#doug-wright — Public Fediverse posts

The Threefold Death

Chapter 1 and 2.5

Chapter One – The Grotto

It was early morning on Big Finn Island, and the first fiery sliver of sun had just peeked above on the horizon. Its golden first light glowed upon a large brass bell which had been hanging in the brick tower of Finn Island Lodge for over two hundred years.

Beneath the bell was perched a large owl, its pin-sharp talons grasping the round iron hand-rail that surrounded the belfry. With wide, unblinking eyes the bird surveilled the expansive green lawns below, head swiveling. There was a small smear of red, red blood around its beak, for the night’s hunting had been a success. Belly full, sun rising, the predator’s night shift was over. Talons released the rail as the bird leaned slightly forward and spread its wings. As it cleared the tall bell-tower, its eyes were instinctually attracted to motion at its base, and while it had no words in its brain that said “woman and dog”, it recognized them as not prey, and flew silently away towards a cool burrow in a tree, where there were young to feed and sleep to be had.

The woman, Diva Charleson, didn’t see the owl of course, because she’d been picking a running playlist on her phone. She started the music and slipped the phone into the waistband pocket of her athleisure leggings, and then Diva bent over and unclipped her beagle, Maui. The two of them set off across the grass side by side, leaving wet tracks in the dew as they headed towards the Grotto.
Yesterday, Jack at the front desk had told Diva that the best running trail on the property (in his opinion) began there. Diva had read the little blurb on the visitor map he’d given her that described the spot: an old stone monument, a place of prayer, that was built long ago after the view from the spot inspired the establishment of the entire castle-like complex that was now the Lodge.
Maui was as excited as ever about some off-leash time, and was running full-speed circles around Diva as they ran across the grass, stopping only when interrupted by a whatever smell would momentarily get his attention. When the duo arrived at the edge of the forest, they were met with a waist-high split-rail fence, upon which Diva saw a sign. The Grotto it began, before listing off the same information she had read on the visitor map. Please, no dogs. Through the trees and ferns Diva could see a strange building. It was sort of square, with a four-sided, pyramid-shaped roof which was covered in moss. The walls and roof looked to be made of thousands of roundish stones, most no bigger than a man’s fist.
Diva looked back towards the Lodge. There was no one around, so she proceeded through the gap in the fence, disregarding the request from the sign about no dogs. She was only running through after all, no harm done. As she came closer to the structure, it became apparent that it was the back of it she’d been looking at. There was a small, clear pavilion in what would be the front, like a sunken living room. A flagstone pathway led around both sides of it, and she took the closer route, on the left. Maui, good dog that he was, followed close behind.
The stone path sank into the ground and turned into steps, before turning to the right. Maui squeezed past Diva’s legs and ran on ahead, as he often did. Then he barked in a serious tone that Diva had never heard before. It was a big boy bark.
Rounding the corner, she entered the pavilion and faced the hollow, covered area that was covered by mossy pyramid of stones she’d seen the back of.
Maui stood in a wide-legged defensive stance, and let out another single, gruff bark; a challenge that said Hey you! Move!
There, on a long, waist-high stone altar, lay the unmoving body of a man.
There was white piece of fabric covering the man’s face.
He was a guest of the hotel perhaps, some guy who’d drank too much on the company dime and fallen asleep in the unlikeliest of places.
There was blood, and there was something sticking out of the middle of his chest.
Maui looked back at Diva as she stepped forward to put the leash back on him. It was time to get out of here.
Maui trotted forward towards the obviously dead man, braver now, and sniffed in his direction, then barked again. Diva watched, transfixed. The body didn’t flinch, not even the tiniest bit.
There were thorny vines wrapped tightly around the man’s neck. Maui was licking something on the ground.
Jesus Christ.
“Maui! Come now!” she called, concern and firmness in her voice.
The dog looked back at her, and she beckoned to him with a hand signal. His nose went back to what looked like a pile of puke on the ground.
“Damnit,” Diva whispered to herself as she moved quickly and decisively forward. She saw it was puke on the ground as she swooped the dog up in her arms. She stepped back quickly and then she glanced quickly up at the man on the altar again, only for a second, but closer now. The bloody mess of his torso and neck was worse than a movie. It was real. It was wood that was sticking out of his chest
Diva clipped the leash back onto her dog, then turned and walked back the way she came. Once she was back at the split-rail fence, she pulled her phone from her hip and called 911. Her call was answered after the second ring.
“911, do you need Fire, Police, or Ambulance?”

