Detonation (Trouble Part 9)

Still deafened by the shot, I looked around to find something that could be used as a weapon when a man wearing a mask broke through the door. He was holding the gun loosely so I took that as an opportunity to disarm him. He was being careless; it was obvious he assumed the first shot had been enough. My right fist connected with his jaw, while my left hand reached for the pistol. His loose grip easily broken, I grabbed the gun leveled it with his head and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty? What kind of hired gunman only has one bullet left in the clip? I tossed the gun aside, focusing all my attention to the gunman’s fist connecting with my nose. Stunned but not out of it yet, I reached for a lamp nearby, broke it on his head, and used the opportunity to grab my laptop and run out of my office. I noticed two well dressed men looking at me. They were out of their element in this office building, and too calm for the chaos that had just happened. The gunman wasn’t alone. I wasn’t about to stop on their account, maybe they had more than two bullets and without the cover of my door, I wasn’t too keen on my chances for survival. I ran through the corridor, turned a corner, and walked into an office. Everyone was panicking in there, and while they saw me, they did not slow me as I ran towards the back and the fire escape. I ended up in a back alley in time to see the goons step into their black sedan and drive off. I took a chance and rand towards the street to see their license plate. The car was a rental, but I still made a mental note of the license before running back in the alley. The street would obviously be watched so I should stick to places where another individual would stand out. Out of breath, I had reached a bike path. People looked at me funny, with my broken nose, the blood and sweat staining my shirt, and heavy respiration it made sense.

I followed the bike path for a while, and eventually docked in another back alley behind apartment buildings. I then sat down, and took the time to think. With Sarah dead and an attempt on my life, it was obvious Maddy’s “ex-husband” had a score to settle. I had no time to waste; I reached for my pocket to grab my cell phone. Empty. I would have to warn her in person. I took a deep breath, straightened my nose and then looked for something to cover up the blood soaked shirt. Thankfully, someone had left a load of laundry to dry outside, so I grabbed a t-shirt, cleaned my face and changed. I would deal with the cops once I had made sure Madeleine was safe. I walked towards our rendez-vous point.

Thirty minutes later, I was at the reception desk, sporting a black eye and bruising on my face. The employee was less than collaborative when I asked for Leslie Johnson, and called her to the reception rather than sending me up to her room. When she saw my face she was shocked, and brought me back to her room so that I could tend to my injuries. She turned on the TV as I was in the bathroom cleaning up. I walked out looking a little better, and explained to her what had happened. She broke down crying halfway through my story. I comforted her, she had had a much worse day than mine all things considered. She reached for the fridge, and got something to drink. I figured it would be time for me to call the police about the incident at my office, but halfway through dialing, something caught my attention on TV: footage of my escape through the office. I hung up the phone and paid attention to the announcer.

“We repeat, the suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Earlier today, the body of Sarah Blake was found earlier today at her apartment, shot by a gun that was found later in the day at the office of Philippe Stevens. Philippe, a private detective, is seen here fleeing his office where a shootout occurred earlier today. The weapon was found emptied, and there are signs of a struggle. Finger prints have confirmed that the weapon had been used by the detective and documents relevant to a lawsuit filed against him by Sarah Blake have been found at the scene of the crime...”

I was played like an amateur. Obviously the empty gun would be a trick; he held it so loosely to bait me in grabbing it. The false legal documents must have been part of the plan; they frame me as Sarah’s killer, and get the heat off of their backs. What kind of a hornet’s nest had I shaken up?

[Well, here is the latest segment. I feel that the last part may have pulled the trigger too soon but I couldn't quite keep padding the story, and obviously at this point the climax is approaching quickly. Then again, I may keep it up for a little while, if I get any ideas. ]

Repercussions (Trouble Part 9)

My phone rang, it was a name I hadn’t heard in quite some time, I answered happily, since Madeline had been one of my least boring customers: “Hey, Madeline, how’s it going? I didn’t...”

“Sarah’s dead... they... someone... She’s dead...”

“Calm down, how did she... tell me what happened?”

“I was coming home after getting something at the grocery store, the cops say there was a break in, she was shot. I... since I left my husband, I didn’t know who to call... Your phone number was the only one I could think of.”

