And probably would be, if I was away on holidays in Europe, simply because I’ve always wanted to be in Belgium on a Tuesday just so I could use that line. Not going to happen in the immediate future, but maybe next year some time.
By the way, that line is out of a movie, but I’m not sure which one. Obviously, it wasn’t that great if I can’t remember it.
But…
Searching for locations for my stories takes a lot of time and effort, using Google Earth and other means like street view. Finding houses, or apartments required a great deal of real estate research, almost to the point of buying a property.
Is there any better way to see the street it’s in, the neighbors, the neighborhood, and inside the house and gardens. Almost as if you lived there, which of course you do in the story.
In reality, I’m in Canada on the trans-Canada highway heading towards Banff, on icy roads in winter. Yes, that’s where we were a few years ago in early January, getting a feel for the place, the roads, the weather, the people, and the places.
Cold, yes. Atmospheric, yes, exciting, double yes. Sometimes research is really fun, well, I don’t call it that, otherwise everyone else will think it was not the birthday treat that it was meant to be.
And was.
My wife’s 65th birthday was one she certainly will never forget.
So..,
Writing is proceeding better now that I’ve knuckled down. The Trans-Canada experience has been translated into a story attached to a photo and has been posted. It will also become a new episodic story, and will start now the helicopter crash story has ended.
The treasure hunt has taken shape, and there’s lots of twists and turns, with people yet to show their true colours. It always seems that way when there’s a fortune at stake. Evil lurks behind and under every rock, and people who were thought to be untrustworthy suddenly change for the better, and those whom you thought you could depend on, well, you know what happens when a fortune is involved.
And as for the helicopter crash and its aftermath, this finally has been brought to a conclusion, but not without a bit of heart stopping terror involved.
My other story, in war time Germany and Italy, is humming along, but it is about to hot up in the castle. Our defector is yet to get there, but, by the time he does, our hero is going to have to clean up both the rogue resistance, and treasonous soldiers. Sounds easy, but in reality, it’s going to be a lot tougher.
We shall see.
And the Being Inspired series just got to 140, and is nearly ready to be published.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
And I don’t know how I got here. I have a sneaking suspicion that I stepped through a portal, only I didn’t recognise it as one until I reached this side.
I say this side because the world I’m in now is not the world I remember from a while back, well, perhaps a year or so. Time passes very slowly here.
Before everything made sense, China didn’t hate us, and we had just finished touring some of the most remarkable sights of that very country.
There was no coronavirus and I didn’t fear for my life, and the fact I had a compromised immune system didn’t matter a hoot, except for the constant pain in my lower back and hands, the result of psoriatic arthritis going berserk as I get older.
My grandchildren were in school, alternately loving and hating it, and every Friday I would get one from school and she would tell me how her world was hell, and I had no idea what it was like.
Another would start all her sentences with ‘basically’, and the other would end hers with ‘like’.
I would lament the fact our schools no longer teach proper English, and we could sit around and talk about the YA novel I was writing for them, and that they were the characters in this mythical kingdom. And, yes, they are princesses, if not crotchety one day, and all smiles and goodness the next.
And, in an instant, that whole world was blown away.
Am I angry? I was. A year is too long to be mad at everyone and everything.
Have I a different outlook on life? Yes, I live every day as if it was my last, because the truth is, it just might be.
Can I travel anywhere? No. There’s too much risk in a world where few people under the age of 65 care about consequences.
Is there a reason to live? You may well ask.
I have thought about this often, lying awake in bed every morning, asking myself why I would bother getting up. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do very much.
But…
We have here an almost remarkable record in keeping the coronavirus at bay, so we have some freedom. WE can’t leave the country, and every other month a state or two closes its borders, so traveling outside the state is too risky. The schools are back, and I resumed pick-up duties last Friday, and, yes, the sweetness of the complaints about school life is like music to my ears.
Have I a reason to live? Yes. There are three girls, grandchildren, one 12, one 15, and one 18. The 12-year-old is in the first year of secondary school, the 15-year-old lamenting the fourth year of secondary school, and the 18-year-old is about to embark on the terrors of tertiary education. She can also drive herself, a shred of independence that has changed her outlook, going from child to someone more mature.
I hadn’t realized how much their lives were in such a constant state of change. Nor had I realized how much they prefer to tell me about it rather than their parents.
So, the answer to that deep and meaningful question is, is there a reason to live?
Yes. We can have so many things we think are essential to living our lives taken away, but in the end, they are all but superficial. You can lose a car, some of your mobility, a house, any sort of chattel, but they are insignificant. What matters most, and always will, is family. I’m lucky, and indeed, extremely grateful, to have mine so near.
Now I suppose I should be getting to bed. Tomorrow, I have just been informed, I’m rostered on in what is known as ‘poppy’s taxi’.
And ready to hear the next enthralling episode of school life these days.
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
Oh, to be back on a cargo ship with three other crew members and a robot that wasn’t trying to destroy ships and murder crew members.
On the cargo ship, the captain could hide in his or her cabin behind the bridge and never come out except to tell the robot he or she was doing a good job.
Sometimes you’d see the crew in the mess hall.
No major life-changing decisions. It was point A to point B without drama, hold-ups, or anything really.
Not like being the captain of a brand-new class of explorer’s vessels with over 2,000 crewmen on the outer edges of our galaxy, on the verge of being destroyed.
“So, for the benefit of a human without the resources of countless generations of knowledge, and experience of countless alien entities, who or what are you that can make such a life-changing decision? Especially after you said that we would be safe.”
“If you are inferring that I am a robot programmed to not look rationally at the pros and cons of any case you put to me, or that I am devoid of any empathy, you’re wrong. That I should make such a threat, in our experience, you humans tend to do one of two possible actions, you retaliate with violence, or you make a rational argument. As for who I am, I have a living body that requires nourishment and ages not unlike your own, hosting a fully cognisant member of our race. The only difference is that I do not appear in my true form, in deference to making your interaction simpler. I could take any one of a hundred different forms, depending on whom we hold discussions.”
That cleared several questions that had formed in my mind. This race was very advanced, being able to put their consciousness into another, or any, body. Did that mean they never died? Not the time to ask. The fact they had found a way to assess human reaction to stress, or life or death situations so simply showed they had been observing us a long time.
“We chose not to shoot first. You will see we might be at a battle state, but that’s only for our protection. You cannot hold us responsible for the actions of that other ship because as far as the whole of our planet is concerned, we were the first to come here, and as the first, our mission is not to shoot first and ask questions later, as much as it is to explore, and learn. The keyword is learning.”
“These are words, and our experiences with humans have taught us that what you say and what you do are quite often two entirely different things.”
My experience too, and it was an all too familiar scenario. I suspect that the motives of my masters might equally be received with some skeptics, because not everyone in the alliance was on the same page, and decisions were sometimes based on possible shifting alliances.
Space travel still had a gloss on it, and everyone was looking to get a seat at the table. I had no doubt my new friend, I’d I could call him that, would be equally aware of the situation, as it appeared he did, and it spoke volumes about the levels of their penetration in our world.
“I think, then, our best course of action is to prove we mean what we say. You were chasing that other vessel, the one you say the occupants committed crimes upon people in your galaxy.”
“They did. We were, but there was a measured reluctance on the part of the other crew members to pursue them beyond the limits of our galaxy. Exploration is one thing, an offense that might cause conflict is something else.”
So, they had problems with being the instigators of actions that might be misinterpreted.
“Then let us apprehend them, and we will render the justice together. I have no trouble bringing people who have criminal intentions to justice. I would prefer it to be ours, but for the sake of creating at least an initial relationship between our worlds, I will accept the responsibility.”
I could see Nancy looking at me with a look that would kill mortal men and understood her concern. This was going to be a tough sell all round
“It would be acceptable as a preliminary basis for discussions. My people would consider your input if or when any or all of those responsible for crimes were arraigned.”
Good enough, for the moment.
“Excellent. Now, could you lift the block you have on our communications so I can get the first officer on to finding where their ship is “
“You may have a hard job catching them. Their ship is, as far as we are aware, the fastest your galaxy has.”
“Not quite, but that’s a discussion for another day.”
The green bar on my communicator returned.
“Number one.”
A moment later he came back with, Sir, you are OK?”
“Fine. Have you been monitoring that Russian vessel?”
“Yes, sir. It’s about a half-hour from here.”
“Good. Ready the ship for pursuit. We have a few questions that need answering. I’ll explain more when I get back.”
“You can come with us, on our ship, or in yours. I will communicate your existence with my superiors, just not the fact you’ve infiltrated us in deference to your people if you want to get them out, or declare their presence, a situation we can control if you agree to sit down and talk about it. I suspect that they’ve been helping more than hindering, other than just keeping you informed of our progress.”
I didn’t get a smile, but that invisible change in expression was an interesting indicator.
“I’ll stay, we’ll follow discreetly. Your actions will be judged, Captain.”
“No pressure then. Could you send the names, or if not, photos, of the offenders? How many are there?”
“Six. We shall. Good luck.”
The next instant I was back on the deck of my own ship.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favor for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favor’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
Well, that’s his, and this is mine. Possession is 9 points of the law, or so they say.
What’s mine is mine and what’s his is mine. Sound like a divorce settlement? Sure is!
There are often a lot of arguments over the possession of goods, and who they belong to. Perhaps it’s best to own nothing, then no one can take it from you.
Sound like a lawyer contesting his own divorce? Probably.
But that’s not the only mine. Take for instance a land mine or a sea mine.
Devilish things to walk on, or brush up against. It spawned a new type of ship, a minesweeper, and I’ve read a few books about the exploits of those aboard, and how close they come to death when a ship hits one.
And land mines, the damage they can cause.
Then, of course, you can go underground, way underground, into a mine.
Gold in South Africa, coal in Wales, tin in Sumatra, copper in New Guinea.
And it doesn’t have to be underground. You can have an open cut mine, which accounts for a lot of coal mines in Australia.
Oddly, you can mine data, the sort that’s stored in databases on computers. I’ve done a bit of that in a former life.
You can mine talent,
Or you can mine bitcoin, but that’s a whole different ballgame, and everyone seems to be in on some sort of scam when it comes to bitcoin. It seems to me the only way you would make money out of bitcoin was to buy units the very first day it was released.
It’s not, and never will be, something I’ll dabble in.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
A chessboard of players
I sighed. Someone else who wasn’t who they seemed to be.
At a guess, it was a gun in my back. We were far enough away from anyone else for them to recognise what was happening.
“No need for whatever weapon you have in my back. I’m neither armed nor dangerous.”
“Why are you following me?”
Should I tell her the truth or tell her a lie. The latter would be the most expedient, but I needed to talk to her, so I went with the former.
“You know O’Connell.”
“Were you the one who attacked me?”
“I told you I meant you no harm. What happened to you wasn’t my fault.”
Whatever was in my back was no longer there, so I turned around to face her. She had changed her look since O’Connell’s flat, not only the change in hair colour and length but also the makeup, making it difficult for anyone to recognise her from a distance. I’d been lucky.
“What do you want with him?”
“More than likely the same as you. He made the mistake of thinking you were interested in him, but I suspect your assignment was to get close, and the flat next door was as close as you could get.”
“What are you babbling about? We were friends.”
“How often did he stay in that flat? Everything in it still has the price tag on it.”
“You’re loopy. I’m going now, and I suggest you don’t follow me again.”
“I know where you live remember. All I want is some answers.”
“There are no answers. He was a friend, that’s it. I’m going now.” She turned and started to walk away.
“If I know who you are, the chances are the others do too.”
She stopped. Interesting response. In her shoes, my first reaction, if I was an innocent person, would be to call for a policeman to have me taken away for assaulting her.
She turned and took two steps back towards me. “What are you talking about now?”
“O’Connell’s flat was like Marks and Spenser this morning. I came and found another woman claiming to live next door, named Josephine, unconscious on the floor, and I didn’t do it by the way. She works for a man named Nobbin, McConnell’s direct superior, and whom I think, indirectly I do too, and I suspect she was neutralised by another man named Severin.
“Whatever O’Connell was up to, there are a lot of people who want a missing USB with what I suspect is very interesting, and probably damaging information. You wouldn’t have it, by the way?”
“Who are you?”
“That’s what I’m not sure about. Like I said, I think I work for the same man whom O’Connell worked for, but before that, I worked with the people who had him killed for whatever was on the USB.” It sounded far more horrible out loud than it had a few seconds earlier in my head. God only knew what she was thinking about it. “Who do you work for, because a woman who can do the transformation you just did is either a call girl or an agent?” Another thought just occurred to me, a reason perhaps why she had changed her appearance so radically. “Your flat was searched too, wasn’t it?”
No need to answer yes or no. The look on her face was enough.
