Ambush The massive hand-hewn spear whistled through the forest in search of its target. With a sickening thud, the jagged steel tip tore through the chain-mail armor, gouging and ripping as it pinned its victim to a damp cedar tree trunk. Embúr, the wood elf, let out a cry of pain as he grabbed the violently vibrating shaft and tried to stop it from moving. His face was a mask of distressing agony as he bit his lip to muffle the sound, not wanting his attackers to find his exact location. He focused and centered his mind, ignoring the gushing rent in his mid-section–his task was not yet complete. Searching, his eyes spotted Wick, a few feet away, sitting, back up against a moss-covered boulder, hyperventilating, rocking back and forth, and whimpering. “Wick,” croaked the mortally wounded elf. “Wick, open your eyes and answer me. Are you okay?” The young wood elf blinked his eyes open and slowly turned his head toward the older elves’ voice, then threw his hand to his mouth, eyes wide with terror. “It is okay. You will need to finish this task. I have faith in you,” said the older elf surprisingly calmly. The wooden missiles continued to sail through the air, indiscriminately hitting trees or landing in the undergrowth. Wick cringed, hearing the bushes battered by the searching Grizloids with their foul guttural voices. “They’re going to find us!” cried the young elf. “Embúr, I don’t want to die,” the young elf closed his glistening eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees. In his free leather-gloved hand, Embúr unsteadily held up a hand-sized crystal orb that glowed a bluish-green. Speaking shakily, he voiced, “Galad beri-ammen.” The pulsing teal light from inside the orb grew brighter, moving out in every direction, creating a radiant bubble thirty yards in all directions, cutting through the darkness of the surrounding dense forest. “Listen to me. I can’t hold this shield for very long. You must collect yourself, take the Geostar, and complete our mission. I won’t be going any further,” panted Embúr. “Gather the life source like I taught you.” Wick opened his eyes and looked at his pleading older compatriot, who was fighting for every breath, then shook his head in acknowledgment. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the angry shouts and the pulses of light flickering around him as the attackers beat at the shield, only to be thrown back by its magic. Wick took a deep breath, remembering his training, then voiced the words, barely audible, “Beri-nin naneth terra.” Tendrils of steam rose from the moss-covered forest floor and swirled together, coalescing into a glowing blue rope. The ethereal cord moved towards Wick, like a snake floating in the air, then wrapped itself around the tiny chanting elf several times, causing his back and shoulders to straighten erect and stout. Wick hopped up with new vigor and ran to his proudly smiling mentor. He reached Embúr and tried to help support him but knew there was nothing he could do to help his friend–his insides viewable–the wound was too massive. “Very good, Wick. *cough* You did that on your first try. You are ready,” praised the fading elf. “Once I hand the Geostar to you, the Gúl Than will dissipate, *cough*, and the Grizloids will rush us. You need to run as fast as you can. You must use the Dolen Aglon to get to the top of Drago Ul balkalesh-ra.” Wick protested, “But you said the Dolen Aglon was too dangerous.” “Wick, it is your only option now *cough*,” said Embúr. “The Grizloids have blocked every ascent of the pyramid, but they won’t follow you into the Dolen Aglon. You have to get to the entrance before they find you. Can you do that?” Wick shook his head, “I can do that. They won’t catch me.” “Good, I have faith in you. Use the power of the Geostar to keep yourself safe through the Dolen Aglon, as we trained. When you get to the top, you know what to do.” Wick helplessly watched as Embúr let out a gurgled breath and slumped to the ground, his shaking legs unable to support him anymore. “You’ve…got…this…” Embúr’s face took on a peaceful gaze as his last breath silently expired, at the same time, his hand holding the orb opened, allowing the glowing object to roll to the ground. Like nails on a chalkboard, an ear-splitting screech ripped through the air as the shield phased out, bursting like a bubble, causing all hell to break loose. Fight or Flight Wick was in shock as he looked at his crumpled mentor lying lifeless against the tree. He snapped out of it quickly as multiple ravenous screams approached, putting him in fight or flight mode. He was not in the mood to fight, so he ran, holding the Geostar tight against his chest. His sight was crisp and clear even though it was almost entirely dark, the forest foliage blocking the moonlight. This clarity of vision was a by-product of the life source he had imbibed earlier. It also gave him focus, allowing him to ignore the swatting Thistle Palms that smacked him in the face as he ran. It gave him an extra boost of energy as well, powering him through the leg-grabbing Slither Vines that grabbed at his ankles. He picked his way through the bushes, over downed logs, and dodged tree trunks like a fawn escaping a hungry shadow cat. He felt almost invincible until a sharp pain cracked him in the skull, causing him to fall and skid face-first into the forest floor. He rolled over and felt a trickle of blood flow just above his ear. Spitting out a mouth full of dirt, he jumped back to his feet, shook off the injury, and kept going–his life depended on his determination. The knuckles and feet of his pursuers galloped through the undergrowth, getting ever closer. There must have been a dozen individual voices yelling in a language unrecognizable to most elves. Though Wick didn’t understand the words spoken from either side of his current location, he knew their meaning– get him . He came to the edge of the Cedar grove and saw his destination just ahead—a small stone door in the side of Drago Ul balkalesh-ra, the Pyramid of the Dragon. Several stones and spears sailed past him harmlessly as he ducked into the entrance, continuing as far in as he could until he could no longer see. He turned around, looked down the corridor, and saw several giant bear-gorilla beasts beating their chests in outrage outside the structure but not daring to follow inside. Wick let out a sigh of relief and then turned to continue. Uttering an incantation, “Galad nin té” into the Geostar, it began to glow a bright white-ish green. The cautious elf came to a stone stairway and ran up it, two steps at a time. It emptied into a tremendous cathedral-like room with tilted walls that mirrored the pyramid's shape. He could see across the massive hall a stairway that continued upward. His goal was to get to the top of the pyramid, taking the Geostar with him and completing his mentor’s task. Tentatively, he entered the room to cross when a fountain of sparks exploded skyward out of the floor in a funnel of burning, crackling energy. The conflagration turned into a tornado, spinning, sizzling, and reaching the top of the cavernous room. As it hit the ceiling, it arched downward, twisting, changing shape at will, like a murmuration of Fury Darts, until coalescing into a massive Dragon-shaped beast. Wick knew the monstrous shape before him was Naur Radag, the fire beast. Standing eight stories tall, head reaching up, opening its giant mouth, it let out an ear-rending roar. Wick crouched against the wall, paralyzed with fear. Use the power of the Geostar to protect yourself, echoed in his head–the words of his mentor. Gathering his courage, he raised the Geostar above his head and muttered, “Galad Magol.” Immediately, the Geostar transformed into a large double-handed sword gleaming greenish blue. Wick stepped forward, pointing the magical blade at the beast, moving slowly, working his way to the door on the opposite side of the room. The beast had other ideas and lunged like a snake for the tiny elf. Wick reacted without thought, tucked and rolled, swinging upward as fast as a bullwhip. The sword expanded to an enormous length and sliced the ethereal beast’s neck clean through, causing a shower of sparks and a gurgled outcry. The vanquished foe evaporated with the same sizzling theatrics of its arrival, leaving only the fading echo of the beast’s mighty roar. Wick stood astonished, panting, alone in the dark room with only the green glow of his sword. Convincing his feet to move, he hurried across the space to the stairs, fully focused on completing his task. Master’s Control Wick reached the top of the stairs and stepped out of the door. He stood on the flat-topped pyramid and looked over the dark forest below him. Several torches magically lit as he approached a ring of tall-pointy metallic spires that surrounded a circular waist-high stone platform at the center of the ceremonial pinnacle. His mentor was supposed to take the Geostar to the platform and stand on it. That task now fell on his shoulders, and he, without hesitation, entered the circle. Standing on the platform, he broadcast the magic spell as he had been taught, “Jiak auf ul Geostar shal anwher tor powr!” Wick’s entire body was subsumed in a raging green flame that swirled to a point and shot out into space, making him look like a wick on a pyramidal candle. He convulsed with the energy that surged unchecked through his body and let out a primordial scream that filtered down to the forest below. The Grizloids, at the base of the structure, cowered as they heard the sound and saw the emerald beam in awe and fear. As quickly as the light had appeared, it switched off. The Geostar, in the elf's hands, had disappeared into dust as the final incantation was spoken. The effort left Wick bent over, hands on his knees, panting. He had done it. “Very good,” came a voice just behind the exhausted elf. “You have performed your task exceptionally well.” “Master, how did you get here?” asked the exhausted elf. “In time, you will be able to travel wherever you want, with just a thought,” said the tall, black-cloaked elf. He stood head and shoulders taller than Wick, with slicked-back long black hair and pointy, gold-tipped ears that glimmered in the moonlight. His glinting stare was piercing. “Master, why did I have to kill Embúr?” asked Wick. “It felt wrong. He was my friend.” “His true task was to prepare you. I sensed greatness in you. He was only a means to an end. Once he had fulfilled his task, he was no longer useful,” concluded the Dark Elf. “Master, what is my purpose then?” Wick asked with trepidation. He feared he may be expendable as well. “You will find out in due time. Grab my cloak,” commanded the Dark Elf, offering his arm. “I hear and obey,” said Wick as the two elves whisked out in a blur of sparks and disappeared into darkness. The End


