HIGH STAKES: Waking, Walking and Working at Night

Sometimes you can hear the streetlamps coming on. That little zap of energy rings in the street, but only restless ears can hear it. I hear that sound every evening, every evening it wakes me. I try to sleep all day but then I hear that noise, that little zap. The streetlamp rises at night.
My name is Tea, I'm a detective. Since you can't see me I'd like to tell you that I am four feet tall and my hair always looks wet. I don’t really talk much, but I do write a lot, so you're not missing out. My barber always tells me that I'm not very talkative, but then again am I supposed to talk to my barber? Am I supposed to talk to anyone? The only person I've had a full conversation with is someone I can't forget.
The night was brown, tinted with dirt and exhaust. Smog and smoke rolled up my pant legs as I walked to the end of Streit Ave. I remember thinking it was cold, and then I remember thinking that was a weird thought since I was wearing a heavy coat, and then I remember thinking that was weird since I live in California.
My steel toe boots smashed the narrow black-bricked road until I came to a stop. Below the stop sign lied a dead poodle. The dog's eyes black as brick and its fur brown as night. I stepped back and examined it from afar.
The dog's skin had been slit in several areas. Regions of its body without skin or fur. Red flesh mudding brown hair, someone had tried to skin this animal for its fur. Was poodle in fashion now?
The wind yelled at me to continue my path. So I did, you don’t argue with the wind, you go with it. I passed row after row of dirty street apartments, dipped in soot and suffering. This part of town was invisible. The smog always clouds its low floors, no streetlamps here. It’s too dark for me, my black coat blends into the surroundings. No moonshine.
Artificial yellow rays guiding my eyes. A purple and pink neon sign leads me to the front door of my favorite coffee shop. It didn't have a name people just called it "The Coffee Shop." An attempt had been made last week to formally christen the place with red spray paint. It was washed off immediately. The owner wants to keep it nameless.
I came in and sat at my favorite bar stool: the fourth one to the right. Greasy menu with greasy items saturated with flavor. I ordered a coffee, and then four more.  The waiter and I were both on our dinner break. We shared each other’s company in silence. Then a door yelled at me to turn its way. So I did.
Under the cotton-shaped coat was a soft, nervous woman with loud, help-seeking eyes. White boots and sun stained hair; she walked toward the stool next to mine: the third one to the right. She tipped her nose and ordered a martini. A martini? At a coffee shop? Another waiter returned in a jiffy. She dipped her lips and took a sip. Her roses leaving a lip stain on the soft spout.
My stomach was filled to the brim with black drink, and then I ordered another to stay longer. The front of her hat swiveled in my direction. She said hello. I said hello. After I told her I was a detective she said "God has brought us two together, I need to use you for something." She began running her teeth and tongue furiously. She wouldn’t stop talking; her mouth jittered like an excited car motor. She tried to steal me, she needed to use me.
The next hour passed and we were at her store. She owned a fur coat shop. Each wall draped in soft fur. Beaver, faux, fox, marten, mink, otter, rabbit, raccoon, sable, skunk, grey wolf coats insulated us. Surrounded by skin, I realized I was stepping in a red murky puddle. Someone had christened her store with death.
I followed her down the green carpeted hallways of the back rooms until she came to a stop. Her breaths slowed and then I could hear a man panting, struggling, crying and yelling. I pulled my gun and pushed the door.
There stood a man covered in dirt, blood and tears. On the floor below lied patches of white fur. White cotton fur stained with red. He was squeezing a knife. I stepped back and pointed my right hand. I ran my left one through my wet hair, pushed it to the right.
His red arm squished me to the floor as he put his other around her neck. He shut the door behind us. His knife barely piercing her skin, she started yelling and begging. He told me we would both die for what we had done to him. He told her he loved her. He said that’s why he had killed the poodle. The fur for her. He had me confused with her lover. He was mad at her, mad at me. He squeezed his knife and I squeezed my trigger. I won.
When his head hit the tile he faded, "Its a story, nobody gets out of here alive."

REFLECTION:

Working with pre-selected words really challenged me. It forced me to think and work with what I had. I was given a list of 9 or more words for this project. I had to incorporate each word into the narrative, while still constructing a personal, unique story.

We were told to write a noir piece, and I enjoyed doing so. Writing a mystery is so much fun! It was great not knowing how the story would end until I ended it. Writing this mystery noir was one of my favorite assignments this semester.

The goal of this assignment was to write a noir piece while incorporating words provided by our professor. Some skills I gained from working towards this goal were: the ability to write a mystery and the ability to write with words that are not mine. It was challenging to write with provided words, since the story in my head didn't always agree with involving them in my story, But I had to manage and I was able to!

Under these words are a few pictures. They show the outline of the story.I wanted to write the story as I went along so I can only pre-determined the theme and structure of the story. I decided on a few main plot elements and improvised the rest. These pictures show the ideas I had for the work as a whole before I wrote it. 

HERE ARE THE PICTURES OF CONCEPTS: