The office door doesn’t have my name stenciled on the glass. I don’t smoke. There’s no lazy fan spinning shadows across my weathered face. My wife’s the only rain-drenched dame who visits, but never for long. I’m writing today. Somewhere, a narrator and his smoker’s growl reminds me this life may be the only case I’ll never solve. It’s easy, most days, to haul the bottle from the bottom drawer. Pour a glass of hopelessness. But that’s not the broken protagonist readers want. Give them grimaces. Pain. But show slivers of light, too. My fingers find the keyboard. Words form.
Kevin West is a Mainer now living in Germany. Most days, he tries to write. When not writing, he overwhelms his dog with ear scratches. “Private Eye” is the winner of our FIVE-MINUTE NOIR contest, part of our 2026 Micromemoir Marathon.