China Doll Crimson
By: James Dubeau
China doll eyes
Greeted my gaze
And drunken haze
My wet left hand
Lay in a crimson pool
Wrapped around the waist
Of the ginger haired girl
Particles floated through
Lighted streams
Of the morning
Western sun
A wicked red grin
Etched across the face
Of the girl with raven hair
A grin which will never
Rise once again
Stabbing pain
Wracked my mind
Their porcelain skin
Was marred
No longer pure
No longer lithe
No longer
No longer
Cobwebs slowly cleared
Letting me see through the veil
Dripping prints from my hands
Covered the women
The sheets
The walls
The knife
In my right hand
My fingers twitch
Feeling the blade
For the first time
The last time
I threw it away
Away from me
Away from the dead
Away
Through the window
Town came alive
Streets filled with people
Making their merry way
On the street corner
Looking up at me
Was the man dressed in black
His gaze met mine
Before returning to his
Silver pocket watch
He knows what happened
He knows what I did
He knows it all
I must get away
Far away from this place
Wash away the blood
And the lies
And this life
And just keep moving on
Before it all
Comes crashing down
Showing posts with label Murder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Murder. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Map
The Map
By: James Dubeau
Frank gritted his teeth as pain shot through his side; his grip on the cold hard steel in his hand only became tighter. The dark figure in the doorway lowered his still-smoking gun and gave a shrill, oddly familiar chuckle.
“We meet for the last time, Frank. This time, you won’t be able to follow me and repeat pathetic attempts to gain the map.”
Frank fell to his knees and smiled awkwardly. He knew something that his would-be murderer did not. “You only have half of the map…”
“True,” the shadowy figure replied, “but I know you left your half with her – and I don’t need a map to find her!”
“Well, you may,” said Frank, as hot liquid dripped down his side, “the bottom of the lake is broad.”
“You’re lying,” the figure shouted.
“You’re worried,” Frank spat with his last breath.
“I know you let her escape through that cave,” the roar of a single gun shot punctuated his statement. The figure smiled knowing that the full map would be in his hands soon enough.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Murdered Mister
Murdered Mister
By: James Dubeau
I picked up the pistol from where it sat next to the poor sucker that lay at my feet. His blood turned a deep brown as it hardened in the rug. Gunpowder wafted from the barrel of the .45, this gun had been fired recently. It had to be the murder weapon. The girl was right; someone was after her secret caller.
I contacted the girl before calling the police. She was heartbroken; sobbing tears rang out over the phone. Her young heart would rebound. They always do.
“What happened?” She choked out between sobs.
“Shot, .45 to the gut,” I calmly replied. Her sobs doubled, but the bluntness was necessary. “Did he have any enemies?” I repeated the question that I had asked her earlier this afternoon in my office.
“Yes… No… I don’t know.”
“Give me a straight answer!” I growled. “Did he or did he not have any enemies? The police are on their way and I can just as easily send them in your direction. They would be more than happy to pull you in for questioning, if you would rather do it that way.”
“He… He told me she left him.” It was all the girl could do to control the sobbing enough to squeeze out a satisfying reply. “That bitch wanted nothing to do with him anymore.”
“I’m coming to see you. Don’t go anywhere,” I rattled off, slamming down the phone before she could reply. There was something that she was not telling me. Something that I will have to pry out of her in person.
By: James Dubeau
I picked up the pistol from where it sat next to the poor sucker that lay at my feet. His blood turned a deep brown as it hardened in the rug. Gunpowder wafted from the barrel of the .45, this gun had been fired recently. It had to be the murder weapon. The girl was right; someone was after her secret caller.
I contacted the girl before calling the police. She was heartbroken; sobbing tears rang out over the phone. Her young heart would rebound. They always do.
“What happened?” She choked out between sobs.
“Shot, .45 to the gut,” I calmly replied. Her sobs doubled, but the bluntness was necessary. “Did he have any enemies?” I repeated the question that I had asked her earlier this afternoon in my office.
“Yes… No… I don’t know.”
“Give me a straight answer!” I growled. “Did he or did he not have any enemies? The police are on their way and I can just as easily send them in your direction. They would be more than happy to pull you in for questioning, if you would rather do it that way.”
