I Dream of Murder

April 4, 2019


Intro to my long-planned and largely unwritten murder mystery.....



I knew from a young age that my dreams—my nighttime dreams, not my aspirations—were different from most people's. Darker, edgier. Never any balloon-filled skies or hopeful glimpses into a bright future. Angst and convolution, always. But I thought my dreams were just entities unto themselves, untied to anything tangible, anything real. I never could have anticipated this. 





A woman's body was found in the women's room of Bowl-a-Rama on 15th Court early this morning, according to police sources. 


No additional information was immediately available. 


Staff Report

Posted 5/9/19, 1:03pm


With my workday just ended, my favorite bartender at my favorite bar greets me as she always does. 


“Hey Kate. The usual?”


“Yes, thanks, Amy.” She places an expertly-pulled Peroni in front of me. “Was that yours?” Amy asks. “About the woman in the bowling alley?”


“Yes, a journalistic masterpiece.” I hope she finds this sardonic, not sad, but that is not the case. 


“Come on.  Your articles are great. Someone needs to write the online stuff. And don't miss the point.”


“Which is?”


“A woman is dead.” 


“Oh, right.”  I pause. “People die all the time.”


“In a bathroom in a bowling alley?”


“Less common, I guess.”


“Do you know anything else?”


“Nope.” I make my modest living through the written word, but I find myself to be increasingly terse, verbally. 


“Hmm,” Amy says.  “Well, it's too bad.” She changes the subject. “How's your mom?”


“Don't ask,” I say. 


Mary, my brilliant and indomitable mother, has been afflicted with early-onset Alzheimer’s for going on 7 years. 


Snapping fingers from the other end of the bar alert Amy that Sammy wants a refill. He owns another bar in town which makes him, in his own estimation, royalty. Amy smiles at me and I read her annoyance, as I know she intends. I smile back in what I intend to be a sympathetic way, but I'm not sure, as my intentions and what others perceive seem to be out of sync these days.


“Coming, Sammy,” Amy trills. 


In spite of my apparent disinterest, the bowling alley death is nagging at me, and I'm not sure why. The woman probably died of a heart attack or fell and hit her head or something equally ordinary. So I don't know why the word murder keeps pounding in my head. 

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