A Story That Never Wants To End

Jeez, Louise!  Its been a long time since I've written something in here.  But that's the iffy thing about blog writing.  Especially for a writer (a good writer, or a bad one, or one totally pedestrian in nature.  It doesn't matter).   Coming up with something to write about  . . . on top of ALL the other writing you're supposed to be doing . . . gets to be a real drain on the imagination.

Or to put it more crudely;  it becomes a major pain in the ass.

But a topic hit me this morning that's worthy of a blog.  Maybe even worthy of a comment or two, depending of course, on whether there is anyone out there to comment on.  I doubt anyone is left who used to read this blog (all two of you).  Ah well, here goes anyway.

The subject of today's blog is;  A Story That Never Wants To End.

Here's the background you need to know.  A few weeks ago an idea came along for a short story featuring a rather unique character.  A combo of a Perry Mason lawyer and a Charlie Chan detective.  But a character with a definite 'odd' affinity for the strange and ghostly.  And . . . maybe . . . somewhat of a question of his gender.

The guy's name is Maurice.  He's a lawyer.  A lawyer who talks to ghosts.  In fact, it turns out a number of his 'clients' are ghosts.  Souls who have suffered through a violent end of their lives coming back as ghosts to 'hire' Maurice in an attempt to bring the perpatrators of the crimes to their long deserved rewards.  In the stories I hoped to throw in a court seen, ala Perry Mason, to give it some color.  And that, dear readers, is the rub . . .

The story refuses to wrap up into a tidy short story conclusion.  It keeps going on and on and on.  We're well past the short story limits.  With no end in sight.  So now . . . dammit! . . . it appears as if I have ANOTHER novel to write featuring ANOTHER character I'd like to get to know better!  I've got all the commitment and stick-to-it-tivness of a bowl of grape jello.  Ideas and characters just keep popping into my head and distracting me all the time.

Shit.

Ah, well.  Thought I'd share the opening few paragraps with this character. Maurice is the name . . . as is the title of the story.  Tell me what you think.

Maurice

Flipping the Zippo lighter open he thumbed the old relic into life and lifted the bright flame to the end of the cigarette. 

            And paused . . .

            A bright pink Caddy convertible slid into the No Parking Zone as if it belonged there and quietly came to a halt.  A big battleship of a car, with high tail fins in back and a spread of metal across the front hood big enough to be the landing deck of a Nimetz-class aircraft carrier.  Hot pink. Freshly polished . . . with white vinyl seats.  The white so intense he thought about lifting a hand up to shade the glare from his eyes.

            One big sonofabitch of a car.

            Had to be a '59 Caddy convertible. Looked just like the one he remembered his grandmother had way back when he was six or seven.  Yet it looked as if it just rolled off a showroom floor.  But as if the car wasn't enough to gawk at, the guy sitting behind the wheel was . . . was . . . unreal.

            At first the thought of Charlie Chan.  White three-piece Southern Plantation suit.  Perfectly tailored.  Very expensive material.  Hung on the guy's frame like a million dollars.  Not even a smidgeon of dirt anywhere to be seen on the white.  With white loafers.  Glistening white loafers.  But instead of a white derby sitting directly atop the man's head there was, instead, a wide brimmed white fedora.  The complexion of the guy suggesting oriental origins.  Or maybe not.  Maybe Egyptian.  Or Romano. Definitely pudgy around the midsection. Obviously the guy enjoyed his groceries. But . . . you really couldn't call him fat.  Not yet.  No . . . this wasn't a Charlie Chan.  Charlie Chan was a Hawaiian-Chinese homicide detective based out of Honolulu.  A fictional character concocted by a writer from out of the 1930's.   This guy . . . this guy, as he rolled out from behind the massively wide steering wheel of the car and reached into the back seat to extract a rather expensive looking leather briefcase, along with an odd looking twisted black ebony shillelagh-like cane, was real. 'Bout five eleven . . . maybe six foot.  'Bout two ten, maybe two twenty on the bathroom scales.  With just the suggestion of double chins beginning to thicken.

            Not Hawaiian.  Nor Chinese. Not anyone from the Far East. This guy had the greenest/yellow eyes he had ever seen and a smile that seemed to burst out from somewhere deep within. A smile that could warm up the frozen heart of a Spanish Inquisitor standing in a dungeon cell directly dead center on the North Pole.