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james-stark-the-writer-wips · 4 years

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A Year At The Opera - Excerpt

Chapter 12, Part 4: Joe

Word Count: 1700 words.

Sorry it's late, but the next ones are coming soon. I'm just editing some stuff. Hope you don't mind.

Joe turned into Rosewood Lane late afternoon. Saturday night had been rough and he may have had a little (about an entire bottle more than he should have been) too much to drink and he had spent all Sunday sleeping it off. But, it was a new week today. He’d sobered up and he couldn’t wait to get back to work and forget all about saturday night.

He stopped before the iron gate. Two guards stood on either side, armed with guns, looking at Joe in his car.

Rosewood Lane: the suburbia away from the suburbia, a paradise for the uber rich with around the clock security and state of the art surveillance. Every resident was guaranteed their privacy and safety. Joe could barely stomach the thought of having to live here. He wasn’t even inside yet and he could already see their smug faces in front of his eyes, looking at him as the outsider, someone who didn’t deserve to be among them, someone less than. It made Joe’s blood boil just thinking about it.

He lowered his window and tapped the button labelled ‘1205: Justice, C’ on the stand next to the door.

Static returned from the speaker before a woman spoke in a cheery voice. “Who is it?”

“This is Detective Joe Vega from the Ellesburg PD and I had some questions for Mrs. Justice.”

“This is she. Questions about what, detective?” She asked.

“It’s about your husband.” Joe responded. The static cut out and the gears of the gate began to move.

Rosewood Lane stood on the opposite end of Athea, away from the river Daine, high above the rest of the city, like a literal pedestal for the uber rich, overlooking the people beneath them. Joe had never been inside before.

From the inside, the place looked even more like it was built on the backs of exploited laborers or in other words, rich. As Joe made his way to the Justice house, he couldn’t help but notice all the non-white people tending to — most likely not their own — gardens, cutting the trees, cleaning up the area. A few women sat outside, self tanning in the sun while a few children moved along the streets, playing their games, enjoying their tiny, sheltered worlds.

Joe wondered if these people knew what happened outside their little paradise up here or if they were just blissfully ignorant.

Joe found his way to the Justice house fairly easily. The big mansion stood intimidatingly, distinguishable even in the fake utopia that was Rosewood Lane. Just from the outside, Joe could see eight windows on the top floor and six long ones on the bottom, the door sandwiched between the three long windows on each side. It rose high up, higher than most other houses around it. It somewhat reminded him of the front of the white house.

Pulling into the Justice house’s driveway, the door to the house opened and a woman, presumably Mrs. Justice from the look of her clothes, stood in the doorway, as if she couldn’t wait for Joe to ring the doorbell.

He stepped out of his car and locked the car behind him as he walked up the stairs onto the front porch of the house.

“Mrs. Justice?” Joe asked.

She nodded. “Please, come inside.” She moved aside to let him in.

He walked in and she followed him, quickly closing the door behind her.

“You said you had some questions?” She asked nervously.

“Yeah.”

“Please, let’s sit in the living room.”

“Alright.” Joe said, following her deeper into what seemed like an endless stream of doors. The ivory walls of the house rose high, the large dome shaped skylight at the top blasted sunlight in, making them seem even more white. The walls were decorated with a variety of objects, most of what Joe assumed to be antiques of some sort and some family photos. Every frame was golden, perfectly machined and manufactured, just like the pictures in those frames. Flawless. A disgusting image. A facade to show the world how perfect their family was. Joe suspected that was anywhere near the case.

The whole house was smattered with objects that brought some contrast to the stark white. If he wasn’t human, some onlooker would probably say he was the most contrasting thing there.

All the white around him was almost intimidating. Unblemished, untouched, pure. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted. He had a job to do.

