Mark Lundholm

I read murder mysteries to relax myself. Fact or fiction, these stories allow the mind to wander away from normalcy, stress, debt, duty, or humanity for short spells. There is a deep dark side to the human soul that is as old as Adam and as forever as fire. Wrapping my brain around a tale of homicide is a guiltless pleasure because it frightens me to think that men and women are capable of anything and everything . . . not all of us, but some. Not to be included in this group is the pleasure. Closing the book, knowing the story is not mine, I relax, guiltless, knowing that each one of our lives is connected to another one— several, thousands, or a few. This is the moment where I remember that today is priceless, magic, and real. Reality is temporary and fragile. Oh that stories of death would inspire life, but isn’t that always the case?.