For the first time in years, my leg didn’t hurt. You see, I have a slight kink in my lower spine that causes a constant low-level pain. I have mostly learned to live with the pain but on that day, I was especially grateful for a reprieve. It was on a Friday in September 1970 when I walked along a narrow, little-used trail that wound through a dense forest in northwest Pennsylvania. I was on a quest to find something, anything that would help me understand what happened to my father during the war. As a child, our relationship was wonderful. He called me Davey and taught me to throw, catch, and hit a baseball. ‘Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio was his favorite player and almost every day in the summer, we listened to Yankee games on WJZ radio out of New York City. Did you know that WJZ eventually came WABC radio which is still operating to this day? I was about seven years old when Dad was drafted into the Army and eventually deployed to Korea. He served on a mortar team in active combat. Mom and I initially received regular letters from him, but these tapered off to the occasional one-side-of-one-page note eventually to no communications at all. Since we had not received the visit that every military family dreads, we believed he was alive. Dad returned after two years a changed man. Our relationship was terrible after the war, and we often argued. He was angry and abused my mom; mostly with words, but he occasionally punctuated his words with his hands. He never touched me, but I hated him for what he did to mom. He would not talk about the war except for the occasional funny story involving his army buddies. Dad would sometimes show me photographs pulled from an old shoe box he kept on a closet shelf and belly laugh while talking about something crazy someone did in Korea. I loved hearing him and I laughed too until his smile receded into a distant stare. I figured he remembered something that wasn’t funny, so I would quickly leave the room whenever that happened, which was often. Dad’s anger subsided in late 1962 and things really started to get better. We didn’t know why, but we relished the change in him and didn’t ask any questions. Together we planned a family camping trip, a visit to Niagara Falls, and best of all, tickets to a Yankees game in New York City! A double-header! I couldn’t wait to see Mickey Mantle play! We were happy and our days were full and bright until one day in early spring 1963, he suddenly died of a heart attack. We were devastated. About a month after Dad’s funeral, I decided to look through his shoe box of keepsakes hoping to find some clues to his time in the war. The box held what you might expect: photographs, pins, receipts, patches, and various other things. There was nothing unusual except a cryptic letter to my dad from someone named John in D Company. It read: August 1962 Jacob, Enough time has passed that we should be safe. We have information that you need to hear. Meet us at Akko Bridge on September 24th, 4 PM. John, D Co After reading the letter, I really wanted to find Akko Bridge, but mom and I were mourning and, at the same time, busy trying to figure out our future. So, I kept the letter determined to one day find the place. But as they say, life goes on, which it did, and I totally forgot about Akko Bridge for about seven years. Then, one day in the fall of 1970, the old letter dropped from a stack of papers onto the floor, and I knew that it was time to start the quest. In an old book in our town’s library, I discovered that Akko Bridge crossed a river of the same name near the small town of Kaylor, Pennsylvania. I lived in near Pittsburgh at the time which is about an hour drive from Kaylor.

I travelled to Kaylor one Friday determined to find the bridge. I stopped first at the town post office. The young clerk had not heard of Akko Bridge but directed me to the hotel suggesting I speak with a man named Judd Miller. More than 90 years old at the time, Miller was a life-long resident of Kaylor and the clerk thought that if anyone knew of such a place, he would. Everyday, Mr. Miller sat on the porch, reading a newspaper and greeting visitors to the aging hotel. As I approached the slightly sagging porch, I saw a man with a shiny head, that apparently hadn’t supported hair for quite some time, reading a newspaper. This must be old Judd, I thought. His crisp copy of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review swayed in harmony with the movement of his rocking chair. “Mr. Miller?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper, looked at me and smiled. “Welcome to our hotel, young man. May I help you?” “I hope so, sir. My name is Dave and the lady at the Post Office suggested I talk to you. I am looking for a place called Akko Bridge. Do you know of it?” “Hello, Dave. Yes, I know Akko Bridge. I haven’t been there in, good Lord, must be twenty years now. Why do you ask?” he said. “I’m retracing steps of my father. He passed away earlier this year, and I believe he spent some time there with his army buddies. Probably camping.” “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” said Miller. He reflected for a few seconds then said, “I wonder if that old bridge still crosses the river? It was in poor shape the last time I was there. Built in the early 1920s, I believe. Here, let me draw you a map. It’s deep in the woods.” Mr. Miller sketched a rough map on part of his Tribune-Review, carefully tore the map from newspaper, and handed it to me. “I believe the road leading to the bridge is no longer passable, so you will need to take an old trail that I knew like the back of my hand as a child,” he said.

We talked a while longer, I thanked him, and resumed my journey. I drove to the trailhead, parked, and began the hike. About a mile in, the forest tightly hugged the trail and I suddenly heard voices carried on the wind. Rattled, I paused and listened for a few moments, but all I heard was the irregular crackling and rustling of a dense forest. If you have ever been alone in the woods, you know they are alive with the sounds and movements of branches, leaves, small animals, birds, and even the occasional deer. As the trail rose toward higher ground, I was even more grateful for a pain-free leg. Maybe it went on a permanent vacation? One could only hope! I eventually approached what appeared to be the top of the rise and heard a loud waterfall. Mr. Miller had told me that the bridge crossed a narrow gorge that the Akko River cut into the sandstone of western Pennsylvania over countless years. He also said that the sandstone beneath Pittsburgh is some three miles thick. I had no idea! When I finally reached the top of the rise, it was getting dark, but I could see a rusted steel truss bridge crossing the river gorge. It certainly had seen better days but didn’t appear in danger of collapse, and the roads leading to and from the bridge were not at all overgrown. I felt sure that I had found the Akko Bridge but wondered why Mr. Miller directed me to the trail instead of the road; although I was not in pain, it would have been much quicker to drive here. I stopped and looked around the area. There was nothing much to see but trees, rocks, and of course the old bridge, but to my right, I saw light dancing on the lower branches of the trees as if from a campfire. I could not hear anything above the sound of the waterfall but decided to make my way towards the flickering light.

Creeping quite a way into the woods, I stopped within ten feet or so of a campfire. I could see four men seated on felled logs within a small clearing. Judging by the look on the three men’s faces that I

could  see, they were discussing something serious. A man in a red and black checked hunting jacket with his back to me spoke… “OK, John, why are we here?” “Take it easy Jacob. We must be careful.” Jacob? I thought, that is my dad’s name! “Why John? Careful of what? It’s 1962. It’s been over ten years, for Christ’s sake!” “Jacob, you weren't responsible,” said another man. “Don’t give me that, Ted. You were there.” “You were set up Jacob,” said Ted. “What??” said Jacob. “What do you mean?” I was shocked. The man Jacob was, in fact, my father and somehow, I was at the meeting mentioned in letter. If it really was 1962, either I was a time traveler or someone was playing a very sick joke on me. “You remember Bill Sells from Charlie Company. He went to work for The Agency after the armistice was signed,” said John. “Sells? No, I don’t remember him. The Agency?” asked my dad. “CIA,” said John. “He eventually received security clearance for classified war files, and it took more than a year, but he discovered a coverup on the civilian deaths you were blamed for.” “What??” said my dad. “That’s right, Jacob,” said a man who hadn’t yet spoken. “I’m Bill Sells. A secret unit operating across the border screwed up and mistakenly killed more than a dozen civilians. To avoid escalation of the war, your mortar team was deemed incompetent and blamed for the incident. The very high-level talks apparently worked and your team were scapegoated.” “What??” exclaimed my dad. He lowered his head into his hands and was silent, I assume he was trying to understand what he had just heard. The men were quiet for several minutes, until my dad raised his head and spoke. “Scapegoat?…I…I…have carried that weight for so long. The incident destroyed my marriage and my family. My son Davey… he hates me. My wife… I have treated her terribly.” My dad looked at the ground and cried heavy tears. The three men gathered around him, and each placed a hand his shoulders. I sat down on an old tree stump, head in hands, and cried too. I had no idea what he had gone through in the war. I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, but when I raised my head, the clearing was covered with brush. There was no campfire, no felled logs, and no men. I sat for a while trying to absorb what I had seen and heard. I eventually stood and walked towards the bridge; even in the dark I could see it was in very poor condition. The steel superstructure was damaged and heavily rusted. The bridge deck had large holes in it and the connecting roads were completely overgrown, just as Judd Miller said. I guess it would be hard for most, but I believed what I saw and heard that day. I viewed my dad in a new way and while I am still sickened by his abusive actions, I forgave him. I better understood what he had experienced and how it had affected him. Forgiveness removed a massive weight from me. I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and started back down the narrow trail towards my car, glad that I brought a good flashlight. I will never forget what I experienced at Akko Bridge, and I hope wherever my dad is now, he knows that he is forgiven.

Oh, in case you’re wondering, my leg is still pain free!


