It was a night like the proverbial,
cliché ones, dark and not stormy,
but dreary, you know, like a Bogart
movie. He’s the detective waiting
for the entrance of the “classy
dame.” It’s supposed to be a tale
about a missing sister and a statue.
A black bird, except he calls it the
“dingus.” Hell of a guy! Hell of a
story. So, he’s up in his office,
reading a ‘30s detective magazine.
You know the kind – a woman on
the cover in a tight-fitting blouse
open to here being threatened
by a thug, and there is no story
inside that corresponds with the
image, but who cares? It’s not
like some forgotten piece of
creepy literature or something.
He sees a shadow through the
frosted glass of the office door,
too small and quick moving to
be a client or a “classy dame,”
so he quietly pulls his piece
from his shoulder holster as
he hears a strange tap on the
wood down by the floor. He
rubs his chin, thinking it over
before he decides he’s more
than able to handle whatever
life throws at him. He gets up,
gun in hand and heads for the
door. Another rap on the door.
“Hold your horses!” he calls.
He grabs the doorknob, aims
towards the floor, and yanks
open the door. He blasts a
hole in the floorboards the
size of a ’45 slug. “Son of
a –” And in flies a bird as
black as the heart of the
woman who broke his heart;
Gracie… or Lenore… something
like that. As the bird flies out
the open office window he
hears it cackle, “Never noir!”
So, Jilly found this prompt about writing something based on The Raven. Who wouldn’t like to do something with that great classic. Perhaps not what I did with it; you know, murdering it. But, anyway, this is what came out.