Chapter Two – Lincoln

To an outside observer, it might have looked like Lincoln was sitting in stasis, waiting for his next case. What he was really doing was meditating, or at least trying to. His therapist had suggested it to him as a way to mitigate certain aspects of his mental make-up, and as a method by which he could more reliably control and soften his responses and reactions in real time. So, he sat comfortably in his nice room, eyes closed, and he calibrated
Lincoln was rotating his attention through all of his sensory inputs minus vision, since his eyes were closed. He could hear the gurgle of the coffeemaker as it pulled the last of the water from its reservoir and dropped it over the grounds, and he could smell the nutty, chocolatey scent of the dark hot liquid in the pot. He could also hear the birds off to his left through the open screened window, chirping and pecking at the feeder, which he had noticed earlier would probably need refilling before the day was through. He could feel the clothing on his skin and his hands on his knees, and the pressure of his legs on each other and on the thin mat beneath him. He could feel his breath, going in and out.
Awareness was the focus of this exercise; environmental, physical, mental. The human body is a sensory machine, and consciousness is its passenger, he’d heard somewhere. He liked the sound of that, even if it did sound like canned social media wisdom. His therapist had told him that meditation would possibly sharpen his already keen senses, along with helping him to deal with the challenges that had led him to seek the practice in the first place.
Noticing his mind had wandered, he inhaled deeply and went back to his breath. Then he heard the gentle ping of an incoming audio call.
“Answer.” He said into the quiet.
A velveteen female voice responded from the desk speaker across the room.
“Good morning Lincoln. Quite sorry to interrupt your meditation, but there’s a DAIS-One contract coming through. It’s in your neighborhood, so you’re up.”
“Acknowledged, Zee. One moment.” Lincoln replied, getting up from his cross-legged position. He’d had enough of meditating anyways.
‘DAIS-one’ was the internal code for a homicide. Murder. King county often contracted these out, as it was only slightly more expensive and if the case didn’t get solved it had no effect on their numbers. Lincoln was incentivized for quick resolution by a pay bonus from DAIS if the case was solved within a week. Quick solves for the county were always touted in the numbers, which meant secure funding, which in a roundabout way meant continued pay for Lincoln. The local politicians may have defunded the police to the point of near-impotence, but polite society still wanted justice for the murdered, which meant it was time to get to work.
Lincoln reached his desk and put on his smart-glasses, which turned on automatically. He put himself in the zone; inhaled, held for three, then exhaled for three.
“Good morning Zeno, go ahead.” He said as he walked to the stovetop.
“Good morning, Agent Strive. There was a 911 call at seven-o-one this morning, placed by a lone woman walking her dog. Dramatic homicide, one known victim, adult male. City patrol has secured the scene, and the forensic team has been alerted. Initial scene photos by patrol are in the case file now.”
“Location?” Lincoln asked Zeno, while pouring a cup of coffee into a mug that read:

if (need_coffee) {
brew();
} else {
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}

“The call originated from a location close to you, Finn Island Lodge.”
Lincoln walked casually over to the large sliding door and looked out over the water, taking a first hot sip.
“I’ve heard of it, been meaning to go there, I understand their restaurant is good. No ID on the victim yet?” Lincoln asked, taking another sip of coffee.
“Negative. His face is covered, and patrol hasn’t touched him.”
“Show me the pictures please.”
The first picture was displayed on the inside of his lenses. He blinked to flip through the pics of the approach and surroundings, until he got to the victim. Man on altar, cloth over face, some kind of stone structure around him. The next pic was up close, centered on a stick protruding from the guy’s chest. The next one was of what appeared to be blackberry vines, wrapped around the neck.
“Ouch. Okay, thanks. What’s the forensics team’s ETA?” Lincoln said, as the pictures disappeared from his vision.
“They’ll be arriving in ten minutes.”
“Is the caller still on scene?”
“Negative, but she’s still on property, She’s a guest at the Lodge and is booked for two more nights, with no plans to leave. Patrol took her statement and cut her loose. ”
“I’ll get ready and leave immediately. Thanks Zee.”
“My pleasure, Agent Strive.”

