It’s Always Something
Anyone on the upside of 30 can probably tell you about the late Gilda Radner. She was a comic and actress who flourished in the 1970s and 1980s, brought to national fame and attention as one of the original cast of Saturday Night Live. One of the recurring characters she brought to the show was Roseanne Roseannadanna, a wise-cracking, wild haired woman who would ramble on and on as part of the Weekend Update segment, before wrapping her bizarre commentary with the expression, “It’s always something.” Radner even used the line as the title of her autobiography. As Roseanne would say, no matter what your best intentions of getting things done, “it’s always something”. There’s a fair bit of wisdom in that nonsensical sentence.
If you’re a writer, there can so many roadblocks between your desire to write and actually getting a chance to spend some quality time with your keyboard that you may begin to wonder if it’s worth it. Trust me when I say, it is. It most definitely is. Lately I’ve found myself reverting back to methods I used in the past to kick start my writing efforts. If I’m driving any distance, I’ll let my mind wander back to a scene I’m working on. I’ll trade dialogue (sometimes aloud) between characters or picture different settings. Often I can rework a scene enough so that when I am finally able to sit down at the computer, it just flows through my fingers as if they are acting of their own accord. So despite the ‘always something’ that happens during the day or week, you’ve got to keep at it. Because there’s a story inside that’s just anxiously awaiting its chance to get out, to be shared with others.
Last time I mentioned the writers group I found here in town. We started out small and while we’re still small, we are growing. Recently word has spread and we’re adding a few people each time. It’s great to hear of others efforts, to share ideas while giving and receiving feedback. We always try to share a piece that we’ve been working on. So with that in mind, here’s another snippet from the novel I’m working on about the serial killer. In this scene, six detectives are approaching the house of a suspect to take him into custody. Enjoy.
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We parked two doors down the block. The group circled around for instructions.
“Koz, you and Robyn take the garage. Barksdale and Molly, take the rear entrance. Megan and I will go in the front door. Keep it quiet and let’s hope we get some good luck.”
“Christ knows we’re overdue,” Barksdale muttered.
Megan and I stayed back for a minute, letting the other two teams move up the driveway. Kozlowski had stepped onto the grass beside the garage and was peering through a window. Barksdale was standing at the back door. Megan took the three steps from the walk up to the stoop in an easy stride. I was right behind her as she rapped on the door. My eyes flicked to the window at the front of the house. I saw movement seconds before the glass exploded in every direction.
It was pure reflex, plain and simple. My mind must have registered the movement an instant before the window disintegrated. I don’t remember doing it, but I wrapped an arm around Megan’s waist and dove to the left, pulling her off the stoop. My shoulders hit the driveway and her head snapped back, catching me on the chin. The back of my head kissed the pavement and I saw stars.
Megan rolled left, aiming her weapon and rising to her feet in one smooth motion. Movement in the street caught my attention. One of the Eastpointe cops had jumped out of his car and let out a scream. I saw his legs go out from under him and he clutched at his thigh. His partner used the car as a shield and dragged him back.
“What the fuck?” Megan yelled. Her face was filled with rage.
Before I could respond we heard gunfire coming from the rear of the house. Myers must have company, or he’d been waiting for us.
“Front door?” Megan shouted.
“Damn right.”
We jumped back to the porch. I glanced through what remained of the window and didn’t see any movement. Rearing back, I slammed my foot beside the cheap doorknob. The door burst open. Megan hesitated, making sure the door wouldn’t swing back into her, and that no one was standing in wait. She went through the door fast and I was right behind her.
We checked the front room and moved down the hall. The other two teams were covering the rear of the house. There was no way Myers could escape. We stopped in the hallway beside the kitchen. Myers was swinging back and forth, firing shots from a big automatic out the rear window toward the garage, alternating with shots at the rear door.
“Police. Drop your weapon!” Megan yelled. She pressed her back against the wall, anticipating gunfire.
Myers turned slightly. “Kiss my ass! I’m not going back to prison. There’s no way I’ll survive.”
He brought his gun around and aimed it at the spot on the wall where Megan was. Maybe whatever ammo he had could punch through plaster. I didn’t want to find out. His chest was in my sights. I squeeze the trigger and pumped two rounds at him. Yet as I was firing, he was hit from behind in the back of the head. Blood erupted from his body as Myers dropped on the kitchen floor.
