Positively Pesamistic

A few months ago I read the book “Naming Jack the Ripper” by Russell Edwards.  Here are my thoughts…

This was the first book to come along in years on the subject that actually seemed to get it right straight from the beginning.  A businessman from England; Edwards was, and still is, fascinated with the history of London.  This fascination led him to a rare piece of evidence taken from one of the notorious killer’s crime scenes: a shawl that belonged to the 4th victim: Catherine Eddows.  DNA results are linked to surviving members of her family.  Forensic testing also concluded that there were other traces of DNA on the shawl that did not belong to the victim.  A heart pounding search was conducted and after months of research, Russell and his team of experts had nothing to go on.  Having spent his families savings and nearly broke, Edwards decided to give it one last shot.  He chose as his subject, SRussell_Edwards_Naming-Jack-the-Rippercotland Yard’s favorite suspect: Aaron Kosminski.  The results were irrefutable.  Aaron Kosminski was Jack the Ripper.
Thos of us armature detectives never once believed that it was Kosminski.  He didn’t fit the part of the Victorian killer lurking in the shadows.  We also never believed that the killer would be found.  With every new suspect (James Maybrick, Walter Sickert) there’s a heightened sense of anxiety; but it always turned out to be false.  Am I glad that history finally has a face to the name?  Sure.  Am I 100% convinced?  No, maybe 98%.  That last 2% is still holding on that the killer is still hiding the shadows, waiting for his next victim.  That’s much more fun.  I feel a bit left out in the cold.
Great book though.



Daily writing practice

The rain fell slowly and floated above the street in a mist; a mist that carried the death and decay of the world with it.  I held no presumptions that life as I knew it would soon end.  We had long ago set upon a path of self destruction and ignored the clear warning signs.

The extinction of the human race began 20 years ago with the first release of the virus.  The virus – engineered specifically to merely reduce the earths population had run amok and had killed indiscriminately.  Those of us that had distributed the virus are the only ones left; left alone with our shame and our guilt.

At the beginning of the 21st century, the Earths population was a little over seven billion people.  At last count, there were only 7500 confirmed alive; walking this deserted planet alone: alone because we fear the company of others.  Alone because we cannot trust each other any longer, and alone because we are all carriers of the virus.

How does one recover from this?

Must Read!!!


Late last night as I lie sleeping, I dreamt; something I don’t usually do.  It was so vivid and realistic that when I woke, I questioned the world around me.

The elevator doors opened and my eyes were instantly focused on the odd scene in front of me.  I had to look twice because I wasn’t quite sure of what I was looking at.  There was a man, dressed in a blue suit with a top hat of all things, sitting on the roughly carpeted floor and drinking a glass of ice-filled liquid the color of amber.  I’m guessing it was some type of whiskey.  Behind the man was a woman – naked – red hair and the lightest group of freckles adorning her magical face.  She was holding a snake in her arms, the thing wrapping itself around her supple neck.  Still, these were not the strangest things to be witnessed.  Behind the two odd characters and to the right was a large ceramic planter, painted with dull southwestern designs.  Normally this would not cause a stir.  Foliage of this type are frequent in hotel lobbies, no.  The thing was hanging upside down from a series of chains attached to the ceiling.  The plant was fixed somehow to the inside of the large pot.  My head cocked to the right like a confused dog and yet this was not the oddest thing to be seen that morning.

Suddenly, my feet felt a rush of icy cold and I looked down to find that I was standing in water up to my ankles.  A school of fish swam around me as if I were invading their  space.  The doors to the elevator remained open and I wondered if I would ever wake from this awful dream.  Clearly I had to be dreaming.  The images and oddities placed before me were too fantastical to be actual.  I felt something warm brush against my left shoulder and turned in its direction.  A thick red mist hung in the air like a cloud on a rainy afternoon.  I closed my eyes and attempted to wake myself.  I thought I was gaining success until the red mist began to speak; to me apparently.

