Son and the MoonA Story by Steven CashThis is just a test.It was a frosty night, as usual, in my apartment. The thermostat read 62, at last check, and I slept under the mess of blankets and sheets, silent as a tomb. A synthesized version of Rhapsody In Blue assaulted my ears, leaving me a groggy mess. My eyelids slowly pealed open just far enough for me to see my iPhone screen read Lt. Pelham. “Pelham,” I began, displaying my frustration, “What in God’s name do you want?” “Hey, Derek, we got a suicide down here on North Church Street.” I groaned. “C’mon, there’s gotta be 3 million people in Chicago, and a bunch of them are committing suicide. Nothing you need to wake me up for.” “The population is actually 2.707 million,” he said, correcting the facts and figures as usual. “And even so, this lady was your client. That’s why I gave you a buzz.” I looked at my alarm clock. It read 3:23am. “When you say my client"” “I mean, she asked the cab driver to take her to your office. When he arrived, he looked back to see she was dead. Guys down here are saying pill overdose. Her name was Rita Sanderson.” “Name doesn’t ring a bell, and the facts make no sense,” I said, “Why would she hop in a cab and then overdose? I take it you have the cab driver.” “Yes, we have the driver. Foreign guy, so we may need a translator.” “You need me down there now?” “Want you. It’s unofficial as always, but I gotta have you down here. Give the place the once over as only you can.” I was already getting up and heading to the bathroom. “I will be there in half an hour. Gotta shower and get dressed, and probably swing by the Starbucks on 153rd St.” “Sounds like a plan.”
© 2012 Steven CashAuthor's Note
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5 Reviews Added on September 26, 2012 Last Updated on September 26, 2012 AuthorSteven CashA Secret Location, ILAbouthttp://www.writerscafe.org/writing/changetheworld/1061316/ That's my poem. Goodbye everyone. Don't cry because it's over... smile because it happened... more..Writing
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