Taps

This is my final, Round Three story for the NYCMidnight competition. For this assignment, the genre was Romance, the location was A Laundromat and the object was A Hammer. Limit: 1,000 words.

Summary: Mitch doesn’t mind taking the time to do things right, whenever Gail is ready to let go.

You can tell how a woman feels about a man by the way she folds his shirts.

Mostly it’s a comfortable routine: shoulder to shoulder, flip the sleeves, fold it over, done. Sometimes she shakes it like the bastard’s still in it or tosses it on the laundry pile like she doesn’t give a damn. Or she folds it inside-out or with the design in so he can’t tell which shirt is which.

I was working in the laundry room of the Kingsfield apartments when a woman stumbled in with an overflowing basket.

“Let me get that for you.” I jumped up and we commenced a little tug-of-war till I guess she decided I was just a regular guy with old-fashioned manners. I set the basket on one of the folding tables between the banks of washers and dryers. “Right here okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” She was attractive rather than pretty, old enough to be interesting, with thick-lashed gray eyes and a shy smile. She gestured at my toolbox and the baseboard and molding I’d already removed. “Is it all right to do laundry now?”

“Fine, as long as you don’t mind the noise.”

“Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“I’m stripping the paneling. You can see it’s pretty banged up.” I pointed out scuff marks and scratches on the pine laminate covering the lower walls. “Then I’ll sand and patch, prime the walls and paint ’em—brighten up the place.”

“Sounds like a big job.” She had a voice like rich coffee, a little creamy, not too sweet.

“Well, the paneling’s stuck on with adhesive as well as nails, so it takes some time.” I picked up my chisel and hammer and began freeing the first panel from the sheetrock underneath. “It’s tempting to rush a job like this—to take big whacks that splinter the panel, and then pry it off in pieces.”

I repositioned the chisel and tapped it with the hammer. “It’s better to go slow, start at the top and work your way underneath till the panel’s ready to give. Less damage to the wall that way, too.”

“I liked the paneling—but I suppose it’s just what I’m used to.” She shrugged. “Thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome. If you need anything, my name is Mitch.”

“I’m Gail,” she said, and turned away. I watched as she lifted lids on three washers before finding an empty one. Then she pulled a man’s flannel shirt from the basket and began loading clothes in careful layers.

We worked to the sounds of my hammer, the rattle and clink of quarters in the coin slot, and the splashing, churning and spinning of the washing machines. Gail left the laundry room to return twice more with full baskets. She was moving her last load to a dryer when I broke for a snack.

“Would you like a soda?” I rummaged through my cooler. “I’ve got cheese sticks, too, and red grapes. No seeds.”

“Just a soda, thanks.”

“Chateau root beer or orange zinfandel?”

Her smile bloomed. “Orange, please.”

I leaned against the dryer next to hers. It was running with a pleasant hum and clickety-click as buttons and zippers tumbled against the drum. The heat felt good.

Gail fed wet clothes into her machine. I spotted jeans and tee-shirts too big to be hers, some dress shirts and a jacket with the Celtics logo. I checked her hands. No ring.

“Have you lived in the building long?” I peeled a cheese stick.

“Almost four years. Do you live here, too?”

“I’ve got a little house nearby. I’ll be working here a lot, though. The new management’s sprucing up the place.”

“About time.” Gail started the dryer and leaned against it, keeping some distance between us. “The old landlord never fixed one thing on the list we made when we moved in.”

“We?”

She drained the rest of her soda and twisted the cap back on the bottle. “Me and my husband. Terry.”

I thought she was going to say more, but the signal buzzed on one of her dryers. She lugged over a laundry basket and piled the dry load in it.

“I’ve got it.” I hoisted the basket onto the nearest folding table.

