Dont Feel The Need To Match Length - Blog Posts

୨୧╼ Shawn Spencer was truly a curiosity. Like one might find at one of those antique curio shops. With strange and exotic paraphernalia from assorted times and places. Where you never knew what you would see around the corner. It was clear that he was highly intelligent, albeit very silly. But her scientific oriented brain had difficulty believing in his proclaimed divinations.

        Politely Violet covered her mouth, unable to suppress her giggle. There was something humorous about the way he scrutinized his food. There were many times that she had not had the luxury of being picky about food. The only requirement she had for what she ate was that it did not contain peppermint. But that was only due to an allergy.  It was her sister Sunny, that had a more discerning palate. 

        “You certainly are a character. Though – I must admit I’ve never seen an Indian Jones movie. I imagine I won’t now since you find it so unsavory. My parents were the type of parents where all the media we consumed had a purpose. Usually educational, others for knowing what to do when confronted by villainy. Not that I have a complaint about it. Simply I missed out on certain popular culture. ” 

        The way that Shawn’s eyes moved were methodical. While he may have been rambunctious in nature, there seemed to be a method to his madness. Violet wondered what it might be like to look around in such a manner, without seeing a bad actor behind every door. Literally. 

         “A calling? A natural born gift?” Well-formed eyebrows rose, as she felt herself begin to smile. “Such as the diviners and prophets of the past? Have you ever met anyone else with such a talent?” How could she not be curious? Whatever was going on with him was fascinating. “I once worked for a dreadful and selfish woman who claimed clairvoyance. It was all smoke and mirrors however.” Sometimes Violet swore she still heard the snarls of the lions that so greedily gobbled Madame Lulu up.  A wretch of a woman who used her last breath to betray the Baudelaire’s. 

      If Shawn truly had such premonitions; he would have seen though Violet already. The cavalcade of misfortune that surrounded her. That she did not have clean hands, even if she had the best aims. As the old proverb said, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. “Whether or not your gift is something mystical – I must commend you on the fact you use your abilities to aid in justice. Many would use them for more self-indulgent purposes.”

          There were many things that Violet was good at, talking about herself was not one of them. Nervously she bit her bottom lip and glanced down into her lap. “I apologize, I am not used to people asking about me. I am an inventor with a variety of patents to my name.  The ones that were the most successful ended up being an improved grappling hook and pencil sharpener. I have been tinkering since I was a child. Not all of my inventions are practical. Once I made a Grandfather Clock Toaster. Whenever the clock struck twelve it would eject two pieces of toast.”  Finally, she looked back up again, “My daughter just started college – and she insisted I get out of my workshop and get this novel thing called a social life. She’s adopted – and her birth mother in trusted me with her safety. My life has revolved around her for so long, I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

He glared at the plate with complete distrust. There were far too many vegetables, and none of them had the decency to be fried. And then there was the cherry tomato—sitting all by itself on the edge of the plate, like some kind of culinary ransom note. Was it a warning from a serial killer? Or maybe the chef’s desperate plea for help, communicated in the only way they could.

Just maybe—if he tilted his head and squinted—there’d be a hidden message in the arrangement of the food. An S.O.S., spelled out in unseasoned zucchini. That had to be it. Because there was no way this was what he ordered. The menu had promised "delicious," and he’d wholeheartedly disagree.

“Displeasing is how bad the last Indiana Jones movie was despite having Harrison Ford in it. This,” he gestured to the plate like it might explode, “is attempted murder.”

Grabbing his beer, Shawn casually scanned the room. His gaze landed on the guy sitting three tables down, nervously fidgeting with his watch. Obviously waiting for a date who was either late—or had already decided he wasn’t worth showing up for.

“Oh, glad you asked,” Shawn said to no one in particular, gesturing grandly like he was in the middle of a job interview. “You see, what I do isn’t really a job—it’s more of a calling. Something you’re born with. " Or, you know, something you develop after your dad refuses to let you go outside until you’ve memorized every minor change in the living room, just so he can test your observational skills.

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. “I get these premonitions. Commune with the spirits, the world beyond, you know. And thanks to this incredible gift, I assist our local police department with solving their toughest cases. Won a bunch of awards, have the keys to the city—it’s a whole thing.” He paused for effect before flashing his most charming grin.

“Now,” he said, gesturing for dramatic emphasis, “please—tell me all about you.”