I’m leaving the VA with a bandage around my arm and a mask over my face and I’m thinking, What was the point? I was in there for… three hours? They drew piss. I bled in a cup. We played that little word game we always play where they ask, “Are you thinking about harming yourself or others?” “Know, and know,” I said. It’s what I always say. Because I know they’ll know the truth, if they just pay attention. Yes and no. No and yes. Sometimes. Not always. Not now. Earlier though, and definitely later, no doubt about it. But I don’t say that. Because they didn’t ask the right way. Ask the right questions and you’ll earn the answers I have left to give. See? It's a game. You get it. I’m good at giving directions. But you can’t say that stuff in there. Even if they ask. Especially if they ask. It’s a test. It’s a game. And you wanna pass, right? You don’t wanna lose? I can tell you do. I can tell you don’t. That’s why you turned around, just now. I saw you looking at me, thinking the same thing I was thinking, Pass me, please just pass me . At least, I think you were thinking that. Don’t worry, I can’t read minds, not anymore. Not since they put me in a gown and grippy socks. That was forever ago. Now, I punch pillows since their pills pull punches. Welp. There it is. I said it, didn’t I? Or I might as well have. Yeah. I haven’t been taking them. You caught me. Are you working for them? You have to tell me if I ask, ya know? You gonna check under my tongue? AHHHH. Just kidding. But seriously, they can’t check under your tongue at your apartment. Mine either. So yeah, back to that other thing. The thing you were thinking about a second ago. When I said I can’t read minds, what I meant was I’m not the one doing the reading. They’re actually read to me , like a book on tape. That’s what happened with you, just now. Someone read your thoughts out loud, it wasn’t me, but I heard them because I couldn’t help it. Pass me, please just pass me. Pass you what? I don’t have anything. What more do you want? I already gave you my piss and my blood and you’ll get no more tears from me. Tears not tears, like the kind you might find in a diary. Past, pass, we pass, you pass, and I pass after we pass in the past. Puff puff pass, each other and the tests and the page. I did it, and so did you. The past thing. Then, I turned around, and so did you. The passed thing. Is it destiny? Is it worth pursuing? What’s your name? I’m not making a pass . I am the past. You are. We are. Does it feel weird yet? No, not this. The words. Of course this feels weird. I mean the words feel weird. I mean, the world feels weird. Words of the world are weird when they don't feel real, I fear. Sometimes I lose myself in them. The words. You know what I mean? It happened earlier with “pass” because we were saying it a lot. And even earlier with “know”. And just now, again, with “know”. You know… when I said it, the word “know”, in the last sentence, and even in the one before the last one, and even this one, it feels weird. But it felt especially weird in the last last sentence, no, I mean the last last last sentence, because it was, or is, technically, sitting so close to the word “now”. See? Because “now” is inside “know” and “no” is inside “now” and “know”, but “no” doesn’t sound like “know”, when it’s inside “now”. It sounds like “ow”. And now you know, no? What? You wanna go inside now? Well go. But I’m not going, I just came from there. Where do you think I got this bandage around my arm? Why do you think I’m wearing this mask on my face? But also, I’m not talking to you, VA parking lot man, and I haven’t been for a while. Right now, I’m talking to the readers I have left. MY READERS. What do you mean? They’re right here. Of course you can’t see them. No I can’t see them either. Because they’re in the future. But they’re the ones I’ve been talking to this whole time. Well OK, you got me there. Sure. I’m talking to you now, technically, VA parking lot man, but I wasn’t just a second ago. I was talking to them. You, Readers. Not him. Sorry, he keeps butting in. NO! NOT YOU, VA PARKING LOT MAN! THEM! I KNOW I’M TALKING OUT LOUD! HOW ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO HEAR ME? Hold on, I’ll get back to you in a second, Readers, let me deal with this psycho who just stopped me in the parking lot. STOP! What are you doing!? Why are you pulling out your phone? You shouldn’t walk backwards in a parking lot. What? I’m not following you? Why are you recording me? Come back here. Whoa. We’re inside now. When did that happen? Why are you crying? You’re fine. We’re fine. We’re fine! Everything is fine! This idiot just keeps trying to read my mind! What do you need a GUN for, officer? Stay back!! Tell them to get back! They’ll listen if they think the thoughts are their own! Was that your idea or mine? I don’t know why I’m shaking. Is it you? Is it me? Are we cold? You’re in my head, but are you in my body? Readers, is he in there with you? With us? Hello? Tell them what I’m thinking, Readers, they’ve been dying to know. What? KNOW. Not no! NO! No one is dying today. I… I don’t know why I thought that. I feel weird. The words are getting weird. The world is getting weird. I’m lost again. Everyone is panicking. I hear explosions. I hear crying. I hear screaming. There are teeth in my lies. There's no blood to my pain. There are bullets in my memories and bombs in my brain. How did we get here? How long ago was the parking lot? When did they sketch my blood? When do we play our game? Hello? He’s gone. We’re back in the VA parking lot. We’re standing in front of the drivers side window of our car, staring at a man with an arm around his bandage and face over his mask. I take it off. He takes it off. We hear alarms. We hear sirens. “You doing alright, son? Get the help you need?” A voice calls out from the other side of the world. Or maybe the other side of the car. Or maybe the other side of the window. Doesn’t matter much. Because we’re alone now. It’s just you, and me, and us, and our reflections. “Know, and know,” I say. It’s what I always say.


I woke up and said to myself “I am going to get a vacation!” hoping that saying it allowed would help it become true. I excitedly went to work hoping to in the time I don’t have work to do research vacations. Once I got there my coworkers and I exchanged the usual “hellos”, “how are yous”, and “I'm fines” and went about our days. I didn’t have much work to do as I'd already done my work knowing what I planned to do today.

I looked for a while and then found a vacation with all paid expenses trip to Hawaii for 1,000 dollars! I didn’t have that money so I knew I’d have to go to suspicious steve. His name isn’t actually suspicious Steve, just Steve, but he is always suspicious. He always has ways of getting what you need and seems rich but still works a 9 to 5 job.

I went up to him and said “Steve. You got money?” Steve looked at me with confusion and said “What money?” “Well I was hoping you knew of a way to get 1,000 dollars, but I also wanted to sound cool” Steve rolls his eyes at me, but in a cool way, somehow. He hands me two packages, one labeled “burn”, another labeled “give''. “burn this one, and give this one to a guy a few blocks away. You’ll need to burn all of the one labeled burn to ash. Show me proof you’ve done it and I’ll give you the money.

If you ask questions, I’ll have someone else do it. I’ve texted you the address to the location.” he stops for a moment then glares at me “If you mess up, you’ll regret it. “ Hesitantly, I agreed. The rest of the workday was normal so it’s not worth talking about, but what is worth talking about is afterward. Once the workday ended I crept to my backyard, which in hindsight just made me more suspicious, and prepared to burn the one labeled burn. I wanted to look inside and see what it was but

I worried if I did he’d have my head or id ask questions and then he’d have my head.

Either way, I'd be without a head, which is a thing I prefer to have.  I started a recording and threw it in. I waited till it was complete ash which took a while, but before It was all ash I caught a glimpse of a picture of a face, It looked like an ID. I pushed away thoughts of what I just did and how unethical it was and walked over to the place, unable to push away thoughts of what I just did. I worried, did I just abide and aid murder? I kept trying to reassure myself that maybe it was an old ID and they were really precautious, or that someone died in a non-murder-y way and so they burned old items. But considering it was from suspicious steve and it was a person’s face, I would imagine it’s either a murder or a cover-up of someone’s identity. I focused on the fact that this was for a vacation the rest of the way to avoid thoughts of murder and cover-ups. Once I arrived I knocked, a suspicious person opened the door and in a hushed and angry voice said “What?” I tried to match their voice, partially to seem cool, and partially for them to be less likely to want to kill me, and said “I have a delivery from steve.” He quickly takes it and closes the door. If it is what I think it is, then it’s really weird his name is steve. I never thought drug deliverers’ names could be so normal. It’s like being like “I have a drug delivery from billy”, it just sounds normal and too innocent. But I guess not all people who do weird things have weird names like “ax” or “Murder”.

I took a recording of me at the door with no more packages and sent them to steve, with no reply I got an online cash deposit of 1,000 dollars.

I quickly left and went home. Not sure how to continue, I bought a ticket and waited for my day. Nothing very weird happened well I waited though, except for me. I kept sneaking around places and acting like I did a crime, which I did, I think. One day I crept into working thinking someone would catch me in what I had done and all my coworkers stared at me. Also, all of the “how are yous” turned into “are you oks”, the answers still the same though even if I did commit a crime.

Once it was time to go on my vacation I ordered an uber and got all my stuff and put it in, the drive there was pretty calm. We did run into traffic and so I decided to do the only thing I could do which was grab my stuff and start jumping on cars to get by. I’m not kidding, I did actually do that though, I really didn’t want to miss my flight. I did pay the driver first though! So at least I’m not an avoids-paying-for-ubers-car jumper. Also, as a side note, car jumping is really fun! Hard, but fun!

I got to the airport and had a relatively normal flight, I think a passenger was trying to flirt with me though, which was sweet but annoying. I sat through the flight and read a magazine since somehow I forgot to bring something to keep me entertained.

The flight attendant suddenly said “And now we are flying over Hawaii”, I went up and asked if this was a flight to Hawaii, which is what I thought, she said it wasn’t though. It’s a flight to China. I must have clicked the one below the Hawaii one…. I asked where the parachutes were and as they pointed in a confused manner I grabbed my stuff, the parachute, and jumped off the plane. I heard lots of surprise gasps as I jumped off but it was worth it to finally get to relax in Hawaii. That’s my totally normal story of how I got to Hawaii. “What about yours?” I said to the person next to me. They looked at me and walked away slowly, I guess that was a weird trip in their opinion, oh well, more alone time for me.


