Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 9 – Bedtime Poetry

Here is Chapter 9 of Marcello’s Revenge, and the second to last one for part 1. I will be posting the last chapter of this part shortly. This chapter contains a poem which I have posted on this site as well titled Drinking My Boyfriend.  Other installments can be found:



It turned out that Emma was something of an amateur artist. In her purse, which was really no more than a large white bag, she had three notebooks full of her writings, sketches and doodles. Well, two were full, the third was about three-quarters complete. Mainly they contained poems she had written since leaving her boyfriend a year prior. Being her only true possession, she carried them everywhere and never left them behind. She wrote a poem that day, and read it to Francine and me after Detective Porter had left.

The meeting between me and the inspector went well, a friendly discussion that, unfortunately for him, did not reveal any more than what I had already previously stated to the police on the scene. He is a nice man, bald and dark-skinned, on the short side with a graying goatee, and he kept the knot of his tie loose, the top button of his shirt left unfastened. Francine greeted him kindly when he arrived, and nonchalantly escorted him to the back patio where he and I alone conversed, sipping ice water and eating baby carrots and celery. Emma was in what had been the spare room, but on that day officially turned into her own.

The detective attempted to probe me a couple of times, rephrasing a couple of questions in a different fashion in an attempt to see if I would trip up, seeking for anything that I or the initial investigation may have overlooked. Yet I had left my story simple, that I went into the room to use the bathroom, discovered the body, and called the victim’s father. I proceed to call Emergency when asked to do so by Jacob.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 8 – Julie and the Alligator Man – Part II

Here is the second part of Marcello’s Revenge Chapter 8. I began it with the last line of my previous post for reference. Other installments can be found:



“Well,” Francine said turning to Julie, “will you tell us what happened? You don’t know who it was that murdered Matt, do you?”

“No,” Julie replied looking down into her empty coffee cup.

“Perhaps Julie would like to have a little time, love.”

“Yes, you are quite correct, Robin. I am sorry Julie. That was terribly rude of me. It was such a terrible event, and I was just so excited for any news. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind. It’s ok. It might even be nice to talk about it to someone, and I don’t know who else I would be able to tell. I don’t know who the murderer was. There were four men, but only one did it. The rest just stood around. All of them in long black robes, like the kind you see kids wear at graduation. And they all had animal masks on.”

“Animal masks?” Francine asked.

“Yes, plastic animal masks. There was a lion, a bird, a pig and an alligator. And they also had hoods on so that their hair was covered. All I could make out were their shoes. And one of them had a gold watch.”

“Why did you go down to the basement? Did they bring you down there?” I asked.

“No. Matt said he had to meet someone down there.”

“Do you know who?”

“Only that it was supposed to be a guy named John. I thought it was his supply guy or something.”

“How do you know his name is John?”

“Because that is the name Matt used when we got to the room. We came in and there were three guys…”

“I thought you said there were four?” Francine said.

“I did. Hold on a minute. So we came in and there were these three guys. One of them stood near the door and closed it after we were in. He was wearing the bird mask. Then Matt said ‘What the fuck is this shit, John? Who are these guys?’ Kind of laughing, but I could tell he was a little nervous. The guy in the lion mask said ‘Shut up and get over here.’ You could tell he was trying to disguise his voice. Making it all gravely and rough. Matt walked over, confident, like nothing was really wrong. He went right up to the lion man and said ‘Who the fuck are you? Where is John?’ Then the lion man drew a gun from his robes and pointed it at Matt. ‘Shut the hell up, and stand right there.’ Matt backed up against the pool table. ‘You girl, come over here and stand here next him,’ the lion man said to me. And I did. Then the door to the bathroom opened and out walked the fourth masked man. He had the alligator mask. All he said was ‘Turn around’. And we did.” She stopped. “I’m sorry, but could I have another one of those?” she asked, and after I passed the pack to her, she took a smoke out and drew a deep breath before lighting it. Fresh smoke curled and twisted in front of her face.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 8 – Julie and The Alligator Man – Part I

Here is part one of chapter 8 of Marcello’s Revenge. A chapter I am not altogether satisfied with, to tell the truth. A necessary installment, but one I think rushes the narrative a bit. Though I am a bit undecided on how to edit and in an attempt to qualify Julie’s ease with Robin and her willingness to divulge information, I have attempted to rectify this, but feel more is needed, and perhaps a complete rewrite depending on the course of the narrative as it develops. I think it will eventually come down to it, but at this point am hesitant until I am more aware of the course it takes. But anyway, for those who enjoy long reads and have been following the story thus far, here is the first part. Hope you enjoy  and thank you for reading.

Earlier installments can be found:



 Julie was in the shadows, between the light that spilled out of the open bedroom door and that which filled the front room. There was a heavy awkwardness, her schuncy eyes staring at me and the highball glass I carried where the unserviceable remnants of ice cubes and the pimpled green skin of a lime wedge gleamed. “Good morning,” I said in an attempt to ease the uncomfortable tension.

“Morning,” She said hesitantly, looking around and noting the location of the front door. “Where am I?”

“My house.”

“And who are you?”