“Right in here.” She said, opening a set of two large doors into a large open living room that screamed minimalist. No decorations, no frills. The only furniture was the sofas and some lamps beside them on tiny coffee tables. Two extremely comfortable looking alcoves separated by the TV on the wall decorated the rest of the room aside from the table in front on the sofa. In the bottom right corner of the room stood a tiny bookcase, all on its own, almost a distraction from the rest of the room’s minimalism. Sunbeams flooded the room from the alcove windows as Joe and Mrs. Justice sat down on the sofa. It was so quiet that the rubbing of Joe’s jeans against the white leather as he adjusted in his seat was the loudest sound in the room.

“So, Mrs. Justice—” Joe began.

“Please, Jessica is fine.”

“Alright, Jessica.” Joe took out his recorder and placed it on the glass table in front of him, turning it on.

“Please state your name for the record.” Joe said.

“Uh, this is Jessica Justice.” She said hesitantly. “What is this about, Detective?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about your husband.”

“Oh god.” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand and looking away. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.” Joe said quietly, nodding.

“When did it happen?” She asked, choking up.

“A few days ago, we just got the full autopsy this morning confirming it’s him.”

Really, by protocol, Joe should’ve informed her two days ago when he actually got Carson’s address and confirmation from Jeanie that it was actually Carson but he doubted Jessica would know that and other things had actually held him up.

“How…” Her voice was shaky. “How did he die?”

“Someone hit him with something really hard.” He took a breath. “And then buried him in Shadow Woods, near the border of Tenebris and Ellesburg.”

“Oh god.” She stood up.

“I know this might be a lot to take in…” Joe said calmly. He had always hated this part. Not because it was hard but because it was messy. Even after all this time, he’d never figured out exactly how to console the people. And he loved his job but god he hated being the messenger of news like this and being put in this position.

“What are your questions, detective?” She turns, wiping tears from her face.

“Well, I was just wondering when you last saw Carson.”

“I think it was August the 30th?” She sat down again. “He had a habit of disappearing for days without contact.”

“Is that why you didn’t report him missing?”

“Yes.” She sniffled, nodding and wiping another tear.

“And do you know of any enemies he might have had or anyone who hated him?”

“Detective, my husband was a rich man, practically everyone hated him or was jealous of him for some reason. But I can’t think of anyone in particular.”

“Alright. Just a few more questions and I’ll be out of your hair. Where were you on the night of September the third?”

“Was the night when he—”

“Yes, that’s what we’re assuming so far.” Joe said softly.

“I think I was here all day.”

“You didn’t leave the house all day?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Anyone that can corroborate the alibi?”

“Our maid, Kelly. And the security cameras in the house. Carson had them installed when we first moved in.”

“All right, then. Just get me the info for Kelly and that footage and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course.” She sniffled.

“Actually, could I get the whole footage from when you last saw him?”

“Of course. I think the entire last month is backed up on his computer in his study.”

“Fantastic. And that’s it, Jessica. If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know.”

Joe turned off the recorder and stood up.

“Detective,” She stopped him, “When can I see him?”

“I can arrange for a visit tomorrow morning, if that works.”

“Thank you.” She whispered, turning away. “Come on, I’ll show you to the study.”

Joe followed her out of the room and through more hallways before they arrived at the study.

The study was the entire opposite of the house. Wood everywhere. Real wood, as far as Joe could tell. The walls were decorated with the same frames as the rest of the house and a desk stood in front of the only window in the room.

“Is this hardwood?” Joe asked, looking at the floor.

“Yes.” Jessica replied, walking over to the desk. “Here. Here’s the computer.” She pointed at a small metallic enclosure sitting on the desk next to a monitor.

Joe walked up next to her. “Is it on right now?”

“I think so. It should be.”

“Alright, well I can’t take it with me but I’ll send some people over to collect the evidence. Would that be alright?”

“I suppose so. Well, here’s Kelly’s info then.” She grabbed the stack of post-it’s on the desk and a pen and scribbled down Kelly’s phone number and address. “That’s where you can reach her.”

“Thank you, Jessica. I appreciate the help and the cooperation.”

“Of course, detective. Well, you know your way out.” She said, putting on a happy face.