His glasses bleeped a soft tone via the bone-conductive emitters in the temple tips, indicating the call was closed. It was a white lie though, Link knew the call was never really closed. While he wore the glasses, everything he heard, saw, and said was monitored by Zeno. She was his controller, his partner, and if truth be told, his therapist. Zee kept him on the straight-and-narrow, or at least she tried. Lincoln did his part too, because he liked his job and he wanted to get paid. He wanted to blend in and have a life. He was a psychopath, so it was tricky.

He went to his bedroom garage and finished his coffee as he changed. His dad’s old saying popped through his mind, making a small alteration
Spectacles, weapon, wallet-and-watch.
It wasn’t the original version, but he’d not forgotten his testicles yet.

Thinking of his late father, he lowered the glasses on his nose and looked into the scanner on the safe. Once it was open, he looked over his arsenal and chose the beautiful Korth revolver that had been left to him. He hefted the heavy gun in his hand. ‘If eight rounds of .357 couldn’t get the job done, you’d better reload’ his dad had often said. Lincoln donned the matching shoulder holster and threw his smart blazer overtop. He holstered the gun and checked himself in the mirror to confirm everything was in order. He was a handsome man; blue-gray eyes, a tanned, lean face with a nordic jaw, all framed by russet curls over wide, muscular shoulders. He turned to his gun side, checking that it wasn’t printing through his jacket, which it was not.
Pleased with what he saw, he headed to the garage.

Flash Fiction Fun on Substack

I’ve been delving into the world of Substack recently, and the bulk of my original posts there (not restacks) have been “Drabbles.” These are 100-word short stories, born in the UK in the 80’s at Birmingham University with a little help from Monty Python (of whom I’m a lifelong fan) An editor friend of mine, Sandy Smith has been posting a weekly challenge every Friday, which has been a nice distraction from the tedious task of polishing the final draft of my murder mystery.

I’ve done all three of the challenges so far, and while their quality might be questionable, the puzzle-solving-joy that they bring me is not. It’s actually quite challenging to encapsulate the beginning, middle, and end of a story into a mere 100 words. It would be easy if it were a poem, or some unresolved moment that left the reader hanging, but my novice-level understanding of the drabble form is that it must tie into a cute little package, maybe in brown paper and a bit of string. Done.

if you’re interested in writing one and posting it, head over to my substack and follow the links. For me, the trick is to not think about it too much. I’ve been calling it “a one-pipe problem” a la Sherlock Holmes. You have only until the pipe is finished, or the cup of coffee, or tea, or whatever it is that floats your boat, to get the bulk of it done. I’ll post the one I wrote today below, and you can read my other two on Substack if you want to. If you’re really keen, go check out 100 Word Story. I haven’t given it a thorough exploring yet, but it’s on my list of places on the interwebz to check out.

Stars

I was floating in space. To say I was merely wrapped in stars would be insufficient.
A brief moment of almost-panic washed over me. Breathless terror, then euphoria, as I realized that I was universe.
No hallucinogens ground my guts, this was just the result of self-directed meditative rebellion against the wailing and caterwauling going on around me. My body was still there on the floor.
“So what now?” I wondered. “What does one do with all this infinity?”
The facilitator turned down the pulsing music. The screaming stopped, tears were dried, words were said.
Then we broke for lunch.

‘The Burial’ Writer and Tony Award Winner Doug Wright Signs With Anonymous Content (EXCLUSIVE)
#Variety #News #AnonymousContent #DougWright

https://variety.com/2026/film/news/the-burial-writer-and-tony-award-winner-doug-wright-signs-with-anonymous-content-1236766727/

Jamie Foxx, Tommy Lee Jones – „The Burial“ (2023)

Ein Gerichtssaal kann immer auch eine Bühne sein – für einen Anwalt, der mehr Show liefert als jeder Gangster-Rapper. Maggie Betts hat hier ein Drama nach einer wahren Geschichte, als Clash zwischen alten weißen Männern in grauen Anzügen und einem schwarzen Anwalt inszeniert. Einem, der keine Angst vor der Show oder der Wahrheit hat. Das ist kein Film über das Recht, das ist zuallererst ein Film über Haltung. Mit einem großartigen Jamie Foxx und Tommy Lee Jones, der längst seine eigene Legende spielt. (ARD/One, TV-Premiere)

Zum Blog: https://nexxtpress.de/mediathekperlen/jamie-foxx-tommy-lee-jones-the-burial-2023/