Remember to keep reading to the end for your free short storyWRITING: AN OCCUPATIONAL HEALTH HAZARD Are you one of those who is at their best (and most creative) in the morning, and who resolves to do all those mundane household chores in the afternoon? Then, come the afternoon, you feel like a wrung-out rag; useless, leaden, and pretty much only fit for the bin? You are not alone… but science seems to have determined why this happens. Working on mentally taxing ‘stuff’ in the morning appears to raise the level of glutamate in the brain. Glutamate is a molecule that can disrupt brain function. It turns out, all that writing and concentrating in the morning causes the fatigue that ‘is all in your head’. At least, it’s the glutamate you generated that is now in your head. Science isn’t sure what the cure is yet. But no, there isn’t a pill. And more coffee, more chocolate, and an early night aren’t the answer either, but a rest, more frequent breaks, or even a nap might help.
So, the next time you find yourself flat-out on the floor, dehydrated, starving, and brain dead, after a big, productive morning writing… blame it on the Glutamate. And good luck dealing with it. WHAT’S NEW? Neive Denis reports she has completed the first draft of her third book in the Merivale Retirement Village series. While the manuscript goes through the editing process, she is looking forward to helping Kayla Danoli develop the concept for Kayla’s next book. SOME LIGHT READING This month’s story was inspired by a first line prompt from a writing competition in 2017, but the story hasn't stuck to the competition’s guidelines. No Pizzas Today It’s never good news when the phone rings in the middle of the night, but there it was, on the bedside table, demanding her attention at full volume. The pizza chef was dead and lay smothered in mozzarella and tomatoes, the voice on the other end of the phone recited as Detective Sergeant Lisa McGregor, struggled to open her eyes, “Was it murder or did he top himself?” she croaked, her tongue thick and mouth dry. “Probably murder, Sarge. The security guard noticed a light on in Mario’s Pizza Heaven, and the door was unlocked. He discovered the scene in the kitchen, and called it in. A patrol car attended. One of the officers recognised the pizza chef as the bloke spreadeagled on the kitchen floor.” “Any obvious injuries?” “Dunno. The body was in the middle of a lake of tomato stuff. Too much tomatoes and cheese to be able to see from a distance if there were any.” With a groan, Lisa dragged herself out of bed. Her arrival at the pizza place coincided with the arrival of the owner (whose name was Jim, not Mario) who was called in by the patrol officers. “Should the chef be on the premises?” Lisa asked the owner. He shook his head in reply. “Right, so no one should have been in the place at 2.00am. Might he have come in to prepare ingredients or something?” “What’s to prepare? At eight o’clock every morning, he throws chunks of mozzarella in the machine to be grated, and opens a can of pizza sauce, before peeling some onions and feeding them, mushrooms and a few other things through the slicer. That’s it. He’s ready for business.” “What about the pizza bases and heating up that huge oven? I image it takes that oven a while to heat up.” “The oven is never turned off. It’s sort of left to idle overnight so it is still quite warm in the morning. It takes about twenty minutes to come up to temperature. The dough for the pizza bases is made, and balls of it are left in the fridge overnight. Some dough balls are taken out in the morning and left on the bench to come to room temperature. He is ready to sell pizzas about half an hour after he comes in to work.” “Have there been problems with supplies or any of the equipment recently?” “Nah, everything has been normal. Believe me, if something wasn’t right, I would have heard about it.” “How has the chef been? Have you had any problems with him, or has he been upset about anything lately?” “Uhmm… No… Although, he had seemed a bit off lately. Nothing specific, but just not quite himself somehow.” “Okay… what about family and friends? What do you know about him outside of work?” “That’s easy to answer: nothing. He was a very private person. Never spoke about his home life or anything, just about work.” “Did you get on all right with him?” “Yeah. No problems. He could be a grumpy sod sometimes though.” Lisa told the owner the place was now a crime scene and off-limits to everyone for a few days, and to go home while the police investigated. Now wearing gumboots, she marched into the pizza shop and spoke to the patrol officers as she pulled on overshoes and gloves. “Have forensics been notified?” she asked. “Not yet, Mac. We thought it best to wait until we knew a bit more about what happened here. No point in bringing the forensic team here if they’re not needed.” “Yeah; some people are entitled to a good night’s sleep,” she snarled. With only two hours of sleep before the call came, DS Lisa McGregor was not in the best of humour, but gritting her teeth, she marched into the kitchen and paddled through the lake of tomato sauce to the body. Wriggling her gloved fingers through the gloop, she searched for a brachial pulse. Withdrawing her hand, she tried for a carotid pulse. “Help me roll him over,” she bellowed at the two patrol officers standing in the kitchen doorway. “Aw, come on, Mac. We’ll get that stuff all over our boots and uniforms. Shouldn’t we wait for forensics to arrive?” the junior officer suggested, and was quickly made aware of who was in charge. As they gingerly picked their way through the crimson lake, the senior patrol officer commented, “Looks like there was quite a fight. That huge pot of this sauce stuff looks as though it was knocked off the stove during a struggle.” “Strange that there was a pot of the stuff on the stove at all. The owner said they just open a large can of sauce. There would be no need to make their own. Anyway, give me a hand to roll this lump of a bloke over. I suspect this is not quite what it seems.” “Aah, that’s interesting,” Lisa murmured as she spied the large gash on side of the victim’s head. “So, murder all right, eh, Sarge?” the junior officer asked. “Probably not … Murder requires a dead body. This bloke is still alive but, judging by the fumes, blind drunk ... and concussed,” Lisa struggled to answer as they rolled the bloke onto his back. “That empty bottle over there might be involved,” the senior office suggested. “So, blind drunk, he tipped the pot of sauce off the stove, slipped over in the mess it created, and smashed his head on the bench on the way down?” “That’s how I’ll be writing it up. Call an Ambulance, not forensics, and ask the owner to return and lock-up.” When interviewing the chef a couple of days later, Lisa queried the pot of sauce. “The canned stuff is awful, so I just open a can and ‘enhance’ it a bit to give it flavour.” The End
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