Detective Laura McCallister

When the day is taken over with heading about another school shooting —this time at Virginia Tech— there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to say. The jaw just drops, and the heart just hurts for victims and for families. How many lives were ruined today? Certainly not just 33. How many phone calls were placed today that permanently ruined a family’s life? How many cops walked that long haul to the front door of someone’s house, a simple knock putting them in charge of delivering the fatal blow. Those ripples in the pond can very often be tidal waves.

So suddenly, one’s own troubles seems so small, so insignificant.

We are instantly not man or wo(man); we are humanity.

If all detectives were fictional detectives, I’d be in a good crowd.

If all victims were fictional victims, we could just simply turn the page.

If all perps were fictional perps that wounded only with a writer’s intent, we could feel our rage and then shut the book.

Today, I embrace my fictionality, neither bucking it nor boasting it. I am an Ethereal Girl. A string of nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs.

Today, I don’t want to be anything more.