Posts tagged moving

CSI Lesson-Clean Your Shoes

May 11, 2014 · Filed under Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

CSI Lesson- Clean Your Shoes

 

 

 

 

It was a beautiful cabin. Carrie had dreamed of owning a cabin like this one in the Ozarks since she was a child. Nearby, a stream danced along among trees laced in Autumn’s finest colors, aster swayed in the breeze

 

She had seen the business card of a moving company pinned to the bulletin board inside a Quick Shop, and asked the store owner if he knew anything about the company. “ Yep, said the owner, know them well. They are good guys, so far as I know.”

 

The phone was answered by a man named Jeff Morris, He told Carrie that he and his brother, Marcus had a small moving van and could do the job for her in two days. Their price seemed reasonable, and though she was disappointed to have to wait two days for the move, it wasn’t unexpected.

 

Carrie walked up to the cabin, unlocked the door and inhaled the fragrant scent of new pine. She sat rocker and watched the trees dance outside the window. Sipping a glass of tea, her cat, Freckles jumped in her lap.

 

She had brought a few things with her while the house was being working on and decided to spend the night at the cabin with Freckles curled up beside her, cuddled on the blow-up mattress and navy blue sleeping bag.

……………………………………..

When Carrie didn’t answer her cell phone the next day, Jeff and Marcus decided to stop by and be sure Carrie still wanted the furniture moved the next day. Carries car was there, but the door locked was when they arrived. They could hear Freckles meowing pitifully. The brothers walked down to the creek, thinking she may be nearby.

 

Carrie!” Marcus called, waited and called again. No answer.

 

“Marcus, come here!” Jeff cried out suddenly. His brother found him standing over Carries silent body It looked as though she had been struck from behind. Shaking, Marcus called 911 to report what they had found.

 

The brothers were immediately considered suspects. Terrified, they swore their innocence.

 

One of the detectives who had investigated the cabin ran down to where Marcus and Jeff were being interrogated. “Take of your shoes.” he demanded of the brothers.

 

Confused, they took off their shoes and handed the to the detective. He turned them over and looked at the treads, flashed on the picture app of his cell phone, and after looking at a photo, sighed and said. Take their phone number and let them go.”

 

“What?” said one of the other officers.

 

“Saw it on CSI last week,” the detective smiled. “The murdered left his shoe prints on the newly finished floor and they didn’t match those of the suspects apprehended at the scene.”

 

Marcus and Jeff took a sad look at Carrie’s beautiful, still body and breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully the shoe prints would lead them to her killer.

 

“Maybe we should watch more TV,” Jeff smiled. “We might actually learn something!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Brave Souls

November 14, 2013 · Filed under fiction, history, integrity, memories, nostalgia, prompts, struggles, Uncategorized, writing, youth · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I felt my whole body shiver as the wind pushed me towards the white cliff only yards ahead.

It was early September, and unlike the beaches I was accustomed to back in South Carolina, the white emptiness seemed to swallow me up as I looked out upon the vast sea that separated me from my home.

“Why had I come here?” I asked myself as I turned quickly towards what I felt was more steady ground.

“What had drawn me from my home, still summer-like, warm and welcoming, back to this dreary place where so much had happened in the years long past?”

 I felt the wind whip my hair, just as it did on the beaches at home, and tied it in a knot, so as not to find it filled with tangles. Back home, my curls would have danced in the heat of the sun, the glimmer of sand in the early evening sparkling like diamonds amidst the scattered shells.

I wondered what they called this place where the earth dropped off so violently to the sea. I could not, for the life of me, remember. Surely, it couldn’t be called ‘a beach’, as we called it back home. There was no beach, no glistening sand, no shells or sharks teeth to pick up as souvenirs. Only a harsh, sharp shrub, blown towards the sea, like a withered old man.

I felt my scarf swirl around my neck as I headed down the winding trail to the hut made of stone and partially covered by a roof of thatched straw and branches. The memories rushed back to me as the shadow from the house made the chill of the wind even stronger.

I remembered clinging to my mother’s hand as she ran down this trail when she saw father trudging up the hillside from the pasture below. I could almost smell the pot of steaming soup on the stove and the worn table and benches where we would sit and eat, the five of us, thankful that there was anything to eat at all.

Only then, looking upon my father’s gravestone, did I realize why my mother had taken her three little girls past that grave one last night, then loaded our sparse belongings onto to wagon with the echo of the horses hooves beneath us. We traveled for hours it seemed, towards the rivers’ edge and then boarding the ship, momma holding onto us as if we were made of glass.

 It was both the loss of hope and the search for something better that drove my momma into that shipyard that cold night. It was her strength and courage that found us living in a warm cabin across the endless sea that had given us what we had now.

I was filled with admiration for her brave soul, her staunch determination, as she made her way to that new land. I looked across the sea to America, to opportunity, to home.

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