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The Murderer Did it

Hello Friends, I am back!
Sorry there haven’t been any entries in February, well, until now, that is.
There’s some very odd thing called Family, that has kept me preoccupied for a week or two, but while I have a moment or two to my self, I thought I would spend them with you. Hope this post finds you all happy and healthy.
Heres just a wee snippet of something I have been working on, any feedback/words of wisdom you could impart would be most welcome.
Thank you,
Cliffy 

THE MURDERER DID IT (A Working Title) By Cliff Lewis

“It’s murder”, he declared boldly.

“What are you talking about?”

Private Investigator, and retired police detective, Dave Cribbs, had a crazed expression painted across his, chiselled face
“Murder!”, he repeated emphatically.

“Are you reading one of your silly stories?” Enquired the woman seated to his left in the restaurant booth.

“What? No, don’t you see, it’s as plain as the nose on your face!”

“Well now that’s a lovely thing! My nose is perfectly proportioned for my face shape, thank you very much!”

“No”, said Dave, ignoring the look of indignation on the woman’s face, “look at this!” He waved a rumpled newspaper. The gleam in his eyes was intensifying with every passing second.

“Potatoes 45 cents a pound?”

“No, no the other side.” He wrenched the newspaper from his wife’s tenuous grip and flipped it over.

Suzanne Cribbs scanned the article with an expression of polite disinterest on her petite, some would say, pretty face.
“Yes”’ she said, I see that you have an overblown imagination.

The article in question, outlined the story of a 68 year old multimillionaire recluse Henry S. Davison, who’s naked, body had been discovered cold and inanimate in the bathtub of the locked, ensuite bathroom of his West Vancouver Mansion. A primary investigation had suggested his death was by natural causes. The Police are awaiting results of the Medical examiner’s report, but have found no suspicious circumstances.

Mrs. Cribbs sighed.
“I know we’ve been without a case for a week or two, but this is ridiculous. You might not be aware of local statutes, dear, but you cannot, possibly, be suggesting we investigate death by natural causes?”

Dave Cribbs stabbed the article emphatically
“Except it’s not natural causes, read the fine print.”
“How ‘bout just saving me the trouble, and outlining it for me?”
“OK.” The great detective cleared his throat with exaggerated gusto.

“Multi Million dollar mogul publicly announces he’s severing ties with his money-grubbing family, aka cuts them all out of the will, adopts the life of a hermit, then two years later, is found dead in his bathtub.”

He pounded on the table, with such a force, that the salt cellar toppled, causing a diner at an adjacent table to drop her fork. She snorted, glared in his direction for a full second, then stormed out.

“I’ve been on the job long enough to know a murder when I smell one, Suzanne, take my word for it, this,” he tapped the paper again, “is definitely one.”

His wife just chuckled. There was no denying her husbands powers of deduction, but this was laughable.

They finished lunch, and strolled casually down the block to the offices of Cribbs & Cribbs Investigation.

Several days later, Private Investigator David Cribbs was proved right.

.>>>>> To Be Continued <<<<<




I’m sitting in a crowded café, with the lilting tone of The Beach Boys in my earbuds, faced with the leisurely task of writing something, at least, halfway interesting for today’s blog.

Someone is screaming from a table nearby, I assume it is from pent up excitement, and not some real emergency. Other than that, the only thing I hear is the indecipherably, merged rumblings of the coffee shop’s clientele. Its kind of comforting in a strange way. Different at any rate, from the all too silent surroundings I’d occupy, at this early hour, at home. There, where the ticking of a clock, the dull hum of the refrigerator or the drone of the furnace, can seem like a hundred elephants thundering across the living room floor.

If you suspect that I’m stalling here, then you would be correct. I’m dithering around, as I wait for the caffeine to kick in, and for inspiration to strike. That obviously hasn’t occurred yet, Lol! Oh and yes, in case you’re wondering, I was, indeed, just tittering to myself. The women at the next table appear to be measuring me up for a straight jacket. I’m not concerned, just merely amused and, somewhat, gratified that I have provided them with a moment’s entertainment.

