In which Detective Coping receives an unanticipated rejoinder,(via telephone)
He breaks focus with Polly's quickening image to answer his digital telecommunication device. ( There is some kind of storm swell washing vaguely menacing w a v e s across the telephone sea tonight.)
"Special Federal Detective Coping." Archly archetypal feminine tones breaking through the surface membrane of auditory recognition. Coping shrugs his shoulders and rubs a knuckle in a species of intrigued bemusement over his pronounced temple. The sharp pupils of his eyes widen ever so slightly. " You know a lot about me and my family's business, don't you Ben.?" He knows it's a statement posing as a question, just as he knows in the alchemy of his bones that the voice chiming through the telephonic maelstrom belongs to Polly Myrrh Nomere.
"Ms. Nomere I take it.?" Ben Coping says the line like an arcane search engine entering a query.
"I'm n o t my mother, you can call me Polly, or Polly Myrrh if you prefer." There is a dark, rippling undertone to her voice,as though the sound of waves crashing softly on a deserted beach whispering of undertows and fogs forgotten on a moonless night when a suspicion of otherworldly mischief is in the air. Coping breathes to clear an image from his mind formulating a dialog empirical with which to approach this Nomere daughter.
"You're wrong Detective, my mother didn't have my father murdered, although if she had cared enough to have wanted to,well not doubt it could have been arranged." Polly Myrrh pauses, letting the soft cadences of her breath accentuate the implications of the statement.
The sound of waves crying somewhere in a distant background lulling credulity.
That is a song too deep to hear, a tonal chording plying forever the green glass cliffs of Panasea.
/\/\/\
Out of the blue a sudden white feather brushes Ben's brow as he asks.
"Polly are you calling to tell me who killed your father.?"
"I don't know that my father is actually dead Mr. federal detective, although he has certainly, (a curtain whispers) been out of touch for a while now."
Coping a seasoned veteran investigator of arcane family dramas is not instantly able to divine a specific line to Polly's inferences.
Somewise wayfar crosstime over against a stand of ancient rain whispered evergreens in a cabin high up above those menacing seawaves a lore learned woman of indeterminate age and power brews a pot of sassafras tea in an old walrus shaped ceramic pot for a water bird named Certainly, and herself.?
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1291 times
Written on 2013-09-19 at 21:33
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The Panasea Caper Chapter:Deux
Farawise crossways town Coping is startled from his Polly Myrrh reverie by a muted vibratory ringing, a sound coming to his ears as though the calls of some mythic creature of the nameless depths breaking reality's quirky surface to reach a mortal ear.He breaks focus with Polly's quickening image to answer his digital telecommunication device. ( There is some kind of storm swell washing vaguely menacing w a v e s across the telephone sea tonight.)
"Special Federal Detective Coping." Archly archetypal feminine tones breaking through the surface membrane of auditory recognition. Coping shrugs his shoulders and rubs a knuckle in a species of intrigued bemusement over his pronounced temple. The sharp pupils of his eyes widen ever so slightly. " You know a lot about me and my family's business, don't you Ben.?" He knows it's a statement posing as a question, just as he knows in the alchemy of his bones that the voice chiming through the telephonic maelstrom belongs to Polly Myrrh Nomere.
"Ms. Nomere I take it.?" Ben Coping says the line like an arcane search engine entering a query.
"I'm n o t my mother, you can call me Polly, or Polly Myrrh if you prefer." There is a dark, rippling undertone to her voice,as though the sound of waves crashing softly on a deserted beach whispering of undertows and fogs forgotten on a moonless night when a suspicion of otherworldly mischief is in the air. Coping breathes to clear an image from his mind formulating a dialog empirical with which to approach this Nomere daughter.
"You're wrong Detective, my mother didn't have my father murdered, although if she had cared enough to have wanted to,well not doubt it could have been arranged." Polly Myrrh pauses, letting the soft cadences of her breath accentuate the implications of the statement.
The sound of waves crying somewhere in a distant background lulling credulity.
That is a song too deep to hear, a tonal chording plying forever the green glass cliffs of Panasea.
/\/\/\
Out of the blue a sudden white feather brushes Ben's brow as he asks.
"Polly are you calling to tell me who killed your father.?"
"I don't know that my father is actually dead Mr. federal detective, although he has certainly, (a curtain whispers) been out of touch for a while now."
Coping a seasoned veteran investigator of arcane family dramas is not instantly able to divine a specific line to Polly's inferences.
Somewise wayfar crosstime over against a stand of ancient rain whispered evergreens in a cabin high up above those menacing seawaves a lore learned woman of indeterminate age and power brews a pot of sassafras tea in an old walrus shaped ceramic pot for a water bird named Certainly, and herself.?
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1291 times
Written on 2013-09-19 at 21:33
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