Gail tumbled all the clothes out of the basket and pulled a shirt from the pile. A man’s flannel, green and blue plaid. She straightened the collar and pressed it flat. She folded the shirt in half lengthwise, shoulders touching. She matched up the sleeves from shoulders to cuffs and folded them forward on a diagonal across the body of the shirt. She flipped up the tail ends and smoothed them flat. She made one more fold to create a neat, square package. She laid the shirt in the bottom of the basket as if she were laying an infant down to rest. She reached for another shirt.

“I better get back to work.” I stuffed the bottles in my cooler. “It’s been nice talking to you, Gail.”

She placed another shirt, folded neat and square, in the basket. She folded three tee-shirts and added them to the pile.

“Terry died two years ago.” she said, her hand resting on the stack of shirts. “Car crash.”

I stepped toward her. Stopped. “Aw, Gail. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” She folded a crease down the legs of a pair of jeans. “I’m donating his clothes to the Pine Street Inn shelter.”

Two years later, I thought. I said, “That’s great.”

The signal buzzed on another dryer. She filled her basket. I carried it to the table.

“Someone should wear these,” she said. “Somebody who doesn’t have …good clothes.”

“Can I help?” I touched the basket. “You know, carry some of the load?”

“Thanks.” She flashed her shy smile. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

I crouched down by the next section of panel. It’s tempting to rush the job, but I set the chisel, aimed the hammer. Tap. Tap. Tap.
# # #

Routine Procedure

This is my Round Two story for the NYCMidnight competition. For this assignment, the genre was Historical Fiction, the location was A Dentist's Office and the object was A Leather Jacket. Limit: 1,000 words.

Summary: Mulroney's job is to keep a Cold War spy from spilling secrets under anesthesia. But what Witte reveals is even more chilling.

“The cyanide capsules?” Witte tapped a forefinger against his jaw. “Last one I had was right here. Top rear molar. I chewed on the other side of my mouth for a year-and-a-half.”

Mulroney’s tongue swirled against his own molars. He still had the full set, with three Army-issue fillings courtesy of a bored dentist in Panmunjong, just before the armistice in ’53.

“You know the first thing I ate when I got that sucker out?”

“Sir?” Mulroney cocked an eyebrow.

“Peanuts, out at Griffith Stadium. The rookie, Killibrew, hit a homer, but what I remember most is the crunch of those roasted ballpark peanuts.” Witte laughed. “That’s how I cracked the damn tooth. But if you asked me then, is it worth it? I’d say, ‘Hell, yes, and toss me another bag of peanuts!’”

Witte slapped his fingers against the arms of the dental chair. With the linen towel clipped to the chain around his neck, he looked like a middle-aged tyke about to be force-fed his Malt-o-Meal. “Get that dentist, Mulroney. I’ve decoded microfilm in less time than he’s taking with those X-Rays.”

“You know I can’t leave you, sir.” The man was nervous, Mulroney realized. Witte was a legend who’d spent ten years spying on the Nazis and behind the Iron Curtain. The Reds thought he was their double-agent in D.C. But the guy was anxious over a routine dental procedure.

“National security? Screw that!” Witte snorted. “I won’t be out of it. No laughing gas, no ether. Just a local painkiller.”

“If things go as planned, sir, that’s true.”

“This is bullshit. I’ve got no secrets left to spill.”

“It’s procedure, sir.”

Witte resumed the hand-slapping, a complicated rhythm that reminded Mulroney of a heavy bombardment or an old western cavalry charge.

Swift footsteps approached the doorway. Mulroney thrust his hand through the slit of his leather bomber jacket and grasped the butt of his automatic. He’d cut the pocket away when he jumped from the service to the civilian-run CIA. He drew back just enough to feel the slide of metal against polished leather.

The dental assistant, a large-boned woman in starched white uniform and cap, carried in a covered tray as if she were serving hors d’oeuvres at the Officer’s Club. Mulroney nestled the weapon back into the holster and dropped his hand to his side.