So anyway…
Have you ever wondered how this world of ours keeps functioning? As I glance around me now, I see very few people that don’t have the dull glow of a smartphone, or tablet, screen reflected in their glazed eyes. (I must, in the traditional of serious journalists everywhere, include yours truly, as I stare at this display, and strive to impart some sort of meaningful missive.

The only exception to this internet inseption, seems to be a rowdy bunch of pensioners who are engaged in an ancient rite, which I believe was once referred to as conversation. A few are even reading newspapers. How unique that seems in this age of electronic pacification.

Actually, upon further investigation, I find myself in the awkward position of amending my previous statement. There are a multitude of multitasking millennials who seem to be texting and verbally conversing with their table mates simultaneously. Perhaps our future is in the hands of a far more capable bunch than I initially suspected.

I am not judging, merely observing.
I find myself staring at my own devices for an inordinate amount of time. Oh well, such is life.

Now as I swallow the last dregs of cold coffee and stop to review this rather pathetic blog entry. I must sadly bid you all adieu and farewell. Perhaps next time I will have something important to say. 😉
Keep smiling, and if you made it to the end here, thanks for reading my blog.

I love you all ❤


A Trucker’s Tale

Early morning, and the sun was yet to put in an appearance.
I pressed the accelerator down a fraction harder, and motored along that lonely stretch of highway.
Not a soul about anywhere for miles upon empty miles.
My Semi tractor trailer, hummed along to the tune in my head, interrupted only by an occasional rattle as she navigated an uneven chunk of tarmac. Note to self, change the fuse on the radio circuit.

Around about sunrise, I reached my first destination. A misty, backwater town off of Route 5. At the appointed delivery bay, I unhitched my trailer, and went in search of coffee.
The office was unlocked so I walked in and stood in front of a big messy desk. There was no one on duty, I called out a friendly
No answer, and after a few minutes of Staring forlornly at a cold empty coffee pot, I helped myself to the paperwork, I needed. I went back out to track down the trailer, I would be hauling to the next drop off.
I found the one I was looking for, retrieved the papers from its dossier compartment, then hitched it up to my rig.

When I got back to the loading bay, there was still no signs of life. Not an entirely unexpected thing. The dude was probably sleeping off a wild night, or had forgotten to set his alarm, or something.

I went back out to my truck and waited. I couldn’t leave, until someone checked the order and signed off on it.

I waited for hours, checking every ten minutes or so, but still there was no signs of life. Then I called dispatch and told them my predicament.

There were some unhappy, and not overly polite words exchanged, but they called me back after another agonising thirty minutes, and gave me the all clear to move on to my next port of call, I’d hate to be the one to deal with that bureaucratic nightmare, but time is money, so what could I do? These goods don’t deliver themselves you know.

I drove approximately two hundred miles to my next stop, where I was greeted by the same eerie silence. Dispatch couldn’t believe it when I called it in.
Two in a row? That was completely unheard of.

I hung up the phone, and was idly thumbing through my email, when I heard a loud bang. It was coming from inside the closed loading bay.
” So you are in there.” I mumbled.

Another loud bang, and then I could swear I heard a low, throaty, growling. A guard dog, perhaps? I tried the side door, it was open. I gazed into the darkened interior.
“Hallo” I called, “you okay in there?”
There was no reply.

I listened for a moment in the doorway. There was a rustling noise, then some grunting, like that of a bear or giant ape. Something moved in the shadows.
“Hallo?” I tried again, then something rushed at me. I only caught a brief glimpse, It was the size of a man, but seemed to have hideous fangs, and clawlike hands.

I ran for my open truck, and dove in head first. The angry beast was close on my heals. I wrestled the door closed, just in time, and got a close up view as it its razor sharp claws, etched five concentric lines across my window.