“My name is Robin Mentor. And you are Julie Stills, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s right. How did I get here?”

“Francine and I brought you. She is the one who took you from the party out to our car. Oh, it was also she who got you ready for bed when we got here. If you should have had any concerns.”

“Who’s Francine?”

“My girlfriend.”
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 7: Baptism by Moonlight Part 2

And here is the second part to Chapter 7 of Marcello’s Revenge. For all previous installments please go here:


“For one thing,” Francine began, “the bank did not go down to the storm drain as you said. If you went all the way down the hill you would have found a dry creek bed. But it curves away from the Periwinkle’s and the storm drain area. It does, however, end at the lake emptying in a small ravine with a lot of rocks and tall standing weeds. Luckily, the weather has been dry, or it would have been really miserable and muddy.

“And it was dark. Terribly dark. And you sent me out there without a flashlight. With what little light the moon provided, though, I was able to make it down to the water. But Julie would not go in. I told her to just go out and splash around a bit, and if she was in her right mind she may have. She wasn’t though. Just as you said, she was completely incoherent, and just stood looking out over the inky black water.

“So then I had to make a decision. To go back up the hill and trust my luck, or to lead her into the lake and get her washed up. I decided on the latter, but was concerned about my clothes getting wet. How would I explain that when I got back to the house? I thought of texting you, but wasn’t sure if that would be a good idea. So I didn’t. Instead I removed my dress and hose and placed them in as clean and as dry a place that I could manage to find. And then took her by the hand and went out into the lake.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 7: Baptism by Moonlight Part 1

Here is the first part of chapter 7 of Marcello’s Revenge. Part 2 will follow in the near future. The list for all installments and chapters can be found here:


Julie is an attractive girl, around the same height as Francine, and, though thinner, pleasantly filled out the pajamas she wore with slender hips and shapely breasts. She has a sharp, angular nose, however, which distinctly contrasts with her pouty lips, and so when she scrunched her eyes at me that morning, standing as she was at the edge of the hall, it only served to further distort her features. Yet even with her confused face wrinkled like a distastefully aging lemon, her appearance that morning was a refreshing change to how she appeared the night before when she had to be guided about, moving in a trance-like manner with a dazed and glassy look. I took hold of her hand and got her to her feet, moving quickly to the door to the outside. After checking to make sure no one was outside, I led her away from the house in as casual and stealthy a manner as possible. The band had stopped playing and other than the distant sound of droning voices from the front lawn, as well as that of our own soft footfalls, everything was quiet. There was an unnaturalness about, lingering somewhere in the dark and the murmuring silence, a stifling heaviness, and I longed for a cricket’s chirp or the croak of a frog, but only the vague light of a half-moon low on the horizon was offered to ease my discomfort. I took her a little way down the hill and sat her amid a few trees that ran along the border of the Periwinkle property. Looking her in the eyes I told her to stay there for just a little while, then turned and went back to the house.

Once back inside, I heard Francine calling my name, which was good since it saved me from calling her as I was about to do. The current situation I was in demanded that I enlist help. I rushed and exited the rec room, shutting the door quickly behind me. She stood just inside the lounge, and, hearing me close the door, turned around to see me breathlessly smiling at her bewildered expression.

“Dearest! There you are. I was worried for a second. Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes, darling, much better thanks.” And surprisingly I was, noticing just then that the pain and fuzziness brought about earlier by my condition was completely gone. “Listen, there is something I need you tell you,” I said in a hushed tone.

“What is it?” she whispered, following my lead.

“Matt has been murdered.”
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 6: Meeting Francine Part II

Here is the second part of Chapter Six of Marcello’s Revenge. Again it is quite long. For part one of the chapter, and all previous installments, please follow this link:


Francine and I did keep in communication. When her next birthday came around I sent her a card with a short note, and she responded with a thank you letter (written by her father) and asked for me to write again soon. This would lead to an eccentric correspondence lasting until we met again where at least once a month over the span of years we would exchange letters. Her father assisted in the beginning, but she told me that the letters were such an inspiration to her that it spurred her to studiously learn to read and write on her own. My letters mainly contained summaries of what was happening in my life, inquiries as to how she was doing, and responses to what she may have written, or answers to questions she may have posed. Sometimes I would include a short story that I wrote off the cuff that were generally about animals in the same vein as Beatrix Potter. As she grew older I spoke a little more freely, but for the most part kept my life reserved.         

Her letters became more personal and mature, though, speaking quite openly (and sometimes uncomfortably frankly) about her life, her views, and her fears.

A fear has crept upon me recently, dearest cousin, she wrote me when she was twelve. A strangling feeling, and my breath comes in short gasps. I fear for you! For the words you have not written and what lies beneath them. There is a shadow there. And one not caused by lack of light. I feel it most acutely in the darkness in between my dreams, and during the silent mornings of the desert.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 6: Meeting Francine Part I

Okay, so here is another chapter (well part of one) to Marcello’s Revenge. I am really wanting to get back to getting this written. Perhaps this will help inspire me. Oh well. Also, just want to warn that this is a really long post, originally being in three parts. I have decided to post half of the entire chapter, and will post the second part in the near future.