“Dr. Malcolm will be with you shortly,” she told Witte with a crease of the lips that served as a smile. She set the tray on a metal table and wheeled it next to Witte’s chair. Water swirled in the porcelain spit bowl on the other side, and the rest of the room was dominated by a squat column sprouting dental appliances like so many misshapen branches. The assistant side-stepped Mulroney and left the room.

Witte lifted the towel off the tray of instruments. He selected what looked like a small pliers and worked the jaws open and closed. “You ever have a tooth pulled?”

“Once, sir, yes.”

“Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?"

“It was half out anyway.” Mulroney allowed himself a slight smile. “Took a real bastard of a punch to loosen it up, though.”

Witte seemed not to have heard. “The Nazis pulled the teeth from the corpses. In the camps. They wanted the gold fillings, of course. One of my guards in Lefortovo was with the Soviet army at Auschwitz. He carried dice made from Jewish molars.”

Mulroney twirled his tongue over his back teeth. They were all still there.

Witte picked up another instrument, bent at the end with a thin point. “This one is for picking and scraping at the teeth. On a healthy tooth is one thing, but you dig this point into a soft spot…”

Mulroney cringed, remembering the probing and drilling by the Army dentist in Korea.

Witte tossed the instruments back on the tray. He started the rhythmic slapping again.

“Mulroney?”

“Sir?”

“I could take the beatings.”

Mulroney said nothing.

“I could take the stinking prison and the bad food and no sleep. I took the darkness.” Witte’s fingers curved into his palms, hard enough to leave nail marks. “More than a year without light, without another human voice. Alone. I took it.”

“I know, sir.”

“But you’re thinking, why couldn’t I take the rest? You could take it, right? You’re tough.” Witte shook his head. “You’ve got no imagination.”

Mulroney’s jacket seemed too tight, his body too warm in the cramped room full of picks and probes and drills. The chair looked like it ought to have restraints, binding Witte in place. Mulroney pulled down on his jacket, felt the weight of the pistol on his hip.

“You took their money, sir.” Not much, Mulroney knew. Not enough to blow the story of rescue and escape back to the West. Not enough for a big house and fancy car, a glamorous woman or expensive vices. Just enough for the occasional ballgame and a bag of roasted peanuts.

“Don’t kid yourself.” Witte stared at the dental lamps, hanging over him like two dead eyes. “It was never the money.”

Mulroney squared his shoulders. “It’s not what you took, sir. It’s what you gave them.”

“The names.”

“Six lives.”

Witte drummed on the armrests. “I lied about the cyanide capsule. It makes a good story, but back then? I never had such a thing, no way to end it, anytime.”

He flashed Mulroney a sad, secret smile. “This is not a filling, Mulroney.”

“Sir?”

Witte laughed, and Mulroney glimpsed the spymaster still operating inside the disgraced and humbled shell. “A little drilling to hollow out the tooth, then they pop in the capsule and a rubber plug. I hear it’s quick. Ten grains, two minutes.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” And Mulroney was damned if he’d let any government dentist near his molars again.

“That was my price.” Witte drummed on the armrests. “I’ll play this double game for them, but if I’m compromised again?”

Witte clenched his teeth.

# # #

Still Lives

This is Assignment 2 in the NYCMidnight short-short competition. The parameters this time around were Genre: Fantasy, Location: Strip Club, and Object: Urn. Length limited to no more than 1000 words.

Summary: When Corey is stripping for the crowd at Barely There, she’s dancing in her dreams for a young man from an ancient time. For ten years she fails to break the barrier between them, until she risks destroying her dreams for the chance to live outside them.

Corey swayed to the music of the pipes, her bare feet padding through the cool grass, her tunic floating in the breeze off the Aegean. She danced about the young man reclining on the couch in the shade of the olive tree. Laurel leaves crowned his head, and a maiden knelt at his feet, playing the lyre. Another maiden proffered a shallow dish brimming with grapes, as if it were the purest gold. Corey danced, drawn by the intensity in the young man’s dark eyes. She yearned for the feel of his arms, the touch of his kiss. She danced with increasing desperation, but could not close the distance between them. They remained frozen in their ancient tableau.