“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I asked.              “Nah, man,” Matty replied. He sounded calm in his voice, but his eyes showed fear.              “It’s no problem if you do, Matt, my mom will understand,” I tried to assure him, “Besides, my dad doesn’t have to work tomorrow so he can take us fishing in the morning down at Salmon Creek.”              “No, really, its okay,” Matty insisted. His dad was drunk and screaming at his mother. It was like this often, usually with Matt or his mother bearing the wounds of Mr. Galway’s inebriated rage.              “Do you want me to at least come in with you?,” I asked. I hated to leave the twelve-year-old at this chaotic house. I was big for my age and my old man had taught me how to fight, I figured I could at least give Matt some breathing room to run out if his own dad came after him. From the street, we could hear Mr. Galway screaming threats to give his wife a beating if she didn’t stop crying. It only made her cry harder.              “I’ve dealt with him before like this,” my friend told me. His eyes were screaming help now. He was too polite to take my offer. “Don’t worry about it.”              “Alright,” I told him with reluctance, “but if you still are up for fishing tomorrow morning, my pop and I can puck you up.”              “You don’t have to, but thanks man,” Matty said. He loved fishing even more than I did. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning to take a few bass out of the creek.”              “Maybe I can convince the old man to take us for a burger and milkshake after,” I tried to sound hopeful before the kid had to go to his personal hell of a house. He really didn’t deserve to live in a place like this.              “Have a food night man,” Matt said as he approached the splintered front door of the place.              “You too,” I called over my shoulder. I knew I shouldn’t have said that because Matt wouldn’t have a good night unless his dad passed out early. A sick feeling hit my stomach. I heard the blast of Mr. Galway’s twelve gauge from my own front yard two blocks away. I wake up in a cold sweat. Thirty-six years-old and still haunted by the death of my childhood best friend. That vile man had the wretchedness to take his own son’s life then plead insanity and drunkenness for a lesser charge over facing a real sentencing like a man. I was told that Matt didn’t suffer when he was killed, but that had never offered me any comfort. The poor kid had suffered his entire twelve and a half years of existence before having his opportunity to grow up and move away even started. If only I had persuaded a bit more to get him to spend the night watching horror movies in the basement all night. My parents would not have minded at all. My wife stirred in her sleep as I stood up and checked the clock. Two twenty-six o’clock. I knew sleep would not come back to me tonight- thankfully it was Saturday so I didn’t have to worry about a fatigued day at work, but my recurring dream was punishment enough. I slowly got out of bed and crept out of the bedroom to allow my wife to continue her slumber and crept downstairs. Finding a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in the basket of clean laundry on the couch, I threw the clothing on with a pair of old sneakers and walked outside. Long walks around the neighborhood were the only thing that helped a bit after memories of my childhood best friend being murdered happened. At least I knew that the old bastard that killed Matt had been beaten to death in his jail cell seven months after the murder. I turned the corner off of the street my house sat on toward the park down the way a little. I figured it would be desolate enough with adequate lighting along the walking path to clear my head. A figure stood in the distance. He was blonde with green eyes and a smile that appeared like he was proud of himself for causing mischief. Id seen the face every day of my childhood and in my darkest nightmares as a teen and adult. I thought he was dead, but he was. I approached the child nervously as he stood grinning. “Hey, Cameron,” the boy spoke happily in his usual excited tone. My mouth went numb and a new sweat beaded on my hairline. “H-hey, Matty,” I said timidly. “Long time no see, pal,” it was like the kid had never remembered what happened all those years ago. “Wha-?” I tired, took a breath then, “How?” I was lost for words, “I mean, what are you doing here?” “I won’t be long, Cameron,” the child’s face went from a bustling twelve-year-old’s to a grown man’s expression. “I’m moving on soon, but I wanted to pay one final visit before going.” “What do you mean?” I asked. My mind still felt like a piece of taffy being stretched around by one of those mechanisms in a candy shop. Marty’s pale ghost smiled again, “I can’t tell you exactly, but I think you know,” he said, turning his face toward the night sky. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you would be okay, I know that this hasn’t been easy on you for the last twenty-four years. Lets take a seat.” We strolled over to a bench along the park’s pavement walking trail between two amber light poles. Matty seemed to glide across the dewy grass rather than walk. We took a seat on opposite ends of the wooden bench. “Don’t worry, no one will notice us should they happen to come by,” Matt read my mind, nervous about being seen alone in the park with a juvenile. That never looks okay. Matt laughed his contagious cackle, again, knowing what I was thinking. “Man, you haven’t changed much at all.” My mind calmed a bit at my old pal’s joking. It was true, I’d always been a nervous wreck about appearing like I’m doing something wrong, even when I wasn’t. “Matt, I still don’t understand.” “And I don’t expect you to, Cameron, you’ll learn many years from now, but for the moment, just go with the flow,” the childish grin had once again given way to a caring adult expression, “You need this more than you nay realize.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I was elated to talk to the best friend I’d ever had in life. “First off, Cameron, I have to say how proud I am of what you have done in life,” Matt began, “I’ve spoken to your grandparents too and they are ecstatic about what you have done. Three books on the Bes Seller list, a beautiful wife that loves you more than anything, two amazing children that are growing up to be as great as their old man, and a perfect house in a town that you cherish. You gave done so much more for yourself than mist people can even dream of. It’s outstanding.” Matt told me. He added, “I know you don’t feel comfortable whenever someone compliments you, but you have to know how well you have done in life.” A tear formed in my eye. I hadn’t seen my grandparents since my grandmother’s funeral three years after my grandfather’s. How had Matty talked to them? “Thank you, Matthew,” I had never called him his full name almost as long as I knew him- it felt odd to say, like I called him by the wrong name, but something compelled me to, “it means a lot. I just wish you could have had the same opportunity.” “We all have a time, Cam,” Matt said, “don’t feel guilty about your own successes just because I had to leave earlier.” This time, instead of a tear forming, a river flowed out of each eyelid. “It’s just not fair!” I exclaimed through the sobs, “You were supposed to have your own successes in your work, have a happy wife and children right with me. You never deserved to grow up in a house that was falling apart with an abusive father that drank too much, I mean- why you?” Matt though over my question as I unsuccessfully attempted to pull myself back together, “I was given a different set of cards than you. Its no one’s fault, we just have to play the hand we are dealt.” Matt spoke like he was one hundred years old, “Don’t feel bad about me, I’ve learned a lot since dying and I would never give up this knowledge for anything. I can’t wait to show you some of the great stuff I found!” He was acting like his childhood self again. “But, I miss you, I miss our adventures, I mean, you never even got to kiss a girl before, Matt!” I said. Matt’s ghostly pale face almost blushed with his evil grin again, “Actually,” he said then paused, “I kissed Marissa McClain at her parent’s Fourth of July party the summer I left.” I exploded with laughter at that. He knew I had the biggest crush on Marissa McClain back in the day, most of the boys did back then, “You did?! That’s awesome!” “I never told you because I didn’t want to upset you, but she snuck me off to the barn behind her house and we kissed for a while during the fireworks. Sorry man,” He was laughing himself. “Nothing to be sorry for,” I said still howling with laughter, “so that’s where you disappeared to.” “Yeah, I’ve got to say, I did enjoy my time,” Matt said guiltily but still smiling. “I’m sure you did, you sly dog!” it was incredible go talk to him like we were twelve years old again. “Those were good times, Cam,” Matt said in sincerity. “It was a great escape from home and it allowed my to live a fun life.” My laughter stopped as new tears streamed down my cheeks as I thought about all the old times running around the small town we lived in. “I just wish you could have lived longer, it eats me up that you had to go out the way you did and so soon,” I said. “Cameron,” Matt grabbed my shoulder, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Stop worrying about me. I’m here to let you know, that there is no animosity or grudges held against you. We all go at one point and you have to cherish the good times. You taught me to enjoy life. You were the one that showed me how to have a good time and forget about anything bad that was happening at home.” “But-“ I began. “No, but, Cameron,” Matthew said sternly, “You need to get over this guilt or it’s going to kill you.” He stood up from the bench, “Enjoy your life and don’t dwell on the past. I’m enjoying myself. I want to see you do the same. Can you do that for me?” “I’ll try, Matthew,” I promised through my tears. “I’ll keep an eye on you along with your other family up here, you’ll see me again one day,” Matthew’s form disappeared with a final, “Enjoy.” Spoken in the wind. I walked back to my house in a daze. The sky was showing the signs of illumination before the sun came up. I met wife in bed, who was awake now. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern. I could only shake my head as I bawled my eyes out into her shoulder. I let all of my regrets and self-hate go away with those tears. Though, I still missed Matt every day, I learned to enjoy life and the nightmares ended. Sometimes, I could even detect a hint of him watching over me.


Snowflakes were slowly falling on the frozen ground. It was a cold winter and it was going to get even colder. Jane was running late for a meeting with her friend. She was walking as fast as she could, being careful not to slip on the ice. Ice crystals were beginning to form on her eyelashes as she reached the restaurant. She pushed the door open and was instantly welcomed by a warm breeze. Jane spotted Melissa at a small table, drinking what seemed like red wine.

“Hi, Melissa”.

Melissa looked up and smiled brightly at her friend: “You’re late” They ordered the food and began small talk. Jane was thankful for the warmth of the place. Her plate of Carbonara Spaghetti just arrived when Melissa asked her a question, Jane had already heard a hundred times in the past week.

“So, have you heard about your neighbor Mr. Allen?” The rumor was that Mr. Allen might be dead, frozen in his own house, just feet away from Jane’s place. Mr. Allen lived with his nephew in a 1 story building. No one had seen him leave the house in over a month. And no one had ever bothered to check in on him. The only one who goes in and out of the house is the nephew. But no one dares to approach him. The thing is, everyone believes he killed his grandpa and stuffed him somewhere in a freezer. The police have been called multiple times but nothing suspicious was found. According to the sheriff, “Mr. Allen was safe and sound”. The people, however, didn’t want to believe that. The place where Jane lived was a small town and people were often closed-minded. They created all these rumors, hoping their little town would get famous one day. And gossip in such a town was the order of the day. Maybe some people knew the truth, one of those being the sheriff, but they liked hearing others fantasize about what mysteries might lie between the walls of the Allen’s.

Jane looked at Melissa with tired eyes: “Can we not talk about this? You know pretty well I’ve heard about him and no, I don’t think the rumor of him being dead is true. Mike, his nephew, is not a criminal”.

“Yes, but have you seen Mr. Allen in the past weeks? And have you ever talked to Mike? How are you so sure he’s such a good guy?” Jane wasn’t sure. But she hoped with all her heart that nothing horrible was happening in the house across from her. She didn’t even want to think she was living near a murderer. Maybe this is why she never checked on the Allen’s house either. She was scared of what she might find. Then again, should she be alarmed? The police said there was nothing wrong there.

After lunch, Jane said goodbye to Melissa and went home. All that talk about her neighbor spooked her. She just wanted to get home and drink some tea in peace. The cold air was slipping through her jacket and Jane couldn’t help but think that in such cold weather a body could stay frozen for weeks, even without a freezer.

People were constantly telling her to steer clear of Mike. But deep down, many believed that Jane was involved in the killing of Mr. Allen. He was her only neighbor and people found it impossible for her not to have played a part in what probably went down there. Jane was aware of this but the opinion of others didn’t matter to her.

There were, of course, those who didn’t believe Mr. Allen was dead. They thought him to have transformed into a vampire. And that’s why he didn’t go out. His nephew had to be supplying him with blood, or he himself was the food source for his grandpa. A select few believed the old man doesn’t even exist and until now, he had been just a ghost but finally he found peace so he wasn’t haunting around anymore.

Jane was thinking about how this rumor changed constantly from man to man, from woman to woman. How everyone tells the story his way, changing some details for his amusement, or just because that is what he believed was the truth. This is the thing with gossip, you never really know what is true and what isn’t.

As she approached her house she gathered up the courage for what she wanted to do next. The gossip has been going around for some time and Jane was fed up with all these phantasmagorical ideas. She didn’t see Mike as a criminal. Even though they never had a single conversation he seemed like a nice guy and always smiled towards her. The tea had to wait. First, she had to prove to everyone that the rumor was fake.

She knocked on the door. Twice. Her hands were shivering but Jane couldn’t tell if it was for the cold or because she was scared. Soon, the big door opened and on the other side stood a man in his late 30’s. He had dirty blond hair and a scruffy beard. Mike was good-looking but he couldn’t be described as handsome. His brown eyes widened at the sight of Jane. For a moment he seemed unsure whether to shut the door in her face or hear what she had to say. “Jane, right? What are you doing here?” “Hi! Yes, it’s Jane. I wanted to ask you something.” She paused briefly then continued: “Would you mind if we went inside?” She didn’t plan to stay but the hot air inside the house was just too inviting. Mike nodded shortly then led her to the living room. There was no sight of Mr. Allen. Well, maybe he was asleep. This didn’t seem like a house where a gruesome murder took place. Everything was clean and neat, with no dust to be seen and the temperature was too high for a body not to rot.