I fumbled with the key, and finally managed to start my truck. The beast was clawing maniacally at my door, it lost its grip, and was glaring at my reflection in the mirror, as I sped away.

A few miles down the road, I pulled over to gather my wits. I was trembling like a leaf.
I heard a scratching at my door, and looked on in horror, as what seemed like a hundred of the beasts descended on my truck. They snarled and growled, as they closed ranks. Then violently tore open my locked doors, with apparent ease.

I reached behind the seat for my baseball bat, but not in time. I thrashed and struggled as the hideous, creatures started ripping and clawing at my clothes, their gnashing fangs inching closer and closer to my exposed throat.

I let fly one final, blood curdling scream, then closed my eyes to shut out the horror. I knew it was too late.

“Get up, get up!!”
I opened my eyes in surprise, my beautiful wife was standing over me. A quizzical expression on that beautiful face. Where was I? Had I died and gone to heaven?!

“Wake up, Sleepy head!” She was saying. “Breakfast is ready, and you’re gonna be late for work.” My confused expression prompted her to add,
“That truck won’t drive itself you know.”

That’s when I made a big decision.

No more Zombie movies at bedtime.

100 Things Canucks fans should know and do before they die. A review

100 Things Canucks Fans Should Know  Do Before They Die

I was given an autographed copy of this excellent book for Christmas. This is my, very, brief review.

100 Things Canucks Fans Should Know Do Before They Die by Thomas Drance

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book is recommended reading, not just for true blue Canucks fans, but Hockey fans in general. It documents the journey from early, pre-expansion era days, to glory days and near misses. It doesn’t skirt through the trials, tribulations and failings as much as it weaves a pathway through heartbreaks and dawning mediocrity and on to the heady euphoria of near success. It was fun to revisit so many old friends and personalities who had a part in the birth and/or building of my favourite Hockey franchise. This Is a fascinating story told in a very entertaining style. I couldn’t put it down.
I have followed the team from the beginning and am a life-long fan. I have struggled through the doldrums and rejoiced in the good times, and this book has been a great way to relive, and refresh some old memories.

View all my reviews

I’m so sorry!


I am so sorry.

I try so hard to be a decent human being, so hard, in fact, that I seem to spend my life apologizing for things that I apparently needn’t be sorry for. I then promptly apologize for apologizing.

I called a friend, the other night. He was in the middle of his supper, and said he would call me back later. I couldn’t possibly have known his family were having a later than usual repast, or that he had a bad day, and yet I apologized for the interruption. Later, when he returned my call, I apologized again.

I won’t bore you with the content of that conversation, but suffice it to say, his day had not been a resounding success. My buddy recounted, at length, and in gory detail, a figurative, landslide of, mistakes, miscues and misadventures, the likes, of which, he’d never known. Hence his frazzled demeanor.

As usual, as in most situations like this, I was struggling for an appropriately savvy reaction. Did I offer a solution? Offer commiserations? Seek out the silver lining?, Lighten the mood with some witty repartee? Nope.
I reverted to my stock response,
“Sorry about that.”
“Omg,” he growled. ‘Would you please stop apologising every two minutes! None of this is your fault!”
Not the reaction I was expecting. I thought he would thank me for my thoughtfulness, or something similar. Clearly what he needed from me, was a sounding board.

For some reason, I have this, lame, habit of taking resonsibility for all the world’s woes. As I write these words, I realise just how silly this must sound, but it’s like somewhere deep down in my psyche , I feel like I must be single handedly responsible for poverty, famine, global warming, terrorism, earthquakes, hurricanes, blight, the world economy and everything else that’s wrong in the universe.
Even on a personal level, I feel badly about things i might have said or done, or things I should have said or done, that the other people in my life are unconscious of, or completely unconcerned about.

“You’re far too sensitive”, is a frequent refrain.

