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The Meantime Chronicles


A note on using one’s time, The Meantime Chronicles are stories on hope, resilience, and superheroes.

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Week 36: The Silent Murder Part III: Iris Dawn

Week 36: The Silent Murder Part III: Iris Dawn

Sale Price:$350.00 Original Price:$500.00

Hand-drawn illustration based upon an original short story, newly concocted for each week of the year 2022. Comes framed exactly as the pictured example with the story in its entirety inscribed upon the back of the frame.

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The trail of smoke from a cigarette loosely held between two fingers on her left hand cast a halo- like circle over head, but Iris Dawn was just this side of angelic. Most men knew her as the singer from the exclusive bar The Bop, but I had known Iris for quite some time- before the glitz, before the knife tricks, before her stage name. But even fewer knew about that. “Mason, darling, you simply can’t think Dirk is that stupid- I’ve known him long enough- that man misses very little.” Mason Parrish, the artist, sat in a chair at the opposite end of the room, coming down from a cocktail of sorts: “I don’t think he’s stupid I just didn’t know he would be at The Bop this evening…” he replied. Iris continued: “He was tipped off, by whom I do not yet know, but it would be better to find that out sooner rather than later. Rest up, love I’ll see what I can do.” She kissed Mason on the forehead, walked by the large circular window comprising most of the front wall of his flat, moonlight accentuating her impressive figure, and exited the front door which latched closed behind her.

“Okay listen- I’d say I don’t want any trouble but it seems trouble is already here. Why don’t you move that knife just a little further from my throat and we can talk about what brings you by…Mr. Duncan.” Being caught off guard isn’t something I’ve made a habit of, but having a millionaire do so while brandishing a knife to your throat is new in every kind of way. ::cough, cough:: “I wasn’t sure you would listen Mr. Marlowe- I know we’re not exactly friends,” Harper Duncan, one of the richest men in the country, looking in less than peak shape, moved the silver-handled blade from my throat, put it back in his waistcoat and collapsed into the chair near my bed. I slowly sat up, moved the revolver, which rest under my pillow, a couple of inches closer, and lit a cigarette. I waited for Duncan to make the first move. “I’m in trouble,” he finally let out. “I’ll say. Assault is worrisome business, but its little more than a scratch so I supposed I can overlook it- my locks on the other hand cost money, you didn’t break any locks getting in here, did you?” I ask. “Always with the jokes Mr. Marlowe.” “Only when things are funny. What do you want Duncan?” “Someone tried to kill me tonight-“ ::brrrrring, brrrrring:: the phone let out. This late at night, or should I say early, its never good- so the decision is to let that trouble in or not. I decide to answer and let Duncan stew a bit more. “Hello?... Is that right?…. I see, well no, I haven’t, not tonight anyway. Okay, yes, well I’ll let you know. How’s that? Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll see you then. Okay, sleep well Iris.” Harper Duncan’s mis-matched eyes had remained blankly fixed on the floor for the entirety of the phone call, his breathing labored, until the mention of Iris’ name. At which point those mismatched eyes became wide as saucers and he stood faster than he seemed capable of, under the circumstances. “I’ve got to go.” He said, as I put down the receiver. Iris has been known to incite many things, but terror is not one I’m familiar with. “What’s the hurry? You’ve made all this trouble- busted up my place, pulled a knife on me…” He looked chaotically around the room, checked the spot in his waistcoat for his knife and rushed out the door- which he had left open upon his entrance, and upon his exit. Yet to rise from my bed I extinguished my cigarette and knew there was no rest left in this night. It was 3:58 am and I had even more questions than when I had laid down.

Ten minutes later the kettle screamed from the kitchen. Half my face shaven, I rinsed my razor and walked across the room to silence it- as it quieted there was another scream, but this one was from outside and far more blood curdling. I ran to the window and threw it open. A woman was standing over a motionless body. I grabbed my revolver and ran down the two flights of stairs to street level. “What happened?” I asked the woman, who I knew to be one of the bakers from Key and Cross Bakery, certainly on her way to work. “I… I don’t know… I just found him like this, is he… is he…?” She collapsed into my shoulder and I did my best to comfort her as I looked down at the motionless body. Too much expelled blood to still be among the living I knew Harper Duncan was dead. For the second time in two days a murder had occurred just feet from me and I had heard and seen nothing.