Writing Prompt: Bernard forgot one minor detail.

Good morning. I hope you have reached the mid point of the week feeling good about how your week is progressing. Over all I feel very good about my week thus far. Admittedly last night I had a dream that I was auditioning circus acts. Or maybe variety acts would be the better term. They weren’t very good. There was a man who was attempting to spin plates but kept dropping them and smashing them to bits and a dog trainer trying to get a dog to jump through a hoop. The dog looked at him looked at the hoop, then lifted his leg and piddled on the the trainers shoe. I would like to know why I was auditioning them. Somehow the dream never got to that part. Perhaps tonight I’ll get a continuation and learn why. One can only hope. Until then, there is the morning writing prompt. Are you ready? Good. Then lets go.

No spinning plates or untrained dogs I see. Which is nice. I’m not sure being spotted counts as a minor detail, but the prompt is just the spark for the story so I’ll let it be.

Wednesday, September 15th: Bernard forgot one minor detail.

Bernard forgot one minor detail.  At the time it didn’t seem important. He had so much to worry about that a little thing like that wasn’t even worth remembering.  So he didn’t.  Not until later.  And even then it didn’t seem important at first.

“So what if the old lady saw me,” he told himself. 

Her seeing him was irrelevant.  It was doubtful she bothered to notice the time that she saw him.  It was doubtful she even remembered seeing him.  It was doubtful that with those thick glasses on she could even identify him properly and even if by some miracle she did realize it was him, it was doubtful she would even tell anyone.

“And who would listen?”

She would be just some dotty old lady trying to spark some excitement in her life by claiming a connection, however tenuous to what he knew had to be the most sensational news to hit her little town in decades.  They would take one look at her and see her white teased up hair, slightly off center lipstick and watery eyes magnified behind the massive lenses of her glasses and dismiss her as an attention seeker.

“and I have my alibi,” he added to himself when he realized the siting was like a grain of sand in the waters of his mind.

He was questioned in conjunction to the murders of course.  It would have been surprising had he not been. However he was quickly dismissed as an improbable candidate as he had no known quarrels with the victims.  Once his alibi was assured then he was dismissed all together as an option.  Getting the alibi required the adjustment of several clocks both before his alibi unwittingly secured his cover and after the deed was done. 

It was the cuckoo clock in the hall that had been most particular, and most important.  He made the appointment so that the distinctive clock would naturally draw attention to itself and as a matter of course be commented upon and the time remarked without him having to ask if Simon had the time or repeatedly check his watch.  He thought it was a stroke of brilliance and it had been worth the time and careful effort to secure an iron clad time for the appointment. 

And he was careful too.  The only person who saw him leave his house and go to Simon’s was the old woman.  She was the only one who would know that he was early for his two o’clock meeting. 

“But why would she remark on the time?” he thought. 

The thought began to prey upon his mind.  Had she marked the time?  Did she know?  Were the police listening to her?  Was his carefully planned murder about to come completely unraveled because of one old woman who decided to cut flowers in her garden at the exact wrong moment?  The thought was intolerable.

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