“Put down the jug, baby, and show me yours!” yelled the chinless wonder in the front row. “You can be my slave girl anytime!”

Instantly Corey was back onstage at Barely There, in a short peek-a-boo tunic, shackles and stiletto heels, balancing the urn on her head. Chinless tucked bills in her garter—singles folded up so all she could see was the green. An old trick. She shimmied the tunic off one shoulder, then the other, and spun away to the other side of the stage as the fabric dropped to her waist.

For eight minutes Corey played to the big spenders in the Friday night crowd. A decent take, she figured, strutting offstage in shackles and G-string, past Shawna the Biker Chick in leather and spikes.

“Catch!” The gruff young security guard, Brock, tossed her a towel and asked as he did every night, “Have dinner with me?”

“No.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Someday it’ll be yes.”

“No, but thanks.” She stripped off the chains and heels and pulled on sweats and canvas flats from her locker. She stuffed her costume and props in her gym bag, the urn carefully wrapped in tissue paper. She slung the strap over her shoulder.

Crack! Corey stifled a scream.as the bag hit the floor, the broken strap dangling from one end.

“Something break?” asked Brock.

Corey ripped open the zipper and peeled back the tissue paper.

“Nice vase,” he said.

“It’s an urn.” She looked for cracks.

“You got ashes in there?”

“It’s not that kind of urn.”

“Looks like something from a museum. What’s that picture painted on it?”

“Nothing.” Corey rewrapped the urn and nested it in the bundle of clothes. “It’s just a cheap souvenir. A gift from my aunt.” She zipped the bag and grabbed the side handles.

“You coming back to clean?” Brock asked.

“After dinner—alone. See ya.”

Corey hated returning to the empty club. With the harsh overheads on, Barely There was barely bareable with dingy furnishings and pitted walls. Without the distraction of lights, music and movement, the acrid smell of liquor and lust overpowered the other senses. She scrubbed the johns and wiped the tables, swept the floors and mopped them down. The extra cleaning money was going to pay for dance school, her dream since she was ten years old and first escaped into the urn.

Corey had huddled under the window of her aunt’s apartment, while Momma and Aunt Thea argued over what she would later understand was her mother’s refusal to deal with her depression. On the nearby end table, Aunt Thea kept the urn she’d bought on a whim at St. Spyridion’s annual Greek festival. Corey grasped the urn by its handles and pulled it into her lap. Suddenly the grass sprang soft beneath her, the Mediterranean sun spilled over her, and the scent of mountain laurel tickled her nose. For the first time, she danced to the music of the pipes. When Corey returned to awareness, the voices clashing in the kitchen couldn’t disturb the tranquility that enveloped her in the shade of the olive tree. Thea, amused by Corey’s fascination, gladly gave her the urn. She’d kept it with her for ten years.

In the center of the tawdry stage, Corey grasped the urn and danced to the music of the pipes. The tableau had changed. Was the urn damaged after all? The young man with the dark eyes wept with longing, his arms outstretched and trembling. Would she be able to cross the barrier that kept them apart? Keats, she realized, got it wrong. It was not better to love forever without the bliss of consummation, to linger in the moment of unfulfilled love for lack of faith in its endurance.

Silence and darkness crashed down upon her, and she was alone. The figures on the urn resumed their eternal “cold pastoral.” Corey raised the urn above her head and hurled it from the stage.

“What the hell are you doing!” Brock scrambled through the maze of tables.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Checking on you. The alarm company reported you were late locking up. What’s going on?”

“I was dancing.”

“Why now?” His voice gentled. “And why did you break the vase?”

“I’ll clean it up.” She jumped from the stage and pushed past him to the back wall where the urn lay in fragments. She spread them on the nearest table and overlapped two of the pieces, angling them so the young man appeared to rise from his couch to greet the dancing maiden. She touched their lips together. Nothing happened.