“What’s up?”, asked Mike after they seated themselves on the sofa.

And then Jane asked the million-dollar question with no hesitation: “I guess you’ve heard the rumor about Mr. Allen. And I just want to say I don’t believe any of it. But I still want to know the truth. Why is your grandfather not coming out of the house? What’s going on?” Mike seemed like he was prepared for this question. “Well, you see… There is nothing fishy going around here. My grandpa is just on vacation.” Vacation? This was such a simple explanation. How did no one consider this? Jane felt so dumb at that moment. Of course, he probably fled from the icy cold here and went somewhere like the Bahamas. He had the money after all.

“Wow, that makes sense. It’s just weird he didn’t tell anyone.” All of a sudden a laughter crisis took over Jane. “I’m sorry, it’s just so funny how everyone painted this murder mystery around you and your grandpa when he just went on vacation. But why didn’t you tell anyone? Did you like being considered the black sheep of our community?”

Mike seemed surprised. “No one asked me except for the police.” That was plausible. Everyone was inclined to believe the gossip rather than know the truth.

“So where exactly did he go? Is it someplace sunny? And how long is he going to stay there?” “I already told all this to the police, I don’t need to tell you too.” He was slowly getting irritated. Jane felt like she pushed too hard. Mr. Allen has always been private with his life.

“Oh no, of course. Sorry, I was just curious. Well, thanks for making things clear. I’ll go now. I can’t wait to tell everyone that all the rumors are fake!” She was just about to head for the front door when she remembered she was out of eggs. “Could I borrow some eggs if that’s alright with you?” Mike forced a smile: “Sure, I’ll bring them to you”. He went into the kitchen.

Jane thought about how unfair the people had been with Mike. They believed him a criminal when in fact his uncle was just taking a holiday. Jane would try to apologize to him on behalf of everyone. She decided to bake him a cake. But she was also low on flour. Well, it was going to be a cake baked with half of Mike’s food. Jane hurried after Mike to ask for some flour too. Mike was at the refrigerator door. Red ketchup spots stained the walls of the fridge.

“I could help you get rid of those ketchup spots if you wanted. I have this really good cleaning spray.” At hearing Jane talk, Mike turned around as if he had been electrified. Anger was building up in his eyes. Jane took a step back. “Are you alright?”, she asked.

“No, I’m not alright. Why did you have to come here? I managed to fool the police but only because they knew that all the gossip in this town is fake! And now you came here wanting to find out the truth. You want to know the truth? Some rumors are true. Even if they are exaggerated there is a seed of truth in every little rumor.” “What are you trying to say?” Jane looked bewildered at the man in front of her, the man at the center of the most notorious rumor of the town. But rumors are just lies. Right?

“What they say is true, I killed my grandpa and I stuffed him right here in my refrigerator until I had the time to dispose of the body. The police were so eager to demonstrate that the rumors about the murder were false that they bought all I told them. They didn’t even check if the old man was really in the Maldives. People don’t trust gossip at all nowadays. Well, lucky for me.”

Jane was trembling all over. She needed to get out. But there was no escape. She was frozen in place. It was like she was standing naked outside in the cold. Like she was slowly transforming into an ice sculpture. Into a dead body. “Looks like I have to take care of you too, now. I’ll wonder what rumor the people will spread about what happened to you next.”


I heard about Dad’s death from the news. It’s not the way most people hear about that sort of thing, but it’s exactly how I expected to find out. His face has been staring out from every available screen since then, people thronging around them like flies to honey. I’ve seen tears. Real tears. Tears from people who probably hadn’t even shared the same air with him. Strangers kneeling in the streets and sobbing into jacket sleeves and newspapers as reporters all over the world scramble to write the best coverage of such a miraculous man.

Those words scratch like needles in my ears every time I catch them. Hero. Inspiration. The man who truly had everything. Every corner I turn, there he is; picture after picture of his success. His boats, his art, his houses, all smushed together to some god-awful pop song so every soul on the planet can remember this man with his perfect fucking life and his perfect fucking family. Every single one ended exactly the same way- “Hard to believe this brand worth billions all started from an idea formed in an alley behind his local pub.”

And you too could be so lucky! Just follow his story and even a random nobody like yourself can have more wealth than a small country and the ability to fly to space if you just really buckle down. Work hard. Dream harder. I’d seen his twee little catchphrase plastered on everything from t-shirts to bumper stickers. Hell, even I’d done my share of thirteen hour shifts printing those letters when I was really desperate for cash. Every hour on the hour his face would pop up on an automated screen above us, smiling down like some malevolent God and telling us how we were such integral cogs in his machine. People would clap without fail every time, rolling their eyes when I laughed. “Some people just don’t want to be better.” I quit on the spot after that. My own tears for that man had dried up decades ago. The few people that know me properly hadn’t dared ask how I felt after it happened. I know my face hadn’t changed when the details of the accident were released, how some bad winds plummeted his jet taking his wife and children with him. There wasn’t an ounce of feeling I could dredge up, just a black spot in my mind where the sympathy should be.

The rest of the world seemed to have that covered anyway. Anguish and praise overflowed like the champagne, people messy and drunk on the golden legacy he’d left in the dust of his accident.

It almost made me laugh at how absurdly perfect it was. A man from nowhere and through nothing but the sweat on his brow he built himself a golden palace of success. And then he died- both young and tragically.

Frankly, it was genius. Makes me wonder if that bastard planned it somehow. Now there wasn’t a single blemish anyone could ever muster to tarnish his fantasy. The fantasy that was apparently my duty to keep alive now. *** I was high when the members of his board finally got to me. I don’t remember the conversation, but a hotel bed sounded a lot better than the tarmac of the playground I’d been crashing on for god-knows how long. I’ve been pretty much confined to his gaudy suite ever since. If I open my door a crack, I can still hear the suits next door frantically arguing about how they’re going to clean me up enough for the funeral and keep the idea of this ‘family business’ alive. I fish my last pack of ciggs from my bag and head out the service exit. I can still hear the crowd waiting out the front, desperate to catch a glimpse of his “secret successor.” I cringe at the title, like I was some covert backup plan he’d hidden all along. I could run out onto the street right now and scream about what a shit he was and it still wouldn’t matter. How he’d erected a wall stronger than any fortress in his mind so he could pretend life before his first success never existed. So much so that he didn’t even dane to show his face at my mother’s funeral. It’s already dark as I duck into a loading bay round the back. It’s become a bit of a safe haven over the last few days, the mismatched walls and grey faces of the staff a bit more my speed. I instantly regret not bringing my jacket as the chill of the January night bites into my exposed skin. Pulling my shirt tighter around my torso, I sweep a fine layer of snow off an old moving palette and sit down, glad to be out of his hotel for a moment. No. My hotel? The thought still makes my head spin. I thought I could just cut myself a cheque and run from this circus, but apparently that wasn’t how it was going to work.

Now I have to be the good little puppet and play my part for him.

“Light?” I flinch at how close the voice is from me. Turning to the side, I see someone else leaning in my dark little corner, holding a small lighter out towards me.

I blink a few times, very sure I was alone when I sat down. The man doesn’t budge as I silently look around, not a footprint to be seen in the snow around us. When I look back, he’s moved closer, his face just a fraction too near. I’m not sure if I’m meant to recognise him as one of the countless execs I’d talked to over the past few days, but nothing about him is familiar. His face seems almost impossibly old, the pale sag of his cheeks tracked with dozens of deep lines like the work of an eager cat on a sanded scratching post. A pair of small dark eyes watch me intensely, both shaking like skittering beetles in their sockets as I stay rooted to the palette.

He’s wrapped in a black pea coat that looks like it cost more than the room I’m staying in, but it’s doing little to hide the wiry frame underneath. His stance almost reminds me of the house plants my mother stopped watering after everything happened- sad and impossibly fragile. He keeps his hand extended as I eye him, his self-assured smile not faltering. “Just looks like you could really use one,” he continues, eyes flicking down to the cigarette dangling from my lips. There’s no doubt to the sandpapery rasp of his voice, no award tiptoe to his expression like all the other stuffed shirts had whenever they were forced to talk to me. I push the cig further into my mouth, leaning forward a little so his face flashes red and orange through the flame. “Uh- sure.” My nose wrinkles as his wrist brushes closer, the smell from his coat almost overpowering in its intensity- some unsettlingly savoury mix like ash and tanned leather. He leans away after it’s lit, pulling his own pack from the pocket of his coat. “Should you really be smoking at your age?” I mumble, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke in front of me. He laughs. It grates like a failing car engine. “Should you?”

I give a curt smile as he lights his own cigarette, turning away to look at the uneven stonework of the wall. I can almost feel his gaze lingering on me as I inhale again, like a cold hand on the back of my neck. His expression is the same cool smirk as I turn back, the lighter flipping idly between his gloved fingers.

“Lot of people would kill to be in your position right now, you know?”

My anger is sharp at the words but I keep still. “I’m am really not in the fucking mood to talk about that,” I mumur, each word spitting out a puff of chilled fog. The man shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’m not with that lot out front. I’m just in town for the funeral.” He taps the ash from the end of his cigarette almost rhythmically. “Unlike them I actually knew him.” I raise an eyebrow. “Old friend?” “Business partner actually. I’m mainly back to collect something he owes me.”

I sigh, shifting against the uncomfortable wood of the palette. “Bit late for that I think.” “Oh no. I’m right on time.” The soft arrogance of his words shoot an uncomfortable shiver through me, something much colder than the chill seeping through my shoes. I smile awkwardly again as I stand, hoping the alley towards the kitchen would afford me a bit more peace and quiet. “You know, he was the most insufferable little shit when I met him.”

