The brain is mush

For some reason, I like the word fuzz.

Not in the sense of fuzz being the police. Not too fond of that one.

But the word itself, for some reason, is a cool word.

So is splanchnic.

And rawr.

Yes, I just said rawr.

It's one of my favorites.

As noted by the title, my brain is mush. I'm writing this Thursday night to post at midnight and have been up for over 12 hours. 14, actually. Off of 5 hours of sleep.

So, as a result, I am going to entertain you with a scene or two from last fall's Noir, soon to become April's Noir. And the martini line, it's not mine. That credit goes to my best friend.


“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jessica.” Chief Reynolds said as she leaned in the doorway of his bedroom, “You better watch out. There’s trouble brewing in the city.”
    "I'm not really flirting with disaster right now, Chief. I'm just eyeing it across a smoky bar while holding a martini." She smiles that smoky smile and turns her back on the man, “I won’t tell your wife that I was here.”




I went home and pulled out that book of photographs. Julie had always liked to take pictures, and left me a few of them, to torment me. There was this one, of me at the beach with my mistress. God, I’d forgotten about her, and I don’t even know how. She was one of those women that could capture your soul and never let go. Course, when I met Elaine, things with her started to fall apart, and soon, I was married to Elaine, until she left me for another man. I’d been good, but not good enough, apparently.
    Holding the picture, I sat down on the edge of the bed. Remembering the time I’d spent with her didn’t hurt so much as ached. We’d had a beautiful thing, and I’d dropped it for what I thought was better. Looking at the picture, watching it shake with the movement of my hands, I shook my head.
    “My God.” I said, “I can’t believe it’s her.”