"A Late Night's Pondering is about a detective from the 1920's sitting in his office trying to solve a case in his head.
It is inspired by a story I was planning to write about a detective interviewing a woman who was involved in a failed heist.
She explains how she went about the heist before dropping a truth bomb that changes everything.
I thought I could write the detective's perspective better if I thoroughly acquainted myself with him. When finishing writing this piece, I had realised, just minutes before that it was due tomorrow!
So, inspired by my efforts to finish this by 10:30pm the detective's late nights pondering session came to be."
- Ruby Lethlean shares this piece exclusively for Emerging, a partnership between The Courier and Damascus College to create a platform for young people to publish their work.
A pair of polished black leather shoes were swung over each other and onto a varnished wooden desk.
The figure leaned back comfortably into his emerald armchair, pipe in hand.
A stylish beige fedora sat upon his head maintaining a rather jaunty angle. It was not particularly wide in brim; however, it did surpass his great raven, caterpillar-like eyebrows.
His two lines of menacing facial hair were set on an inwards angle.
His chocolate eyes in a squint as though watching events unfold in another setting all together.
His nose was unusually wide, and his pale pink lips pressed together, humming slightly in thought.
His body was engulfed in a sleek coffee-coloured suit, an identical coloured band adorning his hat.
A cream coloured shirt peeked out from under his major attire, turned up in collar for comfort.
His left hand sat on the edge of his desk with steadily drumming fingers, perhaps mirroring the mile at which the gentleman's mind was working.
Raising the smoking device to his mouth, he inhaled deeply.
Removing the pipe and expelling a cloud of smoke, he sighed.
He watched the foul smoke swirl in the air. His eyes widened.
Ejecting the pipe from his mouth, he slid his feet off the desk. He scrambled about, littering the floor with papers!
Finally, he found what he was looking for: A scarlet stamp.
He studied it intently for a moment. Groaning, he tossed it aside.
The detective brought his head down to reside on the counter.
He adjusted the position of his head to maintain comfort (while continuing to silently lament in teenage-like self-pity).
While undertaking this rather pressing maneuver, the subject of biography caught sight of the darkening sky beyond his threshold.
He sighed to himself in resignation.
The gentleman shook his head and departed.
Perhaps a solution would present itself tomorrow.
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