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 #5
Brett’s search for his new home had not taken long. It was as if the small bungalow had his name written all over it. Built in 1955, it was a short block from the beach, in the Leucadia community of Encinitas, California – in the north county of San Diego. Thanks, in part, to the small fortune his grandmother left him, Brett made the realtor’s day by paying cash.
Sitting in a beach chair, not far from a danger zone for crashing waves, Brett monitored the kids building sandcastles. Wondering where the heck the parents were, his protective mode was on full throttle. With sun rays bouncing off his Ray-Bans and a five-day growth of beard, Brett had the dangerous look of a gunslinger bent on trouble. He wore the look naturally, like a second skin or a shield of armor.
The faint hint of a smile broke through as he watched the small boy run over to him and ask, “You want to play with my Buzz Lightyear?”
“That is a pretty cool astronaut.”
“He’s not an astronaut,” the boy bristled, “He’s a space ranger.”
“Ah, a space ranger. That’s much cooler than an astronaut.”
“Damn straight,” the boy responded.
That brought a burst of laughter from Brett. It had been a long time when he could laugh so easily.
“Michael James, get over here right this second!”
Rolling his eyes in a male conspiratorial expression, the boy whispered, “That’s my Mom.”
“Michael James…”
With an audible sigh, he turned his head and yelled, “Coming, Mom.”
Turning back with a mischievous grin, the boy raised his hand in the universal high-five and said, “See ya’.”
Slapping the small hand, Brett chuckled, “See ya’, buddy.”
He watched the boy join his Mom and the little girl he assumed was the boy’s sister. Prancing up and down, next to Mom, was a white poodle – definitely a chick dog. He’d bet cold hard cash, it wasn’t the boy’s choice.
As if in retaliation, the poodle lifted its leg on Brett’s blanket as the family parade made their way across the beach. Roaring in laughter, Brett warmed at the sound of the little boy’s giggle.
With a quick jerk on the boy’s arm, his mother pulled the boy along to a waiting limousine. “Welcome to southern California,” Brett laughed.
Slowly the smile faded as he was transported back to the dark recesses of his mind. He saw the murdered child, who was only slightly older than the boy on the beach. Headlines of journalism trash screamed the ugly truth, if only in his head – THOU SHALT NOT KILL – OOPS – I DID.
Challenge #8
One thing leads to another and suddenly you have a new job. Not entirely sure if that was a good thing, Brett Connors returned to the only thing he really knew – being a cop. Once more, Brett held the shield for a homicide detective.
Shedding the ruffian look he’d worn for the last six months, his return was like an old pair of jeans – worn around the edges but more comfortable than anything else.
He spent 25 years as a detective in San Francisco, a city always controversial, like the extrovert sibling caught between tranquility and chaos.
Too much isolation with unlimited access to the ugly side of life was the perfect recipe for collapse. That had been Brett’s life. It all came crashing around him with the death of an innocent child.
He left San Francisco. He left the force, and he nearly left his life. He moved back to the place of his childhood home, back to Encinitas, California. He regretted the changes, especially the loss of his grandmother, Nana Connors. He really could use the comfort of one who always loved him.
Nana had been his lantern in the dark feelings of an abandoned child. He never knew his father. His mother’s drug-filled world barely slowed to give him birth and she paid the ultimate price of abuse.
“God, get over yourself,” Brett grumbled.
His slide down the dark corridors of despair had kicked Brett into action. He made the call back to his life. The Encinitas homicide division was glad to have him and Brett hoped it was the right thing to do. So far, he skirted any suggestions of a meeting with the precinct’s shrink.
Placing his beer mug in the top rack, Brett pressed the On button, releasing the soft, and strangely comforting sound of the dishwasher. Peering out the kitchen window, he watched the stealthy movement of a slinking cat. Crouching, waiting, the cat pounced. With a wild flap of wings, the bird barely escaped the coffin trap of the feline felon.
“Another win for the good guys,” Brett reflected.
Maybe it was a sign. God had removed the barrier, as if to say, “Read between the lines.” Life goes on.
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