Design For Justice

By Joshua Holmes

After a brief vacation, Graphic Designer Remi Painter starts working for the Hunger House, a homeless shelter in downtown York, PA, refining their website under a tight deadline for chump change and feeding the community in his off time. But when he finds remnants of human remains in a dumpster behind the nonprofit headquarters after serving, Remi’s random observation is called into question. To prove his innocence, Remi begins to snoop around, discovers problems within the Hunger House, and sets into motion a series of seemingly unrelated events in the days that follow. Can Remi track down the killer and help restore order and justice or will evil prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Holmes
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310981425

Joshua Holmes

A GRADUATE OF the Pennsylvania State University (M.Ed.), the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (B.A.), and the Art Institute of York-PA (B.S.), Joshua Holmes has studied the fine arts, design, and writing for over 20 years.The sole proprietor and lead designer of JAHbookdesign, he also specializes in all areas of publishing, graphic design, and illustration (portraiture, animation, and wildlife). He has been commissioned by numerous collectors and authors within the community, and has won several awards in various shows and fairs. He has authored an autobiography, a how to series, and two fiction series about life with epilepsy, seventeen novels to date - The Art of Pastel Mastery, The Art of Colored Pencil Mastery, The Art of Oil Paint Mastery, The Art of Graphite Pencil Mastery, Memory Lapse, Grand Mal, Seizure, Status, Trigger, Design To Kill, Design For Justice, Shattered Lung, Design To Escape, Design For Honor, Design For Power, Design For The Cure, and Painting The Whole Picture: Portrait of an Artist with Epilepsy - all of which are available in print, ebook, and audiobook.He attributes his success to the Lord, and the strength God gives him in order to persist and grow as a more patient and thorough artist and writer. A vision cut in both eyes from brain surgery for epilepsy, and CP in his right side since birth, with the Lord's help, Josh continues to write, to see more detail, and to improve with time.He encourages you to explore and exercise your creative side, and enjoy what the Lord does through it.Visit Joshua Holmes at his professional site jahbookdesign.com and at all online book distributors.

Book preview

DESIGN FOR JUSTICE

by Joshua Holmes

ebook Edition | Copyright 2014 Joshua Holmes

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Table of Contents

Title Page

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

PART TWO

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

PART THREE

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

PART FOUR

30

31

32

33

34

35

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

THE THIEF

THE BOY in tattered clothing kept running back to the icebox just behind the HUNGER HOUSE headquarters for more bottled water, even though he’d repeatedly been told – like everyone else – he could only have one. There wasn’t enough drink to go around twice.

And yet every time he rushed from the container and back to the end of the dark alleyway, I saw the boy’s mother emerge from a shadow, and whisper in his ear, encouraging him, I assumed, to grab as many bottled waters as he could.

Most of the attending families and individuals in need followed the rules, but in my limited experience, there was always an outlier that disregarded the guidelines.

Aware of the near hopeless circumstances the homeless community of York, PA faced, I understood why this kind of thing might happen – that they were all starved and thirsty – but if it continued, the water supply would dry up.

And I was a bit bothered. I was responsible for keeping the icebox full. When I saw the supply was getting low, I had to unpack the reserves and refill it. It was my sole job.

I’d had this job for about six months now, a little over a year since I began my brief vacation from graphic design. My friends Marshall and Lela Houston suggested I check into it, to take my mind off of my seizures and the nightmares I still had.

It turned out the HUNGER HOUSE needed all the help they could get – with their general marketing strategies and with food and drink distribution. I offered my services in both areas for a small fee.

While the atmosphere was mostly dismal and dark and sad, when people followed instructions, I found serving the poor rewarding and cathartic.

But as the boy continued his relay race – with more and more stolen water bottles under his arm – I grew increasingly frustrated.

For a few minutes, I let it go. I sat on my knees on the gravel next to a small white food stand, dumping fresh ice in the bin that contained more melted cubes than bottles. I then opened packs of water with a keychain, tossing the contents in the Igloo.

I FINALLY lost my temper, though. I had made Mary Stiller, the coordinator at HUNGER HOUSE, aware of the situation, to no avail. So I stopped opening water packs, stood, and started after the boy who was halfway down the alley again.

Hey! I shouted. Excuse me!

The boy looked back a minute – some concern that he was caught showing on his face – but kept running ahead.

Yeah. You, I huffed and pointed as I jogged. I’m talking to you. Stop now!

He slowed a little – not because I told him to, but because he was again approaching his mother.

Instead of leaving the shadow and greeting her son, she waited for him to follow her into the darkness.

THE BLACK shadow that swallowed the boy and his mother would just as easily consume me.

Just as the boy’s foot receded into the darkness, I arrived at the shadow’s edge. I was somewhat hesitant to lose myself in the same abysmal space, but had to stop this behavior.

It seemed an endless wall of black encircled me. And I was momentarily frightened. The instant you experience blindness is a helpless one. But my eyes adjusted soon after, and slowly abstract objects began to emerge.

I saw a crude compilation of soggy boxes – smelling of wet dog – haphazardly arranged into a home of sorts to my left, a mountain of bottled water there, and on my right a large dented, square trash container that rose high above me and reeked not only of waste, but also of Death.

Eyes adjusted, I saw the boy and his mother push a drop-off slider aside, and attempt to wriggle through the opening, into the trash container.

I reached for the boy’s foot. Get out here! I shouted. Now! But they both had escaped. I slammed my fist against the metal. You have to stop stealing the water! I know you hear me!

The deathly fumes streamed into my nostrils, burned my eyes, and a hoard of flies swarmed out the side opening, biting me. I thought, that’s not trash I smell. That’s . . .

I found a nearby crate so that I could climb atop it, and lift the creased lid overhead. I carefully steadied myself, wrapped my fingers around the edge of the limp cover, and then raised the lid high enough for me to glance inside.

There amidst the torn bags, slipping deeper in the rust and sludge, the boy and his mother curled up, huddled together, shivering. I scowled at her, and shook my head – so sad, what I was looking at. A travesty, really.

I averted my attention, and immediately regretted it. A few feet over, I discovered a wiry man in tacky business attire – a stained button-down, a matching tweed suit, bent and lifeless. He stared up at me, eyes wide open but unmoving, trance-like.

The flies circled around him in a dizzying frenzy; aggressively buzzing about yet always migrating back to a hole in the shirt and an open flesh wound in the man’s chest.

Dead. A man. A dead man. I