“Here’s another piece.” Brock dropped a fragment on the other two.

The clearing came alive with the melody of pipes and the songs of birds and the rustling of olive branches. A deep voice mellow with joy murmured in an ancient tongue. A woman’s voice, light and musical, answered. Corey watched the couple embrace with a sense of astonishment and loss. The young man knelt in the grass with his beloved, a radiant maiden with a lyre. The clearing and all within it faded.

“Don’t cry, Corey.” Brock touched her shoulder. “You could glue it back together.”

“I won’t,” she said. She pushed the pieces away. “Will you have dinner with me?”

# # #

Portia's View

This story was originally written as my first assignment in the NYCMidnight Writers short-short competition. My group had to write a 1,000-word max story in two days with a designated Genre (open), Primary Location (rooftop of a skyscraper) and Object to include in the story (video camera).

I decided to take advantage of the Open Genre to try something more artsy-craftsy than my usual style. I spent much too much time on the opening (and had to cut most of it), then had to rush the ending. The result was a total head-scratcher.

I liked enough about the story to work at it, though. This is the revised version. Enjoy.

PORTIA'S VIEW

Summary: When a celebrity platypus comes to call, Craig and Miriam find the best view from the tallest building in New England is from the outside looking in.

Craig leaned on the parapet of the John Hancock Tower, arms wrapped around Portia, his wind-chapped features creased in an idiotic smile. Miriam panned left, filling the frame over his shoulder with a clutch of sailboats bobbing and weaving on the Charles.

“Did you get it?” Craig shouted over the roar of the rooftop ventilation units.

“I didn’t get much of Portia,” she screamed. “You’re too close.”

He stepped back half-a-step and Miriam zoomed in on the stuffed platypus—taxidermically-stuffed, not some plush cuddle toy—framed against the view across the river to Cambridge. Portia’s broad front feet, webbed between the curved claws, rested on the parapet. Her duck-billed snout pointed to the Great Dome of MIT.

“Got it!” Miriam slipped the camera into the pocket of her shoulder bag. “Now let’s get out of this blasted wind!”

Craig gathered up the platypus, belly-to-belly, one hand cradling the skull, the other cupped just above the tail. He followed Miriam across the roof to the relative shelter of the elevator shaft. She dropped down, knees raised, back to the wall. He eased down next to her. Portia’s glass eyes, spaced wide on either side of a duck-billed pout, glared at Miriam as if blaming her for the indignities of the past three days.

Portia the Exploring Platypus was a celebrity, a world-traveler with a website chronicling her jaunts around the globe by llama, pedicab and catamaran, jetpack, polar icebreaker and Humvee. The latest video showed Portia snowboarding in the Alps. (There was no record of her subsequent flight from Zurich to Boston, tucked under a seat in Craig’s carry-on tote, nesting on a pile of dirty shirts and boxers.)

“How much time do we have?” Craig draped the platypus across his lap, a position Miriam had yet to occupy after two week’s separation. “When does Frank have to lock up?”

Miriam’s cousin ran the Hancock’s maintenance crew, one of the few people with access to the highest rooftop in New England. They’d been up here before, and it had been her idea to pose Portia against the view in each direction.

“We’ve got till four, more than an hour. We got all the good stuff.”

“Let’s see.” Craig shifted closer to Miriam, his chin tucked against her collarbone as she flipped open the screen on the videocam.

She ran the tape from the beginning, a shot of them sitting on the floor of their cramped Brookline apartment, Craig waggling Portia’s front feet at the camera.

“Hello, this is Craig and Miriam from Boston,” he said. “And this is our famous friend, Portia the Exploring Platypus. She’s visiting us after a lovely holiday in the Swiss Alps with our friend Gerhard. Come with us as we go exploring with Portia.”

