Hard Boiled. Lightly Shellacked.

The new story, Inner Voice, is another example of me giving into a long-standing stupid notion.  At least ten years ago, while I was out walking in the glories of a prairie summer, I got a picture of a composite movie PI in my head, a blending of Humphrey Bogart, Darren McGavin, Robert Montgomery… and a few others, at any rate, involved in a very short scene.

“But what,” said I of a decade past, “can I make of this?  Where might it go?  I can’t keep that sort of thing up for any length!”

And there it lay at the bottom of my mental pond, until the cement around its feet loosened.  I doesn’t have to go anywhere, in this brave world of flash-fiction.  It could, I finally realized, go only so far, live out its life as a simple vignette, and bring some joy to others.

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Published by

Dirck

Fountain pen fancier and repairer, recovering intellectual, low-grade anarcho-dandyist, and self-admitted writer of fiction, who's given to frequently wishing everything he wrote of a nonfictional sort was being read aloud by Stephen Fry, and everything else by either Vincent Price or Christopher Lee.

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