Does this happen to you?

I lay awake, some nights, wondering if I’ve impressed upon my friends and loved ones, sufficiently, just how much they’re loved and appreciated, or if I’ve apologised for the least significant of things.

I know I shouldn’t apologise so much, and I don’t mean to, but it is a compulsive behavior that, try as I might, I can’t seem to purge myself of.

Maybe I am too eager to please, or have some deep-seated need to be liked by everyone, or perhaps I’m just like everyone else, flawed, imperfect, human.

Hmmm….This little post got a little more introspective than I intended,

Sorry about that. ☺

The Scent of Summer

I loved the scent of summer in the August air
on our stroll along that lonely stretch of sand
So young were we, unfettered, and without a care.
The future was wide open and unplanned

We thought ourselves invincible, unerring,
Young lovers we, so vibrant and alive.
No concept yet of lessons we were learning,
Nor the basic tools we needed to survive

As life and all its woes came in to view,
we wondered where our carefree days had gone
But our love, it was the lasting kind, and so it grew
We took our licks, yet still we soldiered on

Throughout it all we toiled, and were happy
Life got sweeter still as hurdles cleared
We were building for a future, for a family,
And year by blessed year perfection neared

On looking back I wouldn’t change a single thing,
I was happy for each new dawn to arrive.
As time flew quickly by, as if, on guilded wing
We proudly watched our children grow and thrive.

I love the scent of summer in the August breeze
As we gaze upon this lovely stretch of land
Silver in our hair and Grandkids on our knees
We bless the fading sunlight, hand in hand.

Can you write a truly good story without living it?


That is a question that plagued me for many years. You see, it occurs to me that the human mind is capable of some wondrous and extraordinary bouts of creativity. Here’s the thing though, must we stir it into action, through dazzling feats of adventure, or is our mind capable of manufacturing its own supply?

We have, each and every one of us, been collecting virtual scrapbooks of sights, sounds, and or sensations in our mighty brains since we drew our first breaths, and no two of us can possibly interpret what we see, hear , touch, smell, and taste in exactly the same way.

That is what spawns creativity of infinite variety
It is through this interaction, with different types of media and with each other, that we learn to accumulate and catalogue our own vision of the world.

A good example of this? Hmmm… Okay Let’s assume that seven eyewitnesses of the same purse snatching, are individually interviewed , shortly, after the event. Each one is perfectly confident in their ability to accurately describe the perpetrator, to a sketch artist.

Although all seven had an unobstructed, view, and possesses a very clear image of the crime and criminal in their mind’s eye chances are pretty good, that no two sketches will be exactly alike.

Why is that? Well experts say that most of us create and store a sort of stylized , or artists concept of reality in our mind. As opposed to a photographic rendering. Of course, with the kind of sample size, in the above example, there would probably be enough similarities, to enable the police, to stitch together a fairly accurate depiction, but there have been cases where testimony has been stricken from court records because witness accounts have varied too greatly. Of course, in this tech-crazy era, someone was bound to have captured the whole thing on their smartphone and broadcasted to the Internet, right? … But I digress. My. point is this

Our minds-eye view of the world, is out of necessity, a subjective one as opposed to an objective one. We are, by and large, a race of inventors and creators.

If we were imprisoned from birth inside some sort of pod or cocoon, a place devoid of sensual stimuli of any kind, Would our amazing minds have the ability to conjure up imagination? I guess its possible.
Did Ray Bradbury explore the dark reaches of outer space before he wrote his novels?
Did Tolkien venture into inner earth and interview Hobbits? No, they simply possess vivid imaginations.

Great Masters of the craft have confined themselves to dingy little offices, while plumbing the depths of their very souls to bring us far flung adventures and outlandish faux realities , and yet, I can sit staring at a blank word processor screen, some days and marvel at my inability to write, a single phrase, but that’s a story for another day. Has anyone got some spare creativity they’re not using? 😉

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