It had been about six months since that day. I’d found evidence that her husband wasn’t even a real person. He hadn’t gotten a name change like I’d first suspected, Albert R. Thompson was a fake identity, created entirely. I still remember her shock that day.

“What do you mean, you quit? What the hell am I paying you for?” she shouted.

“You paid me to figure out everything your husband owns, the problem is, the man you married is simply a piece of paper. Even his marriage to you is a fabrication, if I keep poking around I’ll have evidence that Albert doesn’t exist, and only Frank is real, and Frank has not been married to you.”

After more discussion, she finally understood that she’d been played for a long time. She was angry, but she was also cornered. We decided it would be wiser for her to simply pack up and leave, looking deeper into this would be like poking a bee’s nest. I would simply contact the cops with my info anonymously, if I could point them in the right direction, the guys in blue can be quite useful. I still remember Madeline’s last visit here, I decided to give her a break since she wasn’t getting anything out of the divorce, and well, I had been abusing the expense account.

“I’m settled in with Sarah, thank you for your help, here’s the check for your fees. Thank you for the price, I feel I should be paying you more.”

“Well, I figure I failed at m y job. I couldn’t find anything that you could get out of this separation. I didn’t expect this to end this way.”
“Me neither, but I guess if I can’t get anything out of the divorce, I can get a good story out of your case. Thank you for the copy of your case notes, I think the juicier parts may come in handy when I feel like writing another novel. Well then, I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah, it’s probably for the best. Good luck with everything Madeline.”

“Thank you, and goodbye Phil, maybe I’ll call you again when I need a reality check with next novel.”

I smiled as she walked out of my office. That was five months ago. The police had started poking where I’d pointed them, and somehow Albert R. Thompson stopped existing. Then the investigation stopped. It was suspicious, but then again when they say “stopped” in the news they might just mean that details are no longer being shared. Madeline’s voice brought me back to the present.

“What should I do, I can’t go back in, I have nowhere to go.”

“Well, as superficial as it’s going to sound, I’d say first you should try to replace whatever they stole that you need for a daily life. Buy some clothes, and go rent a hotel room for a few days. Your apartment will be inaccessible during the investigation, and who knows what they took in the home invasion.”

“They didn’t take anything, I just can’t go in because the body... oh my god, Sarah...” Madeline broke into tears at this point. On the other hand I got this nasty feeling in my gut, something didn’t add up. Someone knocked at the door.

“Look, Maddy, I have to go. Here what you are going to do, go and withdraw all the money you can from your bank account, and then stop using any of your accounts and credit cards. There’s someone at the door here, I have to go, just go get the money, then go to the hotel on the corner of fifth and Bank, register under the name Leslie Johnson, I’ll contact you there.”

The knock at the door got insistent. Funny, I was sure I had left the door unlocked. As I was walking towards the door, I realized what they may have been after in that robbery: my case notes. I was almost at the door when I saw that it wasn’t locked, I got that nasty feeling in my stomach and dove for cover less than a second before the sound of a gun being fired shook my office.

[So, here it is, the long awaited continuation of the "Trouble" story. I figured that since we'd all been away from the story for a while, it would be only fair to have Phil be away from the story as well. Also, yes, he has a name now. The unnamed protagonist was getting old. I can't promise I will be regular in updating, I wish I could be but inspiration has been hard to come by, I've had this direction for the story in mind since last June, but I couldn't get it to stick on paper. Oh well, hope you can all forgive me.]

A Trail part 2 (Trouble Part 8)

Technology’s good in a way. However, it can easily be avoided if the person knows what they are doing. In this case the red light was on, the recorder had run out of space, and I would not have to worry about the cameras. I studied the setup carefully, noticed that it did not go to a phone line, and counted my blessings. I went back upstairs, ready to get to work. Opening the door to the office was easy, Madeline had the key. I took out my digital camera and started taking pictures, every angle, everything that was in there. I wanted to make sure I would put everything back in its proper location once I was done snooping around. Madeline smiled and pointed out that this was a smart trick, but that she could not use it in her stories, because of their setting. I smiled and politely answered that my father used to have an old Polaroid just for that.