I pause at his words. People never had anything bad to say about that world’s golden boy. Even my mother refused, her anger slowly eating her from the inside out until she all but disintegrated like chalk in front of me. “Pretty sure he was the same when he died,” he continues smoothly. “When I met him, he asked if I could give him the life he was owed.” I almost choke on the laugh caught in my throat. There’s no humour to it. “Well he got it,” I say quietly, wincing as my fingernails dig red little crescents into my palm. A light flashes through a window on the opposite wall, the man’s shadow casting pointed and long for a brief moment. “You really think he was owed it?” Owed it. Like that fucker was owed anything I barely remember the life when he was still around. There are moments, pinpricks from my childhood I’ve tried to burn away with as much alcohol as I could get my hands on: the wet smell of the carpet, a dining table that didn’t stand quite right, the feel of my pillow pressed over my face to drown out the voices that raged like a wildfire downstairs.

After is much more clear. I’d known it was a good day when I’d wake up to sandwiches in the kitchen. Days like that, Mum would usually be sober enough to drive me to school or to the park, sometimes she’d even press the last of her spare change into my palm for an ice cream so she could lay down in the grass to help with her headaches. On the bad days though... I drop my cigarette and smash it firmly under my feet. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.” I hope the flint in my voices signals clearly enough that the conversation is over “Well it’s all yours now anyway.” He stands upright from the wall, regarding me with those

manically sparkling eyes. “All that wealth, fame, love. Nice to have, isn’t it?”

I laugh coldly. “I don’t want anything to do with that piece of shit.” He shrugs, dropping his own cigarette. “Well then. Burn it all,” he continues casually. “Liquidate everything. Tank his empire and walk away.” It takes me a second to process his words. I’d never even thought of that as a possibility. Every one of his drones had just pushed the same recycled spiel about the number of zeroes that could add to my bank account if I just read from their little script. I swallow. “Is that even possible?”

He pulls a black handkerchief from his pocket and carefully brushes the corner of his mouth. “Oh definitely. And I can help you either way.” I feel the wind pick up around us as he stares me down, that same pungent ugly scent now fanning coldly into my face. I take a definite step back. “Who… are you?” “I told you. I’m just a business partner.” His smile lingers on me for a second more before he quickly turns on his heels. “Decide what you want and come find me. Those leeches on the board won’t touch you until I say so.” His words hover in the air long after he’s disappeared towards the street. I turn them over in my mind as I make my way back to my room until I’m sure I’ve worn them through. I could do it. I could take every ill-gotten gain that bastard accrued and destroy it right in front of every slack-jawed bootlicker that followed him. I feel myself smile against my pillow a little. No money, no company- sure it would be some kind of cruel act to take all those jobs but somehow it didn’t dull the sweet vision of imagining the torment on my father’s face in whatever corner of hell he’s rotting in. As I roll over, I feel sharp pain shoot from my back tooth like I’d just touched a live wire. I convulse in pain, grunting in the dark as I root through the bedside drawer for the new bottle of painkillers. I pause for a second as I swallow down two pills raw. The ache had been getting steadily worse for the past few months, only now had I been able to actually get someone to look at them. Flicking on the lamp, I look at myself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. Something about the reflected image just seems all wrong. The duvet is pristine, the wallpaper shining and gold, the flowers on the bedside table fresh. And then there was me right in the middle, as tattered and out of place as a stray dog on a velvet cushion. I immediately switch off the light and curl into a tighter ball. That money could actually give me a life, a real life. Before yesterday, I can barely remember the last time someone actually looked me in the eye. Now those same people who crossed the street wherever they saw me sleeping are ready to grovel at my feet for acclaim. I can’t deny how sickeningly good that feels too. I think about the papers that the board had pushed in front of me yesterday with some syrupy but stern words. Not a word about his past. All I’d have to do is roll over and take his name and everything else would be done for me. The thought is nauseating- but the thought of being treated as an actual person? Not so much. I haven’t been given a single kindness over the past twenty years, least of all from my father. Was it really so selfish to think I might be owed something ?

“He asked if I could give him the life he was owed.” I shut my eyes tighter, the pills finally taking the edge of the sharp ache in the mouth as I drift. What life was I owed? More importantly, what was I willing to do to get it? *** I turn the printed eulogy over and over in my hands until the paper starts to feather. The service starts soon, but I’m ducked around the side of the funeral parlour, desperate to get away from the almost comically large group of mourners waiting by the gates. No one had dared to say a word to me, but I can still feel their eyes boring into me loud and hungry.

If one more person tells me what ‘a great man,’ my father was, then I’m going to break something. “Ready to send him off?” The rasp is instantly familiar. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say calmly, looking up to greet the old man standing a few feet away from me. He looks the same, save for the coat now opened to reveal a pristine crimson suit underneath. “Did you get what you came for?”

He chuckles. “Oh yes.” “So what was it?.”

“When we made our business arrangement, I told him I only wanted two things. One then and one I’d collect later.”

“What was the first?” He tilts his head, running a gloved finger against his thin bottom lip. “I wanted to hear out of his own mouth that he’d be perfectly okay knowing that thousands of people would crumble so he could climb. And if he said yes, there would never be another person who would ever beat him at his own game.” I exhale sharply through my nose. “He would have sold his soul for something like that.” The man’s face twists into a more crooked smile as he shakes his head. “You really think that man had a soul to sell in the first place?” I laugh softly. It’s a cold sound. “Not while I knew him.” Bell ringing peels through the air around us, causing the birds to erupt from the bare trees in a shifting black clump behind him. He gestures to the gate behind us, “I think it’s time for you to take your place.” I turn and watch the gates swing open, throngs of strangers trampling onto the grass with the same gusto as antsy shoppers waiting for Black Friday. I know they aren’t here for the service. It’s a strange feeling knowing who they’re really here for. I turn back to the man, my gut twisting a little as I do. “What did you really come back for?” The man raises a sparse eyebrow. “Tell me what you want to do about your own little predicament and I’ll tell you what it cost him.” The air tastes like ozone around us as he calmly folds his arms. I want to pretend, to at least try and look conflicted or hum and sigh as I watch the people stomp around the funeral ground with insatiable eyes and clinging hands. I don’t do any of that.

That man had his empire and I know exactly where that gaudy crown should go now. “Fine,” I say confidently, screwing the eulogy between my hands and looking straight into those unsettlingly black eyes. “Let’s deal.”


Redesigning people A lot of people say stupid things. Possibly because they don’t think before they talk, but more likely because they just can’t think that well. Stupidity takes a heavy toll on our economy and slows down scientific progress, because a lot of time has to be invested in trying to explain these concepts to people. Stupidity might even be increasing in numbers, because anybody can breed as much as they like. Stupid people are equally good at survival as smart people, and they often have more babies because they can’t think about consequences that well. Go visit a trailer park and see it with your own eyes. As a result, scientists have been retreating to their labs for many years already, to desperately search for a solution. And thank goodness they did. It’s called CRISPR, and because of CRISPR we may soon never have to face stupid people again. CRISPR is the technology of modifying genes and changing gene expression. Because stupidity is often embedded in our DNA, there is hope that we can soon apply this technique to patch up human kind. Some people may only need a bit of DNA polishing, others some chromosome cutting, whereas yet others might require complete gene destruction. CRISPR technology cannot only make stupidity past tense, but could also cure laziness, ugliness, or even smelliness. The possibilities are endless. Imagine that, never having to share an elevator with unpleasing people again! Even though CRISPR is still in it’s infancy, I’m gonna go ahead and thank the scientists. We owe them bigtime. Genetic modification has thus far only been applied to cure diseases. It can circumvent blindness, allergies, Alzheimer and many horrible illnesses that are currently untreatable. A very noble cause of course. But whenever it’s suggested that we can also use CRISPR to improve people who are perfectly healthy, it ends up in protests. It’s to do with ethics or something. But even though these protests can be loud, it’s nothing but background noise that will be silenced over time. History has always dealt with resistance, whether it was against machines, internet, democracy, or racial equality. Some individuals will always be afraid of change and rebel with a cause. Hopefully we can genetically filter that trait out too. Meanwhile, scientists quietly carry on while waiting for legislation to catch up. Once the path has been cleared for redesigning people, a bright future lies ahead. Depressed people will be happy, fat people will be slim, and untalented people will be successful. We will no longer waste our neurons on astrology and fortune tellers, but enlighten ourselves with logics instead. We will think quick, read fast, and remember thoroughly. By the time we’ve all become smart, we can finally agree on things and make collectively good decisions. There will never be another Donald Trump in the White House, no more Justin Bieber on the radio, and no longer El Chapo’s spreading fear. We will stop having lots of babies and start looking after our environment. Religion will be replaced by humanism, coals by solar power, and factory farming by animal rights. We will also agree that it’s best if women start ruling the world. Once women have taken over, the future will be even brighter. They will make the smart decision to genetically improve themselves slightly more than men. They will also adjust men to become less hairy and more submissive. Scientists might even find a gene that will allow men to understand emotions, although that may be a bit too far-fetched. What is realistic though is to start altering our electric brain waves. This technology already exists and is called transcranial magnetic stimulation. There is, again, some ethical jabbering going on, but once women have taken over they will give it the go-ahead. By altering the magnetic fields in our neurons, emotions and mood swings will no longer be a nuisance, and women can turn the men they have dealt with into the men they have dreamed of. They will cook, do the dishes, and forever be faithful. Despite all this greatness, there might be one pitfall. If we modify ourselves too successfully, or too extensively, we could unintentionally create a new species. Species designation is based on genetic distance, meaning that a tiger is different from a lion because the last time they shared an ancestor was 4.5 million years ago, and lots of DNA mutating went on since then. Chimpanzees ain’t humans because they’re genetically different, by only 2 percent. Point being is that it probably won’t take very long before redesigned people turn into a new species. Another tricky side to that is that not everyone will be able to afford CRISPR, or be given access to this technology at once. So realistically, there will soon be a time where redesigned people have to coexist with human people. This may raise a few complications. First of all, redesigned people could get irritated with human people because they think too slow, have a strong body odour, and illogical beliefs. They might start disassociating themselves and think of humans no different than gorillas and orangutans. Luckily for humans, redesigned people strongly believe in animal rights. Nonetheless, they’re also passionate about the environment, and any ecologist will tell you that overpopulation disrupts ecosystem stability. It’s safe to say that humans haven’t particularly been favouring biodiversity. Compare it to foxes, which were introduced to Australia and almost ate away all indigenous marsupials. Ecologists decided that there was only one right thing to do: the foxes had to go. Genetically modified ecologists might feel obliged to do the same, as long as humans died in a painless and humane way. This might sound harsh, but once redesigned people start controlling the human population, the future will be brightened even further. Because there were once 8 billion humans, that all had to eat, shit and drive cars, the world turned into a dirty and acid place. Humans could never think efficiently enough to clean up after themselves, replant trees, or vote against corrupt leaders. Instead, they ate too many cows, occupied themselves with Kardashians, and cared about designer clothes. There was so much human stupidity, genetically modified politicians had no choice but to intervene. In the future, Gucci bags, and Porsche cars will belong to natural history museums, and history museums only. Soon enough, redesigned people will be able to enjoy clean air, abundant fish stocks and queue-free super markets. They can go on holiday and experience safaris without heaps of other tourists. If they’re lucky, they get to see wild elephants, tigers, and humans. Yes, there will still be humans. They probably retreated back to little villages in the forest, where redesigned people make sure they’re safe and well-fed. Genetically modified anthropologists will have the time of their life observing these humans. They most likely still believe in supernatural things and concern themselves with appearances and something they call ‘love’. But as long as they’re happy and free, living in their own little world and small simple mind, there is no harm being done. Redesigned people can’t take all the credit, but humans will probably be a lot happier in the future than they’ve ever been in the past.