“That I do.” Joe said, walking away, leaving the woman alone. He had other places to be.

#writing #writeblr #writblr #creative writing #original writing #excerpts from my writing #excerpt #wip #a year at the opera #ayato

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write-as-raine · 4 years

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From Dreams We Must Wake

I could write, for hours upon hours; I could spin consonants and vowels into beaches covered in a thousand tiny pearls of sand, I could write moonlight onto cherry blossoms, I could even write you here into my arms. Eventually, all that is written must come to be. Maybe not today, maybe not in this world, on this plane of existence, but in some form or another, it will happen. It’s a dizzying knowledge to have, that with blank space and one long sleepless night I can push this world over the edge of existence and recreate it. But all I have in the time being, is a page, and a pen that is low on ink, and a sky that is turning gray and light and now. I cannot write myself. I can only write that which exists beyond me. So you see the limits of my power, my vast and hollow kingdom, where everything is paper and echoes and you.

-excerpt from my mind

Who knew that snappy blog posts and ramblings about my goings-on would come to a rather severe close? I certainly did. It’s pretty normal for me to live my life on a cycle of ups and downs, and this whole blog thing has been much the same, as I expected. But while the blog pauses, my brain does not, and if I am thinking I am writing. Sort of. Part of what makes a writer is not only what they have written, but what they will write. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

This post will be a time machine of sorts, and we will go back to January, when the year was not yet even a week old, then maybe to February, and perhaps even into the future. Buckle up, as always, and thank you for travelling with me today ;)

-jess, 03.05.20

12.31.19

I keep seeing the phrase “New Year, New Me” everywhere, but the problem is, I don’t want a new me. I want to fully embrace the me that’s here, even though she doesn’t know what’s next, or what will be happening on new year’s net year, and those things stress her out a lot. I don’t ever want to lose this beautiful radiant soul that never stops singing or humming, who befriends small creatures and puts so much love into the world.

In the new year, I want to excavate some of the ruins I have let her fall into. I want to dig past the cynicism and find the softness I used to have before the blunt edge of life’s gentle toils buried it beneath layers of pessimism. I don’t want to be jaded, I want to be wise, kind, a positive light. I want to radiate joy, not negativity. But I also want to accept that not every day will be a happy day, some days will simply be days, and the joy will occasionally have to be manufactured, or worked for, and that is okay too. I want to practice the self-love that I preach.

01.05.20

As the days following the hubbub of Christmas roll toward the impending year, my brain becomes a flurry of planning and thinking, and most of all, stress. My worry for the uncertainties of another year clouding all of my excitement for what could happen. I know this is a flaw, to always fear the unknown, while putting aside the imminent joy that I could harness should everything go right. This year, instead of wrangling together a list of 'resolutions' I didn't really want to make, like losing weight or sticking to some arbitrary life track plan, I made my goals for the new year a bit softer, hazy around the edges. My list of resolutions resembles a very soft manifesto.

The problem I began to see with my past resolutions, and why I always ditched them is because they were usually something that wasn't going to make me happier (i.e. getting super swol) and they weren't going to make everything magically fall into place (i.e. planning out my every move). Neither of them addressed the real problems I had faced in the previous year, like being too tired for physical activity because I was running myself into the ground with work and school, or that I wasn't able to keep with my personal timeline because I was fighting an uphill battle against depression that I was stubbornly ignoring. Instead, I pinned these shortcomings on myself, thinking I was too lazy and lacked motivation, which actually made those problems much worse. This led to a lot of sleepless nights, which led to a lot of snooze buttons hit, a lot of classes daydreamed through, and a lot of naps, which kept this wheel of misery rolling straight downhill. I set myself up for failure. This year, after learning so much about myself and the deeper workings of my mind, a lot of things became much clearer to me.