You can find the previous installments here:


Francine stood at the mirror in our bathroom putting on the finishing touches of her make up as she prepared to go to church. I was behind her, watching as she applied eye liner. Having had very little sleep, I am afraid I was a little irritated and short with her that morning.

“Can we really afford for you to go to church today?” I asked curtly.

“Can we afford for me not to?” As her question was as absurd as mine, I dropped the matter and looked over at the bathtub, its porcelain lining and chrome faucet shinning after a fresh scrubbing. “Dearest, you choose to harbor this girl for reasons I do not fully understand. Or even agree with. And yet, as I trust you and your judgment, I will support you in your decision even if it makes me an accomplice to a crime. However, I will not neglect my religious duties for it. Plus, I am reading the epistle lesson today!”

Francine is devout in her attendance of church, a discipline she derived mainly from her father, Andrew Delacroix, a Catholic prior to meeting her mother, Mary, who was an Episcopalian. It was a point of contention for some time, from what I understand, but the two eventually came to terms on the matter by becoming Anglo Catholics. Andrew agreed to this, however, under the condition that they be married in the Catholic Church, and have all of their children baptized therein as well.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 4: The Party

So after some thought, I came to the conclusion that I should have posted the fourth chapter of Marcello’s Revenge. This was originally broken into 3 parts, but I decided to just dump it all together. Sorry for the ungodly length of the piece, and the out of order sequencing. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Other installments can be found HERE.


With no traffic delays, the drive from our house to the Periwinkles normally takes about forty-five minutes. With Francine driving, though, we made it in about thirty-five. With quite a few white knuckle moments for me. Not so much due to her being a speedy driver, which she most certainly is, but for the fact that she never seems to brake at the proper stopping distance, waiting to be nearly on top of the car ahead of her, or at the cross walk of the intersection before aggressively applying the brakes. But the drive was good fun, with her wearing a smart pink dress that curved snuggly about her hips and ended just above her knees, her legs applying the pedals and moving oddly in sync with the salsa music playing on the stereo. I watched her as she pressed the clutch, the brake and the gas like they were a part of some complicated dance routine (clutch, brake, gas…clutch, brake, gas…). We spoke sparingly, if at all, but she would occasionally look over to me, my reflection in her dark, oversize sunglasses staring back dumbly at myself.

Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapter 5: Fate Plays Pachinko

This is the final except I am posting of Marcello’s Revenge, at least for the time being and I am able to work more on it. As I skipped posting the fourth chapter, a little explination may be required. Robin and Francine attended the party at the Periwinkles, where Robin developed a headache and sought refuge in their friend’s basement to recover. Matt is Jacob and Cora Periwinkle’s son, and Julie is a girl who Robin saw hanging out with Matt earlier at the party. This chapter sets up the main plot of the story. Thank you for reading.


Chapter 5: Fate Plays Pachinko

The room they permitted me to recuperate in would not make one think of a basement, which usually brings up images either of dank underground rooms smelling of detergents, mildew and humidity, or, even worse, a space converted into the repugnant man cave. The room is spacious with panoramic windows along a wall providing a view of the neighboring houses and countryside. It is a lounge really, with large, comfortable chairs, a desk, a bar, bookshelves, and a leather couch where I was at that time laying down. There is also an entertainment center built into a wall that contains a television, stereo, a game console, and other various electronics shining small electric stars of red, orange and yellow. It is one of two forward rooms on the lower level which border the northern exterior wall of the house, a sliding glass door in each providing access to the outside. For the sake of reference, the pool and lake reside on the eastern side of the property, and the front lawn where the party took place upon the west. The second of the forward rooms is across a small hallway and is for recreation, containing a pool and foosball table, weight sets, and exercise equipment such as a treadmill, a stationary bike and a home gym.
Continue reading

Marcello’s Revenge – Chapters 2 & 3

Chapter 2: Of Fried Bologna

There are certain things in life that we learned from a point so far back in our past that we can recall no memory of their formation. Chained to these habits we had no choice in making, be they of intellectual, emotional or physical nature, we continue to do them into perpetuity. This idea crystalized in my mind once years ago when making a fried bologna sandwich one evening for my son. For reasons that I cannot explain, I make a cut in the round slice of meat, starting at its center and straight out to the exterior. A radial cut, if you will, and if such a term is real. How many other people do this I would hardly be able to hypothesize. It is not a topic that crops up often in everyday conversations, and I have never taken a survey on the matter to give any type of accurate assessment. But I do remember both of my parents doing it. My ex-wife never made one, at least not in my presence. Francine does, bless her, but if this is for my benefit or not, I am not sure. I tend to think, though, that she had never had a fried bologna sandwich before, so had no frame of reference, and I corrupted the poor girl. Perhaps it is a genetic condition. Perhaps there is no difference in the taste between cut and un-cut. Being physically unable to break the bonds and try it without it being cut in that specific way, I will never know. And so we beat on, as Fitzgerald wrote, passing forth our habits such as frying little, meaty Pac Men, slathering them with mustard, and smothering them between two slices of bread.
Continue reading