The shot cut to Craig holding Portia, the Hancock Tower looming in the background. “That’s our first stop,” he said. “We’re going 800 feet up to the top of the biggest freakin’ mirror in New England.”

Miriam paused the video. “You’ve definitely got a future in TV—sales.”

“Everyone’s a critic. Keep going.”

“Okay, here’s the first side, the northeast. There’s the State House in the distance...”

“Bo-ring. Nice and shiny, though, huh, Portia?”

“See, a little closer in, the Public Gardens? See through the trees?” Miriam pointed with her little fingernail. “That’s a swan boat.”

“I bet she’d love that.”

“Here’s the southeast...”

“The way to escape—planes, ships, trains and automobiles.” Craig wiggled his butt. “There’s a beach on Cape Cod, Portia, calling our names.”

“Speaking of escape…”

“Whoo-hoo! Fenway Park.” Craig boosted the platypus to the level of the video screen. “Hey, Portia, want to take in a game while you’re in town? Or look! Sailboats! That’s cool.”

Miriam froze the screen and lifted the camera closer to Craig. “You look goofy. Cuddling a platypus.”

“I’m not cuddling her, it.” He eased the platypus off his lap and took the camera from Miriam. He studied the image of himself, arms around Portia, gazing across the river. “You’re right. I look goofy.” He flipped the power switch and the screen went black.

“We’d better go.” Miriam rocked to her feet and for the first time sensed the tower swaying under her. She stared at her shoes till the rooftop stopped moving.

Craig stepped out from the shelter of the elevator shaft. His eyes swept the roofscape lined with mechanical hulks, bristling with coils and antennae, and crowned with a satellite dish. “It just hit me,” he said. “This is the view nobody ever sees. I’ll take the camera this time.”

Miriam held the platypus out stiff-armed against the backdrop of generators, ventilators and whatfors, the life system of the sleek façade. Then she turned sideways, cuddling Portia belly-to-belly, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other cupped just above her tail.

“Craig!” she called. “You didn’t look goofy. You looked happy.”

“Yeah?” Craig crouched behind a capped pipe large enough to hold the camera. “Sit down against that square gray thing!” He crossed to her side. “I’ll take Portia.”

Miriam’s smile stiffened. She dangled the platypus by one paw. “If you want.”

“Don’t move.” Craig jogged back to the camera and propped Portia up on her hind feet against the pipe. The Record light flashed on.

This time, when Craig dropped down by her side, he pulled Miriam onto his lap. “I think I can cut back on my travel,” he said, smiling and waving at the camera. “The new guy’s ready.”

“That’s great.” Miriam waved at Portia. “I think I’m ready, too.”

* *

There’s a new portrait on the website of Portia the Exploring Platypus. She’s hunkered down by a rooftop elevator shaft, in a pile of clothing, nesting.

# # #

Got Blood?

Jan Brogan at http://www.jungleredwriters.com/ was kind enough to describe this blog as both humorous and profound. Certainly, there is a long literary tradition of the two going hand-in-hand, from the Satires of Juvenal (nope, can't quote any) to Jane Austen, Mark Twain and Erma Bombeck. I can't always live up to Jan's billing, but this piece is one I delivered last month at the Red Cross Apheresis Blood Donors dinner. I hope you enjoy it and--for mystery writers, in particular--consider giving back some of the blood you spill on your pages.

The Wall
By Maureen Walsh

Another day at the spa in my big comfy seat,
No laundry to fold as I watch the TV,
No telephone calls interrupting my reading,
No kids calling “Mom!” No dog needing feeding.
Warm blankets, cold beverages, baskets of food—
All for the price of some donated blood.
Now I’m done for the day, getting set to depart;
The donor specialist makes a note in my chart.
“Shall we schedule your next donation?” she says,
And all the reasons “Not To” run through my head:

My schedule’s uncertain, I can’t pick a date.
Between work and my family, there’s a lot on my plate.
I’ve got meetings and projects and deadlines upcoming,
And a guy dropping by to check out the plumbing.
The house needs a cleaning from attic to basement,
My sluggish computer’s in need of “defragment.”
My kid’s birthday’s next week, so I’ve shopping to do,
And I still haven’t gotten my shot for the flu.
My car’s making a noise that’s got to be checked,
And there’s an elderly neighbor I mustn’t neglect.
I should call when my calendar’s not quite so full...

