Monday, 15 October 2012

Short Crime Story

It was around 08:30 when an unsuspecting postman arrived at the door of 32, Owlett Grange to deliver the mail for the day. He had on his person two utility bills, a greetings card and a letter from Royal Mail demanding £1.78 in unpaid delivery costs. He realised that something was wrong as soon as he knocked on the door because at his touch, the door flung wide. He had the mocksy to let himself in, in search of this irresponsible home-owner.  “Hullo?” the man whimpered cautiously. All of a sudden, men in plastic blue overalls swarmed through the hall, carrying fragile-looking equipment, every inch of them covered in this sterile material aside from their tired but focused eyes. The Bobbies on the case were Detective Chief Inspector Range and his grasshopper, Detective Inspector Wendall. They soon identified the postman and immediately interrogated him for his presence on a crime scene on this crisp autumn evening. “I just came to deliver Mrs Cookridge’s mail I swear” the man pleaded, “Maybe I shouldn’t have just walked in but there was no foul play here from me, honestly!”

The Officers took his word for it and Wendall escorted the shaken postman round the back of the house, where the scale of the situation really came into perspective. Clinical gazebos, at least four or five, were set up on Mrs Cookridge’s land, and it was positively crawling with pathologists, forensic psychologists, police officers, crime scene investigators – the works. “So what happens now?” enquired the now very worried-looking postman. “Well Mr-?” Began DI Wendall. “Fellman” replied the man. “Okay Mr Fellman, we’re just going to collect a statement from you about all you know about Mrs Cookridge and what you saw here today. From that we can begin to piece together what’s happened here.” “What has happened here?” Enquired Mr Fellman curiously, raising an eyebrow as he once again took in his surroundings. “We don’t really know ourselves to be honest. Mrs Cookridge is dead and it’s a pretty damn nasty business.” The colour from Mr Fellman’s face drained as he realised what had happened.

Monday, 8 October 2012


Today has been a weird one. I don't know how to accurately write this down but I feel like I'm losing touch of reality a little bit. I went to bed as a result of fighting with my boyfriend and all of a sudden there came this sensation of detachment from my body and from the room as if they weren't mine. I feel really numb, as if I'm  all mind, emotion and reaction.

The last thing I want to do at this point is raise alarm as I think that would just alienate me further and make me feel further detached from what I classify as reality. Every action, every word that comes out of my mouth is the very epitome of insincerity. 

Alas, I am at a loss as to what it is I should do except following the classic "fake it till you make it" philosophy. Look after my basic bodily functions and hopefully the rest of me will follow. Maybe I just have cabin fever...