Murder! Murder! Murder! That is the word I most often hear in my line of work. People come walking through my door claiming a crime has been committed, begging me to solve it for them. They drop their coin on my table claiming they will pay any price, they beg and plead and threaten. Sometimes I say no, Most times I say yes though, I need the coin, it doesn’t pay to be stuck up.

     Many times the case is easy to solve, a loved one turns up passed out in a bar somewhere, sleeping it off in a dirty corner. Or a son has run off to the next town to be with his forbidden sweetheart. Murder, they all claim murder, a way of avoiding the monotonous answers to their own problems, but, as long as they pay it’s no skin off my nose.

     Every once in a while a case comes through that proves interesting, one such case came to me on a dreary day. A tall, cloaked man tromped into my office...the corner booth at Mel's bar and chow. He tracked mud across the floor, adding to the other trails of mud, that's all you ever get in this backwater town, mud. He sat across from me and stared from underneath a travel worn hood, wet from the perpetual drizzle happening outside.

       We sat in silence for quite a bit before I decided to start the conversation.  "Tell me your tale and I'll tell you the price." I leaned back and lit my pipe, the match illuminating a set of yellow eyes staring back at me. I acted casually but I admit his stare was becoming unnerving and I didn't like it, didn't like it one bit.

 "Murder." He growled.  "That's what they all say." I chuckled.  "Murder!" He snarled, slamming a gloved fist onto the table.

"Okay, okay," I placated, holding out my hand, "no need to get riled, tell me what happened."

He settled back in his chair still watching me with a shrouded gaze.

"Three nights ago," he grunted "found my nephew dead, murdered." "What do the authorities say?" I asked.

"Suicide." He sneered. "They don't know."

" Don't know what?" I questioned, he didn't answer.

"Murder." He repeated, leaning towards me and staring more intently. I set my pipe down, feeling a little disconcerted.

"Yes, as you said before. But if the constables have decided it's a suicide, you will have to give me a better reason to why you think it is murder." I told him, leaning forward to match his gaze. "There was a note." He growled, slamming a palm down on the table, underneath it was a slip of paper, he slid his hand back leaving the paper for me to take, I did so and examined it.

     It was a grungy, slip with strange symbols scrawled over it. I stared at it for a while, flipping it back and forth trying to understand what I was looking at. After a moment I slid the paper back across the table.  "What does it mean?" I asked. He didn't take the paper back.

"It means murder. We need you to find out who." He slid a large pouch across the table to me, it's sides distended with coins. "Three days." He stood up,I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

"Why three days? How was he killed? What's his name!?" He stared down at me.

"West Shire, 4th house on Brewer lane." His guttural one line was muttered as he turned from me and stomped his way out of the bar, it was then that I noticed the tail. I admit I shuddered a little, the wolf people are not usually ones who ask for help. Neither are they people you want to cross. I safely tucked the coins under my cloak and stood up,

I had three days to come up with some answers, I knew I couldn't do it alone, it was time to assemble my team.

    First off I headed to the house of my greatest friend and helper. Weasy, an eccentric little goblin who, while a sneaky little asshole, who would steal the cloak off your back if he thought he could get away with it, was the greatest information finder in all the seven kingdoms. I knew without a doubt he would be able to find out everything I needed to know.

    Then I needed a tracker, someone who could follow whatever clues we found at the house of the alleged crime. This was a job for Mira. She talks way to much, and has a tendency towards being a ditz but when you get her to focus there is nothing she can't find.

  Finally I needed someone with connections. A crime scene that has already been inspected by a constable will almost be impossible to get into, and seeing the body will be even more so, but with the right connections you can get in anywhere. That's where Zolo comes in, the worst of all snobs, but like most elves his sense of honor is deep, I saved his life now he gives me his services, which in this case means all his connections.

 With my team together, for better or worse, we set off to solve a mystery.

Day one:  First things first, we needed more information. Such as; who was the victim? how was he killed? And where was West shire?

 Weasy spent most of the day doing what he does, to find out what we needed. He showed up at my place as I was putting supper on the table. He helped himself to bread and stew.

  "What did you find out Weasy?" I couldn't help but feel a tad bit impatient. Usually at this stage of the game I had enough information to start my own investigation, but this case had nothing for me yet, meaning I had to wait on my comrades.

  "A lot." He told me around a mouthful of food. "Our victim died three days ago." "Name?" I interrupted, Weasy glared at me and tore off another bite of bread deliberately taking his time to chew and swallow before answering.  "Charles Lambobby." Weasy said. " That's not a very wolfish name." I speculated. " He wasn't a wolf, he was a Satyr." Weasy told me triumphantly. " A Satyr?" I felt confused, my wolf friend had said the victim had been his nephew, how was it that his nephew was a Satyr. I shook my head, that was further into wolf business then I wanted to go.

"What else did you find?" Weasy had finished his meal and was now licking out his bowl. He paused long enough to answer. "West Shire is the name of Grungs,the wolf town, you can get there in half a day if you ride hard."

  Grungs was what everyone called the Wolf headquarters. Grung being the name of their overlord, a mob type leader who ruled by fear, blood and a constantly changing set of rules. We had all called it Grungs for so long I guess I never realized it had any other name.

" You sure you want to take this case Gwenwé?" Weasy asked me seriously. "Anything dealing with the wolves is shady and bad business." "I don't think I have a choice." I admitted. I hadn't gotten the impression that no was an acceptable response to the interview, in any case, I had taken the coin and started the search, it was too late to back out now.

 "I'm going to head out with Mira and Zolo tonight. You coming with us?" The little Goblin shook his head emphatically.

 "Goblins and wolves get along worse than cats and dogs. There's no way I'm showing my face in a whole town of them."      We were ready to leave in a couple of hours. It was dark by then but the road was pretty straight forward and with the time constraint we were on, I didn't have the time to wait till morning to travel.

Day two:     Dawn had broken when we rode into West Shire. We made our way to a travelers inn, got our horses settled in the stable and went to see about some food.

    The dining room of the inn was nearly empty, a few stragglers hunched over their ale. A tired looking woman came to take our orders, her wolf ears poking up through her hat, a layer of grey fur covering her fingers. When the barmaid had walked away Mira leaned over, "A half breed." She whispered to me her wings quivering a little. "I'm surprised Grung allows such things." She scoffed. I was a little less surprised.    After finishing our breakfast Zolo headed off to visit with his connections, he vaguely mentioned knowing someone in the Mayor’s office. Zolo never gave us details about his connections, as long as I get what I need he can keep his secrets.

     Mira and I decided to visit the house where the crime had taken place, we had little hope that we would get inside. As we suspected the doors were locked, we walked around outside, Mira doing her thing and examining different things in the dirt and on the windowsills.

  “There’s nothing here.” She told me fluttering down from the window. “I’m going to go talk to the constable, see if I can see the body.” She headed into town, I lingered at the house, I had some thoughts, but I wasn’t sure about any of them yet.

    Zolo came through as he usually does, he got Mira access to the corpse, she did her search but didn’t come up with any leads. The only thing she could tell me was that while Lambobby mostly resembled a Satyr with his goat hooves and horns, he also had a few characteristics that showed him to be part wolf. Zolo informed me that the halfbreed was a runner for the Council of wolves, collecting taxes and protection fees from the various business owners around town.   We all reconvened at the tavern and talked over dinner.   “Tomorrow is the last day.” Zolo said, “We have nothing of real value to solve this case. We need more time.”   “We will sleep on it tonight and tomorrow will bring what it brings.” I said, I wasn’t feeling too concerned, “I have some leads, I just need to figure out how they all fit together.” I was fairly optimistic as to what tomorrow would bring. My friends were skeptical but we all headed to bed to sleep on it.

Day three:   In the morning I woke to find the cloaked man waiting outside for us. His hood was thrown back revealing his canine snout.  “That wasn’t three days!” Mira fretted, flitting back and forth from the window to me. “What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?”   “Let me handle it.” I told her calmly, putting on my cloak. They followed me outside.

On the street I stood face to face with the giant wolf man. He didn’t speak, so I took it upon myself to begin. “Goodmorning...” I paused realizing I still didn’t know what to call him. “Zerók.” He growled. “Good morning Zerók, I suppose you are here for answers?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Well we have some.” I told him confidently. “I admit when you first came to me I was intrigued, but then we got here and we began learning a few things that left me a little baffled. Why would a member of the council hire a hick town detective to solve their problems? And why would any one dare kill a personal messenger of the council?” I paused watching Zerók for any reaction, he didn’t give me any, his yellow eyes just watched, a heavy frown on his face. “Then I began to think, it wasn’t a matter of who wanted Charles dead, it was a question of who would dare cross the council. That list doesn’t exist, not in this town anyway, the only ones who would kill Charles Lambobby would be the council itself.    “So the council were the ones who put out he kill order?” Mira asked, Zerók glared at me, I felt a chill move down my spine, but I maintained a neutral face.