But before I can say it, I notice—The Wall:

The pictures of people, every age, shape and size,
Their smiles bright with courage and hope in their eyes.
I read all their names, I read every story,
And two words that seem to be written just for me:
“Thank you” and “Thank you” and “Thank you” again,
Like each one has reached out and shaken my hand
And said “Thank you for donating platelets today,
So I could go shopping, so my daughter could play,
So my husband could walk with me down to the beach,
So the small pleasures of living are still within reach.”

“Thank you for energy, stamina, strength,
For a life that is richer, no matter the length,
Because of the gift you have given us here,
Because you didn’t wait till your schedule was clear.
Thank you for making the time to keep coming,
Despite birthdays and deadlines and clogs in the plumbing.
We know your time’s precious, and we treasure each hour
Of living you give us by sharing the power
Of plasma and platelets and red cells and more,
Of the elixir of life we can’t get from a store.
We can’t grow it or mix up a chemical brew,
So thank you for sharing the gift that is You.”

With their faces and voices filling my head,
I smiled at my friend with the chart and I said,
“I want to make 20 donations before the year ends,
And what’s more, I’ll work on bringing my friends.
I’ll reschedule today, so you don’t have to call.
I can always make time for my friends on The Wall.”

THE DECOMPOSING ROOM PRESS

Publisher Launches Five New Detective Series
By Mo Walsh, Corpserespondent

Minimally competent hacks are wanted to write for our new niche detective titles on a work-for-hire basis. We provide clever character names, contradictory plot points and impossible deadlines. You do the rest.

1. The Amateur Detective
Harmon Beasley is a Garbage Man and proud of it. The castoffs and leftovers he collects are windows to the lives of the people on his route. Each story will focus on a provocative piece of rubbish that sends Harmon on a search for answers, aided by his lover, Constance Cabot-Whyte, PhD, an entomologist, and her teen-age triplets: Roach, Aphid and Mary. In the debut novel, The Aquamarine Ashbin at #1A, Harmon discovers thirteen discarded left shoes. The series continues with The Beige Barrel at #2B and The Crimson Carton at #3C.

2. The Specialist/Multi-Cultural Detective
Rostam “The Rug Man” Rudagi is the world’s foremost expert on carpet fibers. As a young boy, he escaped from his native Iran by hiding inside a shipment of cheap, mass-produced carpets being smuggled out to Arab bazaars for sale to gullible American tourists. Obsessed with carpets ever since, Rostam has earned several obscure advanced degrees in textile engineering and works six stories underground in a secret FBI laboratory. There he analyzes carpet fibers associated with crimes and can determine not only the fiber content and color, but also manufacturer and dye lot; degree and content of soiling; cleaning products used and whether they were purchased on sale; how many days since last vacuuming and type of machine used; area rug or wall-to-wall; species, breed and diet of pet that made stains; and weight of the person who last walked on it. In his first case, Persian Carpets Actually Come from Turkey, he helps foil the perfect murder by matching the victim’s bathroom mat to fibers coughed up in hair balls by the suspect’s cat.

3. The Historical/Literary Figure Detective
Beloved children’s author, Beatrix Potter, solves a series of grizzly crimes and transforms them into charming allegories starring cuddly anthropomorphic ducks, chicks, bunnies and frogs. The True Tale of the Floppsy Bunnies and Mrs. Tittlemouse, for example, recounts the kidnapping of Benjamin Bunny’s six daughters by a white slavery ring. The True Tale of Samuel Whiskers or The Roly-Poly Pudding covers in succulent detail the career of Jeffrey Daumer’s great-grandfather. Other titles and topics: The True Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck (dominatrix accidentally drowns a client); My Little Book About the Real Squirrel Nutkin (sordid life of rent boys); The True Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit (a powerful new hallucinogen hits the mean streets); and, of course, The Shocking True Tale of Peter Rabbit (super-pimp Mr. McGregor defends his patch when Peter comes looking for a “Ho”).

