Fiction Friday #3 – The end of Chapter One

Welcome to the Third Edition of Fiction Friday!

So glad you’re here. It is my hope that many of you will join us by linking your fiction post. Please read many of the links and be generous in your comments.

Help us share the opportunity by grabbing a Fiction Friday Button and proudly displaying it on your blog. We’d also love a tweet or stumble or facebook share. Some of the most skilled, prolific writers are bloggers, so let’s help each other out. Thank You!

Fiction Friday with The Domestic Fringe

The rules are as follows:

• Write fiction.
• Provide a link back to my Fiction Friday post right here on The Domestic Fringe.
• Add your specific URL to the green Mr. Linky
• Read other blogger’s fiction and give some comment love.
• Throw caution to the wind and take a chance.

Remember: Each of the linked works of fiction are original (Including my own!). They are not to be borrowed, copied, or reprinted in any way. Thank you for respecting each author’s original writing.

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I’m driving to Maine today, but I’ll be back on Tuesday to read all of your links, so be sure to link up!

I considered doing a rewrite of last week’s post, but I figured I’d just keep going.  That’s what Fiction Friday is all about – put some writing out there, even if it’s a rough draft, get some feedback, and rewrite on our own.  I love that it’s working just as I hoped!  Thank you all for joining. 

Now I continue my story.  If you want to start from the beginning, click on the Fiction Friday category located on the right-hand sidebar.

Lacy stood on wobbly leggs and  reached for Mason’s arm.  “I’m staying.  I’m doing my job here.  I understand Mimi will never know, but I have to take care of her better than she took care of me.  I need to for myself.  I spent the last three hours in a car, wondering who could’ve done this to her.  We have to find him Mason.  For mom and dad’s sake, we have to find him.”

To Mason, Tony said, “I’ll be outside setting up the gurney, let me know when you’re ready.”  He reached out and squeezed Lacy’s elbow.  “If you need me, I’m here.”

“Lace, why don’t you go get your camera.  We’re just about finished with the investigation.  We just need your photos.”  Said Mason.

Lacy turned and walked slowly outside.  On the porch she stopped to inhale some fresh cool air.  Crispy Maine air always cleared her head. Mimi’s classic New England cape sat just off the road.  Chippy white paint and acres of hay field looked like quaint and calm to most, but for Lacy this place held memories that tore at her soul.  She couldn’t escape the memories, not at any distance.  One more inhale and she jogged down the steps.  The driver’s side door of her Jeep hung open wide.  Lacy shut the door, walking around to the hatch.  She grabbed her black leather camera bag, complete with her Canon 5D Mark II camera and her 24-70mm f/2.8L lens, an extra battery, and a 32G CF memory card.  Lacy always carried an extra battery.  She hated running low on batteries, especially in the middle of a shoot.  Only this wouldn’t be a normal shoot.  I take pictures of smiling, happy children, not old dead women.  Lacy thought.  This couldn’t have happened.  Lacy reached up and slammed the trunk shut.  She swung her camera bag over her shoulder and walked up to the house with determination.

“I can do this.  I can do this.” She chanted.

Lacy hesitated at the front door.  Someone had shut it, probably one of Mason’s deputies.  One last “I can do this.” and Lacy grabbed the knob.  As soon she entered the kitchen, the iron smell of freshly spilt blood made her stomach reel.  Steadying herself on the door jam, Lacy closed her eyes for a second.  Mimi’s head rested in dark, nearly black blood.  The hutch and a portion of the wall behind were splattered.  Mimi never like polka-dots, she thought. Following the trail of blood, Lacy’s eyes locked onto Mimi’s face.  Mason or someone on his team already closed her eyes.  The left side of Mimi’s face was smashed, her nose visibly broken.  Blood matted her hair, barely covering her indented scalp.

Lacy felt her stomach turn over. She covered her mouth and ran from the room, but only made it into the hall before she puked.  Making her way through the guest bedroom and into the first floor bathroom, she leaned back against the tub for a few moments, sitting on her heels, her camera bag dropped at her side.  She reached up and turned on the cold water.  When her stomach stopped churning, she slowly stood, splashing nearly frozen Maine well water on her face.  She actually felt a little better now.  More alert.  Ready.

Lacy picked up her camera bag and walked back into the kitchen.  Someone already cleaned her mess in the hall.  Now the house smelled like a sordid mixture of death, blood, and vomit.  She swore she’d never eat again.

One of the uniformed officers led her around the body, giving her a crash course in crime-scene photography.  Civilians usually didn’t take the photos, but Mason gave his permission.  Things are different in Maine.  Mainers have ways that outsiders do not understand.  Mainers do things their way, not always operating by the official handbook for work or relationships.  Pulling out her camera, Lacy detached herself from her grandmother’s broken skull.  Lacy was a different person behind her camera.  It gave her confidence.  She owned the world pictured in her little square screen.  Lacy built a successful photography business from nothing.  She arrived in New York with her brand new lipstick red Jeep 4×4, her camera, and enough clothes to keep her out of the laundry-mat for a week at a time.  Now Lacy had weddings booked two years in advance.  She watched children grow from birth to pre-school, capturing every milestone along the way.  The kids loved her almost a much their parents adored her photographs.  Somehow Lacy always captured pure joy, innocence, the sparkle of childhood.  Lacy loved her job.  Photography was her life.  Without her camera, she was a fully bloomed flower with a haunted mind.

That’s the end of Chapter One.  Now it’s your turn!

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Tricia Gillespie