We ordered coffee and sat down. She was still very wary of me, but since I seemed to know, or presumed to know, what had happened, she was going to ask me some questions I wasn’t going to be able to answer.
And not because the answers were in the top-secret category, it was simply because I didn’t know.
“So,” I asked, “who do you work for?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“But you were either keeping O’Connell close company by insinuating yourself into his life, or you were maintaining some sort of surveillance.”
She was plating it close, and with a poker face. She was better at it than I was.
“Where is he, by the way?”
“Dead.”
“Dead?”
No mistaking that look of fear the flickered on her face, then disappear again into rocky granite.
“Dead. Seems he came across some information, and it caused his death. I was there shortly before he died, shot by a sniper, I think, and there was nothing I could do about it. Any idea what that information was?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but either way, if I did or I didn’t the answer would be the same, no. He told me he was a reporter, working on a really big story, and that he would have to go away for a few days. I knew that was his cover story.”
“Were you after that same information?”
“Probably, maybe, I don’t know. Our information was mostly conjecture, a profile built up by our research department, based on his travels, and sightings at a location we know is running a network of agents. The conclusion was that it was not one of ours, so I was assigned to find out exactly who they were.”
“O’Connell would not have told you.”
“Given the circumstances I find myself in, I’m beginning to think that. If you worked with him, then he was on the same side as you, so are you good or bad?”
That was a rather interesting question to be asking me at this late stage, and especially after she had told me basically what I needed to know, bar who she worked for, but that, I was beginning to think, was MI6.
“A rather silly question to ask, don’t you think? It stands to reason that if I was bad, then I would not have left you alive in O’Connell’s flat.”
“Not unless you wanted something from me and set this up as a trap.”
So that was the reason why she kept checking everyone she could see upstairs and monitoring the stairs to see who arrived and left. We were in the right spot to keep tabs on everyone. And I knew her gun wasn’t very far from her hand.
“Obviously you don’t have it, so my work is done here. I suggest you don’t go back to that flat.” I stood. “Your location and probably who you are is compromised. And two men and their attack dogs will be looking for you. Good luck with that.”
“Aren’t you one of those two men attack dog, by your own admission?”
“I’m new and not cynical enough to shoot people out of hand. You’re probably lucky in that regard. And if someone like me can find you, then think what a seasoned professional would be able to do. Have a nice life, what you have left of it.”
The story fleshed out for the second section, discussed in Point of View
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer, and the other man, a customer scared shitless.
The poor bastard was not the only one scared.
It was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave.
What had happened?
The shopkeeper laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.
There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. No more arguments, the shopkeeper was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.
This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money and could no longer pay for his supply, which had led them to this inevitable ending.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.
If Alphonse had thought his day was going to get any better after the delivery disaster earlier that day, he was wrong.
If he thought he could maintain his real business and his under the counter business with no one finding out, in that he was wrong too. He’s know, inevitably, some useless punk would come and do exactly what Simmo was doing.
It might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, but now it was not. The customer had heard the words, and given him ‘the look’. A drug addict telling the cops he was a dealer, it was his word against an unreliable addict, but this local chap, he had that air of respectability the cops would listen too.
Damn.
But he had to try and salvage the situation, there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, called the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Now, that remedy was off the table.
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. I’ve just dropped the bombshell we’re thinking of getting a dog.
So, the first response from him: Well, the last dog didn’t turn out so well, did it?
We didn’t tell him what happened to the dog, but maybe he’s psychic.
Or is that psycho?
Anyway, the last dog we had moved to my son’s place when he moved, and shortly after, broke his hip and had to be put down.
So I say, that dog moved when my son left. I don’t have any more sons living in, so that won’t be a problem.
It’s going to be a mistake.
Oh, how?
You know they all start out like soft furry balls, like cat’s I’ll admit, but then they grow up, and up, and up, and up. And eat you out of house and home. Not like us lovable cats, we stay small furry balls, and don’t eat all that much.
No, you’re just fussy, and it’s like hell on earth getting you to eat.
Then stop buying the cheap stuff.
Cheap? Cheap? That last lot of food cost an arm and a leg. At least with a dog, it will eat anything, including scraps from the table.
He gives me that condescending look reserved for people who think they own or know cats.
As you wish, my Lord.
Then he walks off, head in the air and tail swishing in annoyance.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 