So if you want short random pieces of writing with no apparent purpose, this is the place for you (and me).
I'll kick off with this little attempt at writing noir. I used the confines of a Xena uber to try to create a film noir feeling. Let me know if it works, or not.
Poetry In Motion
My life had turned into a grey cloud of surreal simplicity. I worked and I slept. Pathetic really, I couldn't even be a real police stereotype and drink and smoke myself to an early death. No, I was already dead. My only reprieve was sleep, which took me away from a life I did not understand why I had been blessed with. People kept telling me how grateful I should be, what a miracle it was that I was still alive. Talking about it as if it was something positive. Personally I felt cheated. I had been given a chance on death but the f'cking doctors had robbed me of it. So here I was, still alive. Living a grey life filled with paranoia and mistrust, and on cold days (this time of the year that meant every day) a damp pain to my shoulder and stomach. I lit the cigarette dangling from my lips, pulled my coat closer hoping it would ward of some of the fog and the gentle rain and willing the night to be over with so I could go home and sleep.
I slowly inhaled the addictive smoke from the cigarette in my mouth, taking my time before starting my day, or to be correct night. Casually watching the press that was already gathering like vultures around the burnt out theatre. I never could understand them, feeding off others misery. Not that my life or the way I lived it was to be celebrated, but how could you live with yourself doing something like that for a living. The local news-van was in place along with a bunch of reporters and photographers from the local newspapers. Most of them I recognised from previous crime scenes, always there to bother us and the victims with a relentless stream of asinine questions. Some faces were new, but I saw no point in memorising them. You didn't need to know what someone looked like to ignore them, no my method of ignoring them all worked much better than having an endless row of reporter faces occupying space in your head.
I sucked in another lungful of the smoke from the toxic little stick between my lips, pondering the case I was about to be engulfed by. That's how it worked. Really, you didn't work a case, you didn't solve a case, you didn't understand a case, you were engulfed by them. They consumed you and used you until they had played out. The similarities to a play far to great to be ignored. Somehow it did feel rather ironic that my first case back on active duty was indeed one involving a burnt our theatre. The small things were the only things that could entertain me now a days.
So what did I know, I wondered as I crushed the cigarette under the heel of my sneaker. One burnt out theatre. One dead diva. One cast full of suspects. I sighed as I dodged underneath the police tape sealing off the area for anyone not able to flash a governmental badge of some kind.
Time to get to work.
I could feel eyes on me, following my movements. A position I was familiar enough with to know that there was no criminal intent behind the eyes. No, my body wasn't tingling like it always did when danger was near. No, these were just eyes, still they bothered me. I quickly spun around and pushed my arm out and forced my watcher up against the wall. My arm was resting over the chest of a young blonde woman. She was hardly the type of person one would expect to be sneaking around a crime scene. Her short blonde hair hung loosely around and just below her ears. Her face was open and surprisingly friendly despite the death grip I was holding her in. Her eyes were green, or possibly blue I couldn't really tell in the somewhat shady lighting of the corridor. One thing I could tell though was that the eyes were sparkling, there was something to them. Something that almost made me want to crack a smile, almost. A big professional camera hung around her neck revealing what this little angel was doing in a place like this. So much for angel, vulture was more appropriate. Her softly peach coloured lips began to move and form words.
"Are we gonna stand like this for long?" the cheeky little bastard had the nerve to ask me. The nondescript eyes were smiling up at me, despite my upper hand. Somehow she didn't seem to be frightened by the slight sneer I knew I was sporting or the fact that I was a good five inches taller than her. No this little monkey had guts. "Not that I really mind," she added with a slight leer, looking down at our closely linked bodies. Oh, she had guts alright.
I removed my arm from her chest and took a step back. She never stopped smiling at me, I wanted to take that grin of her face and I had a number of ideas how to. I grabbed the press pass she had dangling around her neck.
"Sophia Morton," I read aloud and knew I'd remember that name and face for a very long time. On the pass the same face was looking back at me, only there was something different in the smile on the photo. Somehow the photo wasn't as unnerving or intense. I mentally shrugged and looked at the real Sophia Morton again. "You do know that you are trespassing on private property, as well as disturbing a crime scene," I shoot off in my best and most official voice. Her smile faded somewhat, but her eyes were still sparkling. I half expected her to bat her long blonde eyelashes and ask me; What's wrong officer?
"I know," she replied and straightened the shirt I had wrinkled when pushing her to the wall. I didn't reply, I only gave her a look. "I'm sorry, but I took a few -" she continued, I didn't let her finish.
"Get the hell out of here! If I see you or your camera anywhere near this or any other crime scene again, I will have you arrested," I said. I turned my back on her, determined to have seen the last of her.
"But -" she objected.
"Now," I fired off in my no nonsense voice. I didn't stay around to watch her leave, but as I headed down the corridor I could hear her steps heading in the opposite direction.
The fire had only really affected the front rooms, reception and entrance hall. The theatre itself and the backrooms, the actors loges were still intact if somewhat well smoked. Something that luckily would make our jobs a lot easier. There was nothing as frustrating as a burnt out room and a charcoaled victim.
In the middle of the room a young man in an immaculate grey suit was standing frantically scribbling notes in his small notepad. He subconsciously threw his head back to remove the strawberry blonde curls that had fallen into his face. That man needs a haircut was my first impression. He must have realised that he no longer was alone and looked up from his pad. A wide smile graced his lips as he saw me and I couldn't help wondering exactly how old he was. He had a boyish face and the wild curls dancing around his ears did nothing to advance his age. Christ, my first case back and they throw me a rookie.
"Sergeant Ryan," he said and extended his hand. He was still smiling from ear to ear. I really didn't understand why everyone found it necessary to be smiling, it was a cold mother of a night and we were on a crime scene. A frown I understood, a smile…? I dubiously extended my own hand which he quickly grabbed and shook enthusiastically. "It's a pleasure to meet and get to work with you. I'm Patrick John."
I shrugged a noncommittal response before asking, "What do we know?"
His eyes darted back to the notepad and the smile disappeared as he flipped through the pages. "Caucasian female. COD blunt trauma to the head pending autopsy. The night security guard id-ed her as Jasmine Piper, star of their latest production."
None of the information news to me as I had talked to the coroner on the way in, but I nodded in reply.
"We're locating the rest of the cast and production team at the moment. Apparently Miss Piper had no immediate family to be contacted," he continued to offer. This however was new information to me, but far from surprising.
As he spoke the coroner on duty, which tonight was Charles Byrnes who'd been doing the job for as long as I had, and then some. He knew his $@%* and was never one to fumble, a man after my own heart. He looked over at me and I nodded, at which he proceeded to remove the body. The CSIs had done their job, no need for the body to stay. As soon as the poor woman got a little rest and peace, the better.