I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
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Challenge #46
Detective Brett Connors reached for his shirt while trying to gather his control. Slipping the Chargers t-shirt over his head, he was fighting a losing battle to the race of angry thoughts.
He had fought hard to overcome the compulsive urge to smash his fist into his lieutenant’s face when he was told he was on administrative leave for the next week. He did a slow burn while the lieutenant shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Look, Brett, be smart about this. Play the game and you’ll be back on the streets in a week. After all, we can’t have our star, Detective Maverick, on the sidelines. What would the press have to write about?”
Brett shifted a frigid, blue stare at his superior, his jaw clenched so tight, he felt the twitch of muscle snap against his temple.
“Okay, not funny, but you know this whole shrink-babble is nonsense. So, throttle back on that temper of yours and think about it. You visit the Doc a couple of times, dazzle her with that sharp mind of yours and kick back at the beach with a couple of Coronas for a few days.”
Visit the Doc. Oh yeah, he’d visit one Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney, Brett vowed silently. But it would be on his terms. It was all about control, baby.
Challenge #48
Brett watched the sun seize the darkness with its strong fingers of light. Taking a swig of beer, he toasted the breaking dawn.
The popular beach where he had his home was clear of any human form – just how he liked it. His sour thoughts quieted, waiting for the birth of a new day, comforted by the promise of hope. Here he faced the truth and found the embracing gain of forgotten dreams.
For his part, Brett could never play the political fake just to save his job. He was a cop, and no mask of any form could overcome the pain of a troubled life.
Challenge #50
Maggie walked into D Street Café, searching the sports bar for her friends. The press of bodies in the place made for tough navigation. Feeling lucky, Maggie made a turn around the bar, and finally spotted her three friends. At the same time, five-foot-nothing, Penny, placed her fingers between her lips and let out with a shrill whistle.
“Hey, Maggie, over here.”
Blushing from her auburn roots to her toes, Maggie ignored the provocative stare of a guy in a Celtics jersey. She was a Lakers fan and this was finals night. He didn’t have a prayer – on a sports level or a personal one.
Giddy with excitement, Penny raced over to her friend and gave her a hug belying her diminutive size.
“What took you so long to get here?” Penny shouted.
“A consultation with my boss took longer than I thought,” Maggie replied.
“Well, that’s un-American. Doesn’t he know it’s Game 7 of the NBA Finals? What’s the matter with him? He needs to get a life,” Penny whined.
Squeezing into the booth, Maggie shared hugs with Jane, a tall, slender blonde with the toned body of the marathoner she was.
Reaching over Jane, Sue Morris, Maggie’s life-long friend, hugged Maggie, uttering a sardonic, “Glad you could join us, Doctor.”
“Oh stop it, Sue,” Maggie smiled, “You can’t hold it against me that I take my job seriously.”
“Yeah, too seriously, if you ask me,” Sue replied.
“Well I didn’t. Hey, I got here before tip-off.” Gazing around the packed bar, Maggie observed, “This place is nuts.”
“Is that anyway for a psychologist to talk,” Penny giggled.
“Har-har. I’m officially off duty.”
“Well, good thing,” Jane replied. “You have a lot of catching up to do. We’ve been here since 4:00.”
“I kind of guessed that by Penny’s red nose meter,” Maggie chuckled.
“Hey, hey, it was sunny today,” Penny countered, “and I took the ankle biters outside to run down their batteries.”
Penny was a daycare teacher. Her small-framed exterior fooled more than one toddler bent on mischief.
Like Maggie, Penny never had children. She and her husband, Mark, had tried it all. At age 40, Penny stopped trying and resolved to live out her mother fantasy with other people’s children. Maggie tried to talk to her about adopting, but Penny always changed the subject.
Maggie looked around the cozy table of friends and smiled. They were her anchor, her sanity in a bottle she kept wrapped in her arms. She cherished each and every one of them. Without them, her life was flatter than the failed joke it sometimes felt like. They helped heal her tender and battered heart.
“Whoa, if we could bottle that and sell it, we could all retire,” Penny stared.
Wondering if Penny was reading her thoughts, Maggie asked, “What are you talking about, Penny?”
“It’s not ‘what’ but ‘who’ I’d like to know,” Penny replied, cocking her eyes over the top of Maggie’s shoulders.
Maggie turned and felt the lightening slice of the familiar sexy, blue stare of Detective Brett Connors.
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