Note to the Reader: The following snippets are entries from the journal of the murderer in my work in progress: my latest mystery suspense novel set to be released soon. There are a few things I would like you to be aware of as the reader. One: these snippets are raw and perhaps hard to read. They may contain scenes that evoke terrifying emotions. Please take care as you proceed. Two: If you would like to collect the free themed artwork you see here, you may throughout the month of November at rionnamorgan.cent.co. Thank you!
Everyday All Day
Everyday all day. For days and days on end I have been watching her. She is so kind and actually sweet. I could tell the first time I saw her that this job was not what she wanted to do with her life. Did anyone really want to be a barista at a coffee shop? Maybe. Possibly. It does seem exciting. Seeing people every day. That would be wonderful. I love people. If I did the job, I could meet new people. People who were funny and smart.
There are a lot of smart people here. Everywhere I look there is someone with a computer clacking away on the keys. Probably writing some brilliant essay that will change the world or at the very least scripting some witty prose that will entertain the masses.
Not me. I don’t like to write on my computer. It seems heartless. I mean it’s fine for others. It's just not for me. I really like the way my pen moves across the paper. I am very picky about my pens and journals I use. I have one journal that I write in about all my travels. I glue in receipts and sketch little kids at the park. I even jot down recipes and new drink ideas. That travel journal is messy and bulky. It has coffee stains and cookie crumbs wedged in between the pages.
I have another journal that I write mean things in. “It’s better to put all our feelings on paper than to put them on other people.” That’s what my therapist says. She’s nice. I try to do what she suggests. She’s encouraging and funny even. I like her.
My favorite journal though is this one. It brings me great joy. The others do too in their own way. But this one gives me joy and also a sense of peace and a feeling of vindication. I take very good care of it. I’m careful to never spill coffee on it or eat messy things around it. This journal is my salvation. It’s everyone’s salvation. And her death sentence. See, joy and peace.
What was I saying? I keep getting distracted. She’s so lovely. Absolutely. She’s on her lunch break now. Today she has a sandwich with thick slices of tomato and crisp lettuce. The bread looks homemade, like she sliced it herself. Every day she brings a bright red apple with her. She saves it for last like it’s her dessert. I think I’ll be sure to leave a bite of it in her mouth. That way she’ll always have her favorite part with her. That seems peaceful too.
How hard it is to learn to work an espresso machine like that? Probably not too hard. I have a small one at home. But it’s super loud. I don’t use it. This one doesn’t seem too loud. I bet I could figure it out. And tomorrow they will have a position to fill.
It’s raining. Again. I can’t ever seem to get warm here. The heat in my hotel just doesn’t seem to get warm enough to get the chill out of my bones. A hot shower doesn’t work either, and I am not going near the hot tub. No public hot tubs for me, thanks.
I heard a guy this morning talk about dropping by a pub later. It sounded like an Irish pub from what I could hear. I bet they have a fireplace. If not, at the very least I can get a drink and hot meal. Maybe that will warm me up.
Success! I asked the pretty waitress, and she seated my right away, right by the fire. She laughed and said I looked like a drowned rat. I bet I do. She added a few more logs, and I could feel the heat seep in through my clothes and the warmth of it against my skin.
I think I may stay awhile. I have a few jobs to plan. But I may just converse with the little red head a bit. Maybe she can sing. In Ireland people sing all the time in pubs. It’s a funny thing, Ireland. It seems like everyone can sing there. I have very fond memories of visiting The Palace Bar on Fleet Street. Isn’t that fun to write? The Palace Bar on Fleet Street. It was just a Tuesday night, but the place was packed. I tucked myself in the back by the stairs and listened and listened.
They had this beautiful girl stand up and sing. Oh it was heaven. She lulled the whole crowd to tears in one minute and in the next we were all cheering to the heavens and stomping our feet. She had the most amazing gift.
So good news. The pretty red head can sing. She said when she comes back from break, she’ll sing a few songs. I can’t wait.
Books, Roses, Vase, Handheld mirror, Research libraries in the area, Library ID?, Blanket, Candles, Lighter
Large Pumpkin, Pumpkin carving stencils, Sharp Knife, Four-wheeler with a hitch, Trailer for the four-wheeler, Candle, Lighter, Blanket?, Cape?, Tarp?, Costume?, Grounds Keeper ID?
Tonight was so amazing! That pretty redhead didn’t disappoint. I should have spent more time on my lists and planning my next jobs, but even I get to enjoy life a little bit.
The lights from the small stage in the corner right in my line of sight cast just a simple golden glow over her as she sang. Her hair shimmered. Her red lips shimmered. The sequins on her scarf shimmered.
As she sang, the pub filled with people. They came as if by magic, and she a siren calling to them. The food was impeccable. Truly, not kidding. I had this hearty Irish stew and soda bread with a brown sugar butter. (See Travel Journal). My drink of choice – Guinness of course. I only had a few. I wanted to stay sharp so I could listen and soak up her lilting voice.
I should tell you though that a few big, burly guys in plaid and noisy boots came in and started causing trouble. They were being awfully rude, crude even toward my dear waitress girl. I must say that I was very calculated and very careful. I can be sly when I want to be. Money and little bit of poison goes a long way. I can assure you that those guys won’t bother my sweet redhead ever again.
I’m in town for a week. Maybe she’d want to have dinner with me. Maybe she would sing just for me. Sigh.