Hi, I’m an up and coming author. I have a soon to be published novel and wish only for everyone to enjoy it. As a bonus I will be posted short stories among my blog posts for your personal enjoyment. I graduated high school in 2010 with honors and Ontario Scholar and have been trying to figure my life out ever since. Once I started my fantasy series I was addicted and couldn’t stop. I can’t wait to hear feedback from everyone who reads my work, it is a pleasure to share my imagination with others.
Alright, problems arise with the Transparent Death of Sinoy and it will be postponed for now. I will enlighten you with further notice regarding it later. As for now, I have a new short story that is my personal favorite. Please enjoy it as much as I did!
The Butterfly Casket
By Terrin Jarrell
Barry tugged at the sheer silk cloth, exposing the body under the harsh overhead lamplight. The lips were tugged closed; a piece of heavy twine looped through the dead, cracked lips with the uneven lack of expertise of a college student too bored to bother in the concept of perfection. Only a thin layer of lip balm covered the cracks rippling through the once sultry lips of the late Mrs. Palmina Holmes. A thick purple shadow flowed across her grey eyelids to cover the already bloating of her face, and a bright pink blush was added to the high cheekbones giving a strange sense that the woman was still alive and merely sleeping. Barry took the tip of his pen and held one eyelid open. A lifeless, blank milky eye stared back at him and he noted she once had beautiful brown irises that had been bold with ambition and success, with a hint of adultery hovering beneath everything. But that was something best left alone when talking to her husband. Barry didn’t need to drag Palmina’s problems back to life. Those things made his job harder. Much harder. He dropped the eyelid and it slowly closed shut.
“Is…is she really dead? Detective Marsh?” asked Mr. Holmes. Barry could hear the man ringing his hat with his hands, the squeaky squelching echoed throughout the room. He could feel the strains of a new headache coming on. Another day, another dead body.
“Very. In fact, judging by her corpse she’s been dead quite a while. Do you own a freezer? A walk-in one perhaps?” Mr. Holmes looked stunned, the wringing of his hands stopping.
“F-freezer, Detective Marsh?” Barry looked up from his notepad, eyebrows held high as he awaited an answer. But Mr. Holmes just stared at him.
“Mr. Holmes, do you or do you not own a walk in freezer?”
“Yes,” he said wringing his hands again.
“Good. Then can we all argue that you harboured Mrs. Holmes body in the freezer until you had time to eat her?”
“Marsh, what the hell are you doing?” questioned Philsby standing by the door. Barry smiled and snapped his book closed.
“Nothing. I am truly sorry for your loss Mr. Holmes. We shall do everything in our power vested to find and catch this killer plaguing the streets of our sweet beloved town of Boleyn. As for you, I would advise in refraining from leaving as the killer might want to finish up what he or she started. But probably a he,” Barry said. He left the confines of the little morgue freezer and quickly stepped out into the evening air. It was brisk, chilly, something that Barry was never used to.
“Barry, what the blue hell was that? The man lost his wife to a killer for Christ sakes and you’re badgering him about being a suspect. Dammit, forensics been through and through on this,” yelled Philsby angrily.
“Yes, through and through. You tell me each day. But do you not find it odd in a home that a man lived in, not a single strand of his own DNA could be found?”
Philsby looked nearly shocked, his face turning purple as he struggled with what emotion to carry out next.
“Barry, please. Please, please, please tell me they only transferred you here for less than a year? You’re giving me a headache and it’s only been three months.”
“Mmm, yes. Boleyn is a strange little town,” Barry said not truly paying attention to Philsby.
“Just stay away from Mr. Holmes for now. An escort will be at his house should he need it but I think you need to get home and rest. You look tired.”
“Six people have been murdered by the being deemed as the Boleyn Demon whose preferable hour of carnage is precisely midnight. When he sleeps, then shall I sleep too. But it is coming up to fifteen past eleven and I say my work is only starting,” Barry said checking his wristwatch.
The Merchant Devil
By Terrin Jarrell
Valerie Dalton knew she was going to die. It was an inevitable fact that she could not escape. But that did not stop her from lying to herself that it was going to be alright. She thought she had led a good life, but in her final days, it was becoming more apparent that wasn’t entirely true. At the underwhelming grand age of twenty-four she’d accomplished absolutely nothing in life and the only thing she understood was being a terrible daughter and a worse girlfriend. Thinking of Jack sent a wave of nausea and upset ripping through her stomach. Watching a stream of blood flow out of her nose, she picked up a filthy blue rag off the dirty motel room floor and dabbed dully. She was dying of course, and it was all due to that man. That dreadful man with the too-wide smile that seemed to know everything yet revealed nothing. Wearing a black suit and white tie, he managed a rather old time respectable and almost handsome look if not for that smile, that seemed to be plastered to his face like drywall.
“Excuse me ma’am, I believe you dropped this,” he had said to her with a smile.
So charming at the time but she had felt a stir of unease and an almost urge to flee the scene, flee his smile. Instead she returned a flashy array of white teeth with what she’d hoped was her most pleasant waitress smile and said,