“He… He told me she left him.” It was all the girl could do to control the sobbing enough to squeeze out a satisfying reply. “That bitch wanted nothing to do with him anymore.”
“I’m coming to see you. Don’t go anywhere,” I rattled off, slamming down the phone before she could reply. There was something that she was not telling me. Something that I will have to pry out of her in person.
Friday, February 06, 2009
How Does It Feel
How Does It Feel
By James Dubeau
How does it feel
When the pain goes away
Is there an absence
A void which can never be filled
Or is the emptiness replaced
With fear, desperation, insecurity
Or just loneliness
How does it feel
To be able to fall asleep when tired
Not having to wait for exhaustion
Or to lay in the fetal position
Shivering and weeping under the blankets
Without sweat soaking nightmares
How does it feel
With cold hard steel pressed against skin
Held tight to the temple
Rattling metal in shaky hands
Will the heart race beyond control
Or just flutter on as normal
How does it feel
When the bullet pierces flesh
Smashing bone and brain
Leaving shards imbedded in the wall
Dripping with fresh wet gore
How does it feel
By James Dubeau
How does it feel
When the pain goes away
Is there an absence
A void which can never be filled
Or is the emptiness replaced
With fear, desperation, insecurity
Or just loneliness
How does it feel
To be able to fall asleep when tired
Not having to wait for exhaustion
Or to lay in the fetal position
Shivering and weeping under the blankets
Without sweat soaking nightmares
How does it feel
With cold hard steel pressed against skin
Held tight to the temple
Rattling metal in shaky hands
Will the heart race beyond control
Or just flutter on as normal
How does it feel
When the bullet pierces flesh
Smashing bone and brain
Leaving shards imbedded in the wall
Dripping with fresh wet gore
How does it feel
Monday, March 19, 2007
Someone Smoked a Joint
Mike nudged the body with his shoe, “What do we got here boys?”
A young lieutenant, still fresh faced and out of the academy, read out of his note book. “Frank Ferriday, age 36, gunshot wound to the head. There was a Colt .45 in his hand when we got here. The boys downtown are already checking on its registration. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Looks to be a suicide.”
Shaking his head in disbelief Mike asked, “When did you get the call?”
“At 8:35pm, about an hour ago. Mrs. Stablinsky reported hearing a gun shot. Sergeant Powell was on a beat a few blocks away from here, he’s reporting his statement now.”
“This was no suicide,” Mike said as he bent down to pick something up.
“Excuse me sir?”
“I know Frank; we shared a foxhole in the war. He would have givin his life to save mine and I would have done the same. Maybe he has hit some hard times., but he would never give in to drugs again. I helped him through rehab, dragged him kicking and screaming. Once he was clean he swore that he would never go back. Frank has never gone back on his word.”
Mike opened his hand to show the lieutenant a small roll of white paper that was burnt on one end. “Someone smoked a joint here. That someone killed Frank Ferriday. When I find out who that someone is they will wish that they never took up drugs. They will wish that they never met Frank. They will wish that Frank never met me. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do, I will get vengeance on Frank’s killer. My buddy’s killer.
A young lieutenant, still fresh faced and out of the academy, read out of his note book. “Frank Ferriday, age 36, gunshot wound to the head. There was a Colt .45 in his hand when we got here. The boys downtown are already checking on its registration. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Looks to be a suicide.”
Shaking his head in disbelief Mike asked, “When did you get the call?”
“At 8:35pm, about an hour ago. Mrs. Stablinsky reported hearing a gun shot. Sergeant Powell was on a beat a few blocks away from here, he’s reporting his statement now.”
“This was no suicide,” Mike said as he bent down to pick something up.
“Excuse me sir?”
“I know Frank; we shared a foxhole in the war. He would have givin his life to save mine and I would have done the same. Maybe he has hit some hard times., but he would never give in to drugs again. I helped him through rehab, dragged him kicking and screaming. Once he was clean he swore that he would never go back. Frank has never gone back on his word.”
Mike opened his hand to show the lieutenant a small roll of white paper that was burnt on one end. “Someone smoked a joint here. That someone killed Frank Ferriday. When I find out who that someone is they will wish that they never took up drugs. They will wish that they never met Frank. They will wish that Frank never met me. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do, I will get vengeance on Frank’s killer. My buddy’s killer.
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