I always put so much expectation on myself, that failure could only ever have been the final outcome. I never had compassion with myself, I was too busy giving it all away to friends and family until I was bankrupt of all emotion. Secretly, I think my subconscious did this on purpose. My brain knew that my fear of failure was not as great as my fear of trying my best and it still not working out properly. I almost never wrote anymore at that point in my life, unless it was for a class. Just my struggle to make it through most days kept me so busy that I didn't want to write. I never read things that I enjoyed, too busy slogging through reading that I didn't allow myself to enjoy for class.

We live in this strange world that is changing faster than we can really keep up with, and it's hard to deal with the emotional repercussions of that. I'm only writing this to say, that this year, I took emotional stock of myself and kept tabs on how things impacted me, and I did a lot of digging around in my own mental toolbox and figured out how to use more than just duct tape and a sledgehammer to do general emotional maintenance.

My very soft manifesto, which is by no means perfect, and is, of course, completely tailored to my brain and heart and soul so may not work for you, is about observing the world around me, but also observing myself in response to it. Instead of physical self-scrutiny, it is finding good things about my body each and every day, while acknowledging that I am not perfect (who is??) but I have legs that let me dance, and arms that give good hugs, I have hands that are just right for rubbing the soft nose of a horse and plucking discordant chords on my guitar. I have eyes that allow me to see the raindrops slip down the window, mostly unaccompanied, and I have a mouth that lets me convey my emotions through speaking and smiling and singing and weird sound effects. I have a body that is soft and warm and loves to be piled on a couch with my friends in a cuddle puddle.

I also included in my manifesto, that I would accept the days as they come, knowing full well that they will not all come with happiness in tow, and that is okay. It will not always be fun, it will not ever be perfect, but it will be my reality, and it will allow me to grow. I will not stop trying to be the best version of myself that I can possibly be, to extend kindness without fail to others, even especially those who do not extend it to me, because that is the only way I know how to keep from becoming cold and hard and cynical.

Oh, and also to maybe drink less caffeine.

These 'resolutions' are really more of a change in mindset, and I think these will help me immensely, not only in the coming year but throughout the rest of my life.

February

Small white-capped mushrooms popping through waterlogged soil, a chip in the rim of my fifth favorite mug. A new leaf breaking through on my ivy. The certain and never-failing goodness of strawberry jam on toast. Hot tea on cold nights. No less than fifteen pillows, blankets, stuffed animals on my bed at any given time. Bullfrog eyes resting watchfully on the rims of puddles. Wispy ringlets against the nape of my neck in the steamed bathroom mirror after a midnight shower. The ragged edges of my anxiety fingernails. The mosaic jar in my window that throws a shower of pastel light into my bedroom right before sunset. The sweet fragrance of nostalgia dabbed against the thin skin of my wrist in the form of Floral Street’s London Poppy perfume. The stop-and-stare brightness of the moon. Lavender scented everything. The poetry of ordinary days.

03.05.20

Here on the farm, our compost bin has just been completed and has excellent approval ratings from the hens. I’m quite pleased with how it turned out despite my brother’s grumblings and my own battles with the drill. Toulouse has become quite the guard goose, and though I think that if it came down to a fight with an actual attacker she wouldn’t do much harm, she certainly sounds the alarm and waddles into the driveway when a car pulls up. She also successfully laid 8 incredibly large eggs. As for our three silkie bantams, aptly dubbed Coco Puff, Cheeto Puff, and Powder Puff, well the poor dears have yet to figure out this going back into the coop business. At sunset, they huddle up against the side of the hen house and wait dutifully for someone to come along and place them in their special pen. Such silly and delicate creatures. Our newest addition to the family, Cleo, a rescue cat, has acclimated well, and even sneaks into my bed at night now. Moo moo, our calf, has gone on to greener pastures. Quite literally. After his time with us, he was thrilled to join a herd of other cows, where he now has a friend his own age and species. The goat kids are growing in leaps and bounds, pun intended. You would think they have electric currents shooting through them the way they hop and skip so. I can’t imagine what magnitudes of joy they experience.

I think that’s all I have in me for now, until we meet again,

jess

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