  “I think that the council did put out a kill order.” I said, but I think that when they got there Charles was already dead.” I maintained eye contact with Zerók, not an easy thing to do with a wolf man. “He's not your nephew is he? You were his assassin, finding him dead didn’t make you very happy did it?” I asked him. He didn’t acknowledge the question, I knew I was right.

“Why did they hire you f they wanted him dead?” Zolo asked raising one delicate eyebrow, obviously disbelieving my theory.  “The council didn't hire us.” I told him. "Zerók did. I don't think the council could have cared less, long as who they wanted dead was dead. It was Zerók who was miffed that he didn't get to make the kill."  “Who did it then?” Mira asked perplexed. “A disgruntled lover I think.” I said keeping an eye on Zerók. “Satyr’s are known for their promiscuity.” I said lightly. “Doubtful that we will ever find out who.” Zerók growled low under his breath.  “We hired you to find out who.” He threatened.

 “Yes, you hired me to find out who had killed your nephew, but come to find out, he was not your nephew and you were trying to kill him yourself.” I said, my hand clutching the knife I had hidden under my cloak. “There is not enough evidence to find out who killed him. I did my best.” The wolf man stared at me, his brows lowered.

 “I knew this waste of time.” He grumbled. “A waste of money. Our business is done.” He said. “Leave town tonight, never show your useless face back here.” He told me, spitting at my feet.” He stomped away leaving us alone. I let out a slow breath, trying to calm my heart beat.  “Let’s go.” I told my comrades, “before he changes his mind and we are left dead in an alley somewhere.”    It wasn’t until we were on our horses and a good few miles away from Grunds that Mira spoke.   “You know who did it don’t you?” She asked me. I rode silently for a few moments.  “Yes.” I admitted.  “What?” Zolo gasped, coming alongside us. “Who?” “The barmaid.” I told them.  “The half breed one?” Mira frowned at me. “Why her? How do you know?”

“It’s quite simple actually.” I told them nonchalantly. “ She told me.” “Spill it Gwenwé!” Mira demanded. “No more of your cryptic answers, tell us the story plainly.” I gave in and began my answer.  “It was the paper that Zerók gave me in the beginning. The one with the strange symbols on it. I had no idea what they were, and to be honest I had forgotten all about the paper, until we arrived in Grungs. When we went to the inn there were two Satyrs sitting beside us at the next table, I noticed when they got their tab it was written in the same symbols as our mystery paper. The killer left Charles’ bartab on his corpse.”   “How would the council not have figured that out?” Zolo interrupted, he always questioned my answers, always doubted my intellect.

  “I don’t think the Wolves had ever been in that tavern. It was a human establishment, more or less, they collected their taxes and their protection fees, but Charles is the one who collected those, other than him I don’t think a single wolf has ever walked into that place. On top of that the council didn’t care about who killed Charles, they wouldn’t dig around trying to figure out the scrap of paper.”

 "Tell us the rest about the barmaid.” Zolo said impatiently.

  “Well after Mira went to check out the body, and you went off to talk to the Mayor I went back to the tavern, I showed the maid the paper and she confirmed it was the tab, I asked if she knew Charles Lambobby, she laughed in my face and then proceeded to tell me the whole story.”

“Of course I knew Charles Lambobby, everyone does. ‘Nuffin’ ever good came when he was around. He’d come in ‘ere demanding the taxes and other fees for them wolves, then that night he’d coome back spending our coin, getting drunk on the money we worked to make.” She spat on the ground, crossing her arms under her breasts. “He thought he was all that, all because his mother was a wolf, tried so hard to be one of them. He came in here one night, bragging about how he had gotten himself on the counsel, I had ‘nough, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I waited until he had drunk himself crazy, followed him home and did him off. I don’t care who knows it, I tain’t ashamed, I’d do it again if given the chance.” “So how do you figure that Zerók hired us against the counsel’s wishes?” Zolo asked. “Well that is more of an assumption. First of all. Why would a council of Wolf people

connected to every aspect of the town hire a nobody from another town to solve their problem? Second why would they just let us walk away with their coin when we didn’t actually solve their case?” My comrades rode in silence for a little while, I couldn’t help but feel a little self satisfied, this case had tied itself up neatly.

 Murder! They all cry murder! I take what I can get and I solve what I can. Gwenwé, private detective at your service.


FOLLOWING THE CAT He stood on the sidewalk at the corner of the street. The matted reddish hair, the great green eyes, the head too big for the body. The stray cat had greeted him with an angry meow. “Poor kitty, you’re hungry” Peter had said, giving him a bite of the cheese and onion sandwich he was eating. That morning he had gotten up late and so he hadn’t been able to eat ( have) breakfast sitting at the table. The cat devoured the morsel and meowed, an imperious meow, as for an urgent request. Peter handed him another bite which the cat grab from his hands, swallowing it. “ You’re really hungry, kitty,” Peter said, leaving the cat the rest of his sandwich. Peter continued on his way at a good pace but the cat run after him, grabbing him by the trousers, meowing angrily, and pulling Peter back. It seemed he ( the cat) had to say or ask him ( Peter) something of utmost urgency. Peter couldn’t get rid of the little animal. “ I can’t take you with me,” he said, trying to pick the cat up but he wriggled and jumped to the ground, still grabbing Peter by the trousers and meowing furiously. It really looked like the cat didn’t want to go with Peter, but rather wanted Peter to go with him. He, Peter, was almost irritated but also intrigued. So he decided he would follow that strange cat. Who knows where he would have taken him? It seemed to Peter that this strange cat wanted to show him something. “ Okay, I’ll come WHERE you want to take me,” Peter said, his face near the muzzle of the cat, patting him on the head. The cat, which seemed to understand what he had said, meowed joyfully. “ I’ll call you Pippo,” Peter said. The cat, whether he understood his name or not, walked quickly up the sidewalk, after making sure Peter was following him. Pippo scampered quickly down the sidewalk, went from sidewalk to sidewalk, turned, slipping between the feet of the passers-by. Every now and then the cat looked back, turning his head, to make sure Peter was following. Then, each time he meowed with a determined and triumphant meow as if to say to Peter that here, he was fine, that’s how he had to keep doing: go after him. After a fairly long journey, Pippo left the town and started walking along a country road that led to a few old houses on a small hill, not even a village. On the small hill, there was also an old church where Mass only rarely was celebrated. Pippo headed straight toward the church and entered defiantly, pushing the door with his muzzle. It seemed to be a place that was familiar to him. Entering the church, where there was only an old woman kneeling in front of the altar, the cat meowed imperiously and tugged Peter’s trousers again. He wanted Peter to follow him, He ordered Peter to follow him. On one side of the altar, there was a confessional. Pippo began to rub against the confessional, meowing. And he tried, pushing its walls with his muzzle and paws, to open the confessional. Peter was embarrassed, to say the least, and he was going to come out of the church when the old woman kneeling in front of the altar stood up and approached him. “ Wait, wait for a moment, “ she said. “ Oh, excuse me, I’m so much sorry….This damned cat is disturbing this holy place….Excuse me” Peter said, all awed. The old woman smiled at him.  “This cat, if you knew…the cat is meowing because he wants to show you WHO is inside the confessional, but he can’t open it.” Peter was stunned, confused. How WHO’s inside the confessional? That he knew Inside the confessional had to be the confessor, but now there was no one to confess. The old woman opened the door of the confessional while Pippo continued to meow and fidget. A white cat with black patches, lying on one side, belly out ( up) , was suckling four little kittens. The cat and the kittens were in a wicker basket, inside the confessional. “ Here, isn’t wonderful? I think it’s a miracle!” The old woman said, looking at Peter radiantly, smiling. “It was this cat ___we call him Melindo ____who brought here the cat when she was pregnant and undernourished. Oh, she was all skin and bones! We cared for her and she gave us these magnificent puppies!” Peter was stunned, if even amazed, ecstatic. But how, the cat with her litter in the confessional! Did she stay there even during confessions? “ Oh, but no one confesses here anymore. We placed the cat inside the confessional because it’s a sheltered space, to assure the cat and her kittens to have a protected place.” That old woman was incredible! She kept talking about the need for a protected space for the cat and her puppies….But that was a church! Oh, the old woman told him, in the church, even if it remains a church in all respects____ it hadn’t been deconsecrated___ Mass was celebrated only for Christmas and Easter. Sometimes weddings, baptisms, and funerals were also held there but rarely.  “ Well, the ideal place to become a shelter for stray animals, perhaps a colony of cats,” Peter thought. Pippo, or Melindo, that was busy licking the puppies and the cat that nursed them started meowing furiously again when Peter walked away, heading for the exit. The cat seemed to want to keep him there in the church. As if there was more to show him.  “ Oh, our cat would like you to stay here, he doesn’t want you to leave. Isn’t good here? Isn’t a marvel, a miracle what happens in this church?” The old woman said, who spoke as in ecstasy, spellbound. Peter back in town couldn’t stop thinking about Pippo’s behavior when he was about to leave the church. The cat had pulled him by the trousers, scratched him, bit him. It just looked like Pippo did not want to let him go ( away). Of course, it was a strange cat….but perhaps, it occurred to Peter, there was something else in that church that the cat wanted him to see. During the night he dreamed of Pippo leading him to that church and bustling around the confessional. In the dream, it was he, Peter, who opened the confessional. The moment the confessional door opened he heard a solemn organ playing. Inside the confessional there was a young woman lying on the floor, her chest horribly open. It was following that dream that Peter remember in that church, several years earlier a girl, who had disappeared, had been seen for the last time. The 16-year-old girl, Lilly, had gone to the church for the wedding of a friend of hers. But at the end of the Mass, no one knew where she had gone. No one hadn’t seen her again. Peter, even if embarrassed and, above all, afraid of being taken for crazy, went to the police and told of the cat which had led him to that church. He told of the cat’s behavior that didn’t want him to leave the church. And he told of his dream. They looked at him suspiciously but they didn’t think he was crazy. The church was searched from top to bottom. In the attic of the church were found the remains of the girl who had disappeared several years ago.