4. Hard-Boiled Female P.I.
Antimony Fargo, named androgynously for a mineral and a western city, is as cool and tough under pressure as such male counterparts as Tulsa Schist (same naming device) and as hot and tender under Tulsa’s male parts as … well, nevermind. She only dresses up when she wants to pass as a hooker and can’t cook anything that doesn’t come in its own microwaveable container. But she’s extremely smart, really. In her first case, Which Nut Do You Want Me to Shoot Off First?, she goes undercover at Monica’s Mystique as a sensitivity-training counselor for lingerie executives accused of sexual harassment.

5. Innovative Entry in the Mystery Field
The Virtual Detective is a software program that solves the most complicated crimes in a nanosecond once its programmers have converted all pertinent case documents to Boolean logic statements. Then it returns to its on-going affair with the central database of the DMV. The first novel, Killed But Not Dead, is scheduled for publication in 2012, once the MIT supercomputer completes the conversion process.

Contact Liv Rand-Unynz, Editor, “The Decomposing Room Press,” for additional writer's guidelines. If you can’t find our address, you don’t have what it takes to write a mystery.

(Photo of Cadaver Tomb in the Church of St Mary, Hemingbrough, North Yorkshire, U.K.)

Tagged! I'm It!

I've been tagged by Cathy Cairns, http://catherinecairns.com/blog, one of my Sisters in Crime, to play a fun game of getting-to-know-you.

Here are the tagged rules:
1) Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So here we go:

1. I have a hard time letting go of my mistakes. I still replay gaffes from my school days or jobs I held 25 years ago. It’s the social, character-related goofs that stick. If I ever offend you, I’ll apologize, send you flowers, bake you a cake and leave you money in my will.

2. In fourth grade, I played the title role in two acts of a five-act play, in French, of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” I wore my brother’s long underwear, black patent leather shoes, a crown and (for Act 3 but not Act 4) a cape. My senior year at an all-girl high school, I got my role as Horrible Henry in the class musical, “Carnival,” because I could sing like a walrus. I’ve always loved to sing, but have a chorus voice that needs support. I sing Loud Soprano in my church choir.

3. I have read almost all of Georgette Heyer’s books, mysteries as well as Regency and Georgian romances, and have copies of most of them. Check out “Envious Casca,” and “Death in the Stocks.”

4. Squeaky shoes or chalk on a blackboard doesn’t bother me much, but the sound of chewing drives me crazy. I have to eat at the same time to mask the noise or go in another room. I have three teenage boys who probably wonder why I leave the breakfast table so soon after they start on their Cheerios or peanut butter toast.

5. I’m no good at anything that requires speed or agility, but I’m a very good swimmer, I enjoy strength training and pilates, and I once won a 5th place trophy in the Women’s 18-24 division in a half-marathon.

6. I sewed most of my kids’ Halloween costumes, including Worf from “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” Daniel Boone, the White Power Ranger, Woody the Cowboy, the Pharaoh, and Neo from “The Matrix.” They’re all packed in bins for the next generation. Doesn’t matter if the seams are straight.

7. My family has a dominant “know-it-all” gene. We always raised our hands in class and could never succeed at Jeopardy! because we can’t resist guessing. Conversation at a family gathering sounds like a scene from Kafka. I’ve never read Kafka, but I know that’s what it sounds like.

I'm working on my "taggees." It's a "you go first" kind of thing. Stay posted.

1st Tag, Good Sport Felicia Donovan at http://feliciadonovan.blogspot.com