blake patted the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but we found Jessica’s body this morning.” Tears and wailing ensued.

     Tucker motioned to Blake. “You get their statements. I’ll have a look around.” Tucker noted the apartment was furnished with mismatched older furniture. Jessica’s bedroom was something of a surprise. It was sparse. There were inexpensive art prints on the walls, a futon mattress on the floor, and a small dresser. He checked the closet. There were designer labels on more than half the items there. He continued through the apartment while Blake calmed the girls and took their information.

     Upon leaving, Tucker took notice of the old car parked out front. “That belong to one of them?” He nudged Blake.

     “That’s Lydia’s ’99 Mazda. You got something? You have that look in your eye again.”

     Tucker looked thoughtful. “Maybe. We’ll see.” He headed for his car. “Oh, Blake. I owe you one for taking their statements.”

   

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      “Yep. Drinks are on you this week.” Blake handed Tucker a piece of paper. “Here’s their info. I figured you may have some follow up questions. See you back at the station.” He waved and got into his cruiser.

     Back at the station, Blake found Detective Tucker at his desk. “What do we have, Boss?”

     Tucker eyed him. “I’m fairly certain I know what happened. We need to get those girls in here for questioning. A confession always makes things easier. Bring the young ladies. You can put them in the interrogation room together.”

     “You think one of those girls…never mind. I know better than to argue with your gut.” He sprinted for the door.

     The grizzled detective sat across from Lydia and Amanda. “Is there anything you ladies need to tell me that perhaps you neglected to tell Officer Blake?” Lydia shook her head.

     “I wish I knew something else to tell you.” Amanda began to tear up again. “Jess is my…was my best friend.”

     “Can you tell me about this?” He plopped down an evidence bag containing a lottery ticket. “It seems Jessica had a winning lottery ticket on her.”

     Lydia perked up. She looked hard at the ticket. “You found it? I knew that it was a winner.” She reached for the bag.

     Tucker moved the bag from her reach. “That’s evidence.”

    

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     “That’s funny,” Amanda commented. “Jess never spent money on anything frivolous. Lydia is obsessed with the lottery.” She elbowed her friend. “You always think you’re going to hit the jackpot.”

     “I bought the ticket,” Lydia spoke up. “I should get it back, right?” She licked her lips.

     Detective Tucker’s steel blue eyes drilled into Lydia’s nervous gaze. “I know what happened. You can tell me your side and it will go easier for you.”

     Amanda looked puzzled. “What? What is he talking about?” She stood. “What’s going on?”

     “Amanda, why don’t you go with Officer Blake. Lydia and I need to have a conversation.” Tucker’s manner commanded the rainbow-haired girl. She left the room in a daze. Tucker focused all his attention on Lydia. “I know you killed your roommate over the lottery ticket.”

     Lydia broke. She cried angry tears. “Those winnings will get me out of debt. I can pay off my student loans and quit working at the coffee shop.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “She’d just spend it all on clothes. Always with the designer clothes. She sold her car to buy those stupid Manolos!” She fumed. “She’d rather ride the bus, she said. But what she really meant was that I could take her wherever she needed to go. She said she had to dress for success. She was a barista with an art history degree!” Lydia was shouting. “So yeah. I couldn’t take it. She said she didn’t know where the ticket was, but I knew she had it. I was putting a bag in the kitchen can because her majesty couldn’t be bothered to take out the trash. It was so easy.” Lydia laughed scornfully. “I threw the bag over her head and held on until she stopped twitching.”  Lydia breathed a sigh of relief.

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      Tucker pushed a legal pad and pen in front of her. “Write it all down, including how you moved the body, and sign it.”

     Lydia looked up at him with haunted eyes. “After dark, I carried her to my trunk. It was surprisingly easy. She didn’t weigh that much. I dumped her over the bypass. I imagined she’d be carried out of town.”

     “Write it down.” Tucker tapped the pad.

     “What about my lottery ticket? You said it was a winner. Am I going to get that back?”

     “No. As I said. It’s evidence.” Tucker shook his head. “It was a winner. You had three numbers. You killed your friend for $200.”

    

              

              

 

Arkansas Writer's Conference 1st Honorable Mention Winner

“Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda”

     Sinatra sang, “Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.” What bullshit! We all have regrets, some decidedly more than others. He may not care to mention them, but I guarantee that there were plenty. Now that I have reached a certain age, I can look back over my youth and see, with absolute clarity, that I was an idiot. I made some very bad decisions. Some were immediately obvious. A horribly short haircut I got at age 14 comes to mind. It was not pretty.  Sorry to be cliché, but it must be said. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

     It is difficult to narrow down my list of “youthful mistakes”. My first marriage ranks high on the list of monumental errors in judgement. I was a naive twenty-year-old. Why didn’t someone stop me? I was content with living together, but it was expected that he would make an honest woman of me. Once there was talk of a wedding, my twenty-year-old brain went into overdrive. (Dresses and flowers, oh my.)  Hind-sight being 20/20 and all that, I now realize that if we’d lived together a bit longer than three months before getting married, I would have kicked him to the curb. It would have saved me a lot of heartache. (Like Granny used to say,”woulda, coulda, shoulda, too late for excuses now.”)

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     That was definitely not the only blunder of my youth. One college semester I had two male roommates. They were unreliable, to say the least. One ran up a ridiculous phone bill making

long-distance calls to his girlfriend. (This was before everyone had a cell phone and back when long distance charges were a thing.) The other ate everything in the house. If I bought food, it was gone the next day. The guy was a bottomless pit who never bought groceries. Looking back, I see that semester going much better if I’d lived alone.

     Fear caused one great lapse in judgment. My senior year of college, I was on track to law school. I had the grades, finishing in the top ten percent of my graduating class. I scored well on the LSAT and was accepted by my school of choice. Unfortunately, rising student debt loomed on my horizon. I was paralyzed with dread of more financial liability. Instead of pushing forward to hit the books at law school, I folded. I took my Bachelor degree and moved to a tiny town where my first job was waitressing for less than my student jobs paid. It may have taken many years to pay off law school debt but it took many years to pay off the regular student debt working at low wage jobs. I might have had a career in law instead of a career in retail management. 

     The questionable decisions of my youth were numerous. Some less tragic than others. Bad haircuts grow out. Bad marriages leave scars. Lost opportunities rarely come back around.

     I suppose that I’m an optimist. Looking back through wiser eyes I see the benefits of a few of those foolish decisions. The first marriage was traumatizing. However, I recovered and remarried. I appreciate my wonderful husband all the more for the experience.

    

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     The unreliable guys stepped up and took care of me when I suffered from a brown recluse bite. They waited on me hand and foot for three days and helped me obtain crutches so that I could go to class. Those terrible male roommates still keep in touch over 25 years later.

      Skipping law school was foolish and short-sighted. However, who can say if having a prestigious career working for myself would have made me happy? And I am happy. I prefer not to dwell. Granny was right. It is too late for excuses now.