“Lovely day isn’t it?”  It announced through no mouth at all.  I nodded in lieu of a response.  This did nothing to deter the thing from continuing.

“Pardon me, but I couldn’t help but notice that your shoes are untied.  I wouldn’t have said a thing had they been sneakers.  Dress shoes of your style should be fastened; for safety reasons of course.”   I glanced down to see that not only was the crimson fog correct, but that I was no longer wading in the fish-filled water.  I was overtaken by the urge to thank the thing but after straightening from tying my laces, he had vanished.  Nonetheless, this was also not the weirdest spectacle of all.

The top hat man and naked snake lady had remained unmoved from the threadbare carpeting.  Out of the corner of my eye – which eye I cannot be sure – I noticed movement: thick heavy movement; like construction machinery, only it appeared at first to be human in nature.  As this whatever came closer I was shocked out of my recently tied shoes to find that it was the actor David Ogden Stiers, the fellow who portrayed the annoyingly brilliant Major Charles Emerson Winchester III on the 70’s comedy M*A*S*H.  I was immediately thrilled as he entered the elevator.

“Big fan!”  I told him, and instantly regretted it as I seemed like a crazed lunatic.  He smiled curtly and stared off into nothing.  It was only seconds later that I felt something tug at my pants.  I twisted around to find Major Winchester going through my pockets.

“What the fuck man!”  He looked up and I noticed a small fish in his mouth.  He continued to search through my pockets.  “Excuse me!”  Only then did I notice that it truly wasn’t David Ogden Stiers, but a waxen version of him.  When the waxy imposter tried to speak I no longer felt the need to stay in the elevator, but my attempt to leave sparked the doors to close and I was headed down.  I hadn’t a clue what was in store for me next but I didn’t assume that it could possibly get any weirder.  Upon reaching the bottom of the hotel, which I was assuming was the ground floor, the doors opened and Winchester ran out screaming.  I was relieved to see life as I had remembered it.  People – normal people – all doing normal things.  This is when the morning took a turn for the worse.

The hotel lobby was full of what appeared to be business type folk.  They moved quickly from one point to another – talking on their phones or typing on their computers.

“psst…”  I heard this coming from one of the many lounge chairs available in the middle of the lobby.  I approached.  “psst…”  The sound got louder as I got closer and I entered a ring of chairs situated around a stone fireplace.  I glanced around at the guests who sat there.  There were all types of humans: men, women, tall, skinny, ugly, you name it.  As I reached the 9 ‘oclock position in my rotation I spied a familiar face.  It was Donald Trump.  He was trying to get my attention.  He offered me a seat on the couch next to him and I obliged.  Before saying a word he took out his wallet and began throwing 10 dollar bills at me.  This was confusing to say the least.  When he finally did speak, it all came crystal clear.  I picked up the 40 dollars and he grabbed my arm.

“Vote for me and you will always have cookies.”  I slapped him in the face, stole his wallet and ran.  Then, inevitably, my alarm went off…


Many of us do this.  We come home from a long day at our respective jobs.  We slip off our shoes and relax; to whatever for of relaxation works for us.  For me its my recliner for roughly an hour.  If I have nothing to do that night then the time that I spend horizontal may increase.  With most of us we feel a proud sense of accomplishment from a job well done.  Or perhaps we’re just happy to have a particular project off our plate.  Or maybe you’re one of those rough necks who works so hard that by the time you get home you’re sore and you just want to stop moving for a while.  If you are any of these people then I envy you.  Take a wild guess at what I do for 8 hours a day…  NOTHING.  This is not an exaggeration.  I literally sit behind a desk and do nothing.  Yes, I get paid and some of you might consider me to be ungrateful and I am happy to be employed.  But spending the entire day doing nothing is exhausting.  Seriously – its only 9:30 in the morning and I’m all ready for bed.  Here’s a quote for you to ponder.  If you know me well enough (who really does) then you’ll know who this is.

“I’ve often thought of becoming a hairdryer.”

