A terribly small number of people, namely one, asked how or where I get the ideas for my short stories. Well dear “interested” reader, I don’t really know. When the mood or weather conditions suit I’ll sit at the computer and open a blank page. After adjusting myself, the first words dictate what follows and the narrative just farts out. ajm crawford.com is an amalgamation site lovingly drafted from tbaoo. SmashWords published some of my outpourings and you can ensure my continued survival here. My stories are basically fiction, unless directly quoted. Some are based on reasonably true events, while others emerge from my ludicrous imagination, but no, I’m not a serial killer. The lists, rants and other eclectic material is curated by my good-self. If you’ve feedback, I’d love to hear it and hopefully learn from it. If you’ve criticism, I can learn from that too.
Here’s a tiny sample from Bloodbath … Detective Harry Moon had woken from the best slightly drunk, chilled weather sleep he’d had in a long time. He loved it under the covers. The recent high temperatures and humidity made sleep very unpleasant in Hutson. This coastal town bore the brunt of the tropics climate with monsoon like storms in the evening and brilliant sunshine strangling out the humidity. The continual ringing wet dash from the car to home had resulted in Harry’s apartment stinking like wet grass and stale mould. No matter how he tried, in opening windows and doors he wasn’t home long enough for it to have any effect. He did leave one window open last week and that didn’t help. It stank, but this morning he didn’t care he was brimming with that warm beautiful sleep feeling. He’d even feel a little cuddly if he had someone to cuddle. Harry’s cuddling partner Ruth wasn’t likely to be seeing him today as she could only cuddle when her schedule allowed. It didn’t this week as she was involved in a complicated intellectual copyright case. One mumbling arse had decided that his gangster rap image had been ruined while being stolen by another. The interesting aspect was that the persona of “Numb” was a complete fabrication. While the other guy, the one he was suing, was very real, frighteningly real. His street name was “Dead”. He had a real name, but only the locked juvenile court files held that closely guarded detail. His real name eventually became known during the copyright case, it was revealed to be Arthur Rupert Greentree.
Peter had finished his personal ritual, pleasured himself in a manner that remained his secret and left the scene. So far he’d managed to avoid leaving any trace of his presence or his pleasure. He was well practiced in this vital component of his release. Peter left the tools and apron he used. He’d left these at each of the scenes. The Police had no DNA or provenance to help them track Peter or his discarded items. They could only hope to identify the victims, piece them together and trace their recent activity and recent contacts. This wouldn’t help either.