Click images for desktop size: "Rebooted: Semi-Simple" by J3Concepts I thought about a story I written but never finished.
It's about a young cop looking to get famous by catching a notorious nasty serial killer. It starts in the more distant reaches of the Malibu Hills. The young cop is sitting on the ground, his gun in his hand. He is bleeding to death, his jugular has been ripped open. He does his best to staunch the blood but when he moves his hand it spurts in livid purple arcs against the clean blue morning sky.
Someway from him is the corpse of the serial killer.
The cop knows he is going to die. He's been held prisoner by the serial killer. No one knows where he is. He's going to die.
There'll be no one to hear his last words. No one to act foolish. No one to try and control their emotions. No one being tough and trying to be humorous.
He's going to die, slowly and all alone. He can't decide if this is the worst of deaths or the best of them.
It doesn't matter. Really. He's going to die.
The story continued with him remembering his life. the way he ended up here. I like cliché's. After a brief memory of his childhood and adolescence and his first love we get to an argument with his wife. An argument that describes virility as the amount of money in your paycheck.
It's that argument that causes him to meet an incredibly wealthy 127 year old woman. She grew up in the west. She was a whore, the best whore in New Orleans. She went through a series of wealthy men and used her money to at first, preserve her beauty, and then and now to try and keep her alive.
She gives the young cop the bounty to bring in the serial killer. Making a promise she can keep in both money and political favors.
From there the story just went out of control.

What made me remember the story was finding out that the little kitten my puppy found didn't make it through the night. The vet didn't charge me anything but I paid for a proper cremation. It felt only right.
The same way I knew I didn't want a little thing to die alone, frightened and cold I knew I didn't want it thrown into a ceremonial pile to be dust and scattered with strangers.
I don't like things dying.

Click images for desktop size: "Flying Fish" by Thomas Roemfeld
The World Series is on. My puppy is sleeping on my bed. This pleases me. Roy Oswalt is a fascinating pitcher. I think he's brilliant. He struck out the first man he faced and it was a beautiful, masterful pitch that got the job done.
I don't have to work tomorrow but I have to go back to the clinic. I hate it but I have to go.
I'm hoping to be done in time to take my puppy to therapy dog class. She hates it there in direct proportion to how well she's doing. She hates being good.
I've decided that I get serious in my new job search right before Thanksgiving.

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