Stay tuned!!!

I am giving serious consideration to an idea that I’ve had for some time now.  Tentative title: “Jesus & Me.”  Yep, you heard me right.  Taken from the point of view of his best friend Steve, the story, which will be my first comedy, will follow the would-be king of the Jews throughout his formative years and into adulthood.  Many of the decisions and choices made by Jesus weren’t actually made by Jesus, but by Steve.  It was Steve who advised Jesus to become a carpenter.  It was Steve who thought it would be a good idea to start a new religion.  A little like a “mom always liked you best” sort of thing.  I will of course, have to do some serious researching; facts are facts as you know and I want to be accurate as far as the historical accounts go.  However, the grey areas will be slightly muddled.


Stay tuned for Princess Jessie and The Way Back.  Both to be released soon.  (cross your fingers)

It’s only me…

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been gone for a while.  Nothing serious I suppose; unless you consider rheumatoid arthritis serious.  It certainly isn’t life threatening, but it is life altering.  Being back at work has helped to clear my mind (mainly because at work, my mind isn’t being used) and I want to get back to work writing.  “The Way Back” will be released soon.  That is if my editor would get off her lazy butt and get my copy back to me.  But I digress.  The hardest thing I have in front of me is the completion of my current manuscript which is lossley based on the Hinterkaifeck Murders.  I hope you y’all stick around long enough to read it.  I hope I’m around long enough to finish it.  Perhaps I will take my imagination and my words to the campground with me this weekend.

Happy Friday y’all.


I try, like most people (I assume) not to judge too harshly, people who are “different” than I.  Having said that, (I really hate that cliche) I would like to express my extreme displeasure for the latest trend in male hair styles: The Man-Bun.  There was a “guy” at work today that was sporting this new weirdness.  I have to say that it was a mite ridiculous.  It wasn’t so much a bun as it was a hair-penis – tied with at least three bands to the crown of his head.  Maybe I’m old and out of it.  Perhaps I have no sense of what style is.  Perhaps I’m just not as sexy as I thought I was, but come on people.  The guy looked like a Teletubbie but with a tube of penis like hair on the top of his head.  The moral of this story is KNOCK IT OFF!

My 500 Words

Day #3 of the #my500words writing challenge. Total words – 909.

Today was very productive. I began a premise for my new book. I may or may not use it but I like the way it’s written. The more mundane my day is at work, the more actual writing I get done. Below is just a sample. Like I said, I may be heading in a different direction but I really like this.

At St. Martin there is a small café; inland off Cypress Street, which many of the tourists are unaware of. I came across it two weeks ago on a bike trip through the village: a charming little charcuterie with window boxes and fresh table linens. I was greeted with the widest smile from the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Her hair was the darkest shade of caramel, with eyes surprisingly blue. The grape colored apron that adorned her graceful waist was stained with powdered sugar, but her smile required no respite from the morning’s sugary offerings. It was given freely; and it soon came to be mine, or that I had hoped for such. When she spoke, her subtly infused French accent quickened my pulse.

Every morning since, I would sit on the terrace overlooking the mysterious Caribbean and drink cup after cup of the worst tasting coffee imaginable: a meager sacrifice to be worthy of her audience. I would have drunk a tripe milkshake for the mere witness of her smile.

The morning prior to yesterday was no different. I paid for my mug of sludge, took my usual seat in the warmth of the morning sun and waited for my daily smile. On this particular day however, I received a bonus for my trouble: a note; in the form of a torn piece of notebook paper fastened to my cup with clear adhesive tape. I grinned childishly, surely it was her phone number, or at the very least the number of a local medicine man that was sure to find success in restoring my taste buds.

When I opened the correspondence, I was shocked; shocked to find nothing that I had hoped for and shocked to find everything that I hadn’t.

Mister, please help me. They’re going to kill me.

I was fully uncertain of what to do with this knowledge. Perhaps this was a situation best suited for the Dirty Harry type.