The office was clean. Everything had a spot and everything was quite practical and logical, nothing like mine. It did make my job a lot easier. I took out my laptop and started scanning every document; it would be easier for me to look them over once I was back in my office. I also took pictures of everything I could find, date books, address books, even receipts from different companies. I also looked over the newspapers in the trash bin. There was an important clue in the business section: many stocks were highlighted. Always the same. I quickly went over the list and noticed that all the companies I had traced back to him were there, in addition to a few others that I had not looked at. This would prove useful when trying to establish everything he owned, as he may have shares in companies I did not know about. I foolishly dismissed the pack of cigarettes until Madeline pointed out that Albert did not smoke. I opened the pack. In it, there were small pieces of papers and a bunch of keys. They keys were numbered, like the papers. There were 14 keys, and 14 pieces of paper, each indicating what the key was for. They were for safety boxes in banks, lockers, mailboxes, and even rented storage. More importantly, the names under which these boxes had been rented were listed. Thompson had used 3 different names. Thompson was for the banks, Arthur Clarke for the mailboxes and Frank Bennett for everything else.

The two new names were not familiar in any way. He had been good at covering his tracks, too good. At this point, Madeline told me she wasn’t sure about what I had said earlier, but now she could not deny it, her husband was involved into something bigger than cheating. Looking over the cabinets one last time before putting everything back into place, I found a double bottom. From it I pulled out a small locked box. I grabbed my tools and opened it. Inside, there were some legal papers that were probably important, but what drew my attention were the pictures: wedding photos of Albert getting married to his mistress when they were both pretty young. There was also a wedding ring with the pictures. I carefully unfolded the legal papers, there was a wedding certificate, issued over 20 years ago, for Frank Bennett’s marriage to Samantha Mitchell.


[Yeah, it's kinda short, but at that point in the story, I felt that adding on would simply ruin the tension of that moment. The story is getting somewhere, I promise.]

First Hunt, part 2 (Under a Crimson Moon part 2)

After that first night of conscious hunting, I started dreading the following two days. I did not know much about what I had become, so I went with what popular culture told me. Three nights of brutal animal behaviour, and then 25 days of peace. When the second night came, I locked the door to my room, and did my best to tie myself up to avoid hurting anyone. When the moon rose in the distance, fear filled me. I wanted to remain human, to stop with the killings. But, some part of me buried deep inside wanted this to happen. I wanted to be unleashed and when this desire grew, I could feel my body changing. I pushed this back deep. I relaxed, and closed my eyes. When I woke up, I was still tied up to my bed. The sun was about to rise, and I realized something that should have been obvious at first: I was still tied and had no way to free myself. I would have to yell out so that my parents would come and help me.

As I was starting to worry about this, I realized that had I changed into an animal, I could have simply chewed out the rope I used. I figured I could try it anyway, before calling my parents and dealing with another awkward discussion. As I started gnawing at the rope, my teeth felt different, sharper and stronger. The rope gave out quickly. With a shudder, I slowly walked towards a mirror, expecting my face to have changed. Everything remained the same. I was still myself. However, my senses were sharper, I felt stronger, and my nails and teeth were sharper. It took me quite some time to realize what this actually meant, but now I know that the animal and the human in me are not quite so separate, when I am covered with fur and hunting, a human mind still guides me, and when I am moving around, there is still a greater part of animal than in the average person. Back then, all of this was quite confusing. After breakfast, I asked my parents if I could go around being grounded to go to the library and do some reading. After the initial shock, they agreed. I was supposed to start working at my summer job at the gas station the following day, and I wanted to figure this thing out before having to accept or refuse night shifts. I obviously explained to my parents that I wanted to do some reading about something one of my teachers had said. They later told me that they figured I was going to see a friend or something, but that I had been punished enough.

What I knew about my condition back then amounted to what TV had told me: the three nights around the full moon would make me change, I would hunt people I loved, and only silver could stop me. I decided to look in depth at what the older folklore was. I did waste some time getting used to looking around the library, it was something I had avoided most of my life. The first mentions of this condition date from the middle ages, but there don’t mention the three nights of full moon. The people affected were said to end up being hairier, my genes kept me pretty much free of body hair so far, and so any change on that aspect would be odd, but could be blame on growing up. The people supposedly affected were also more violent, preferred meat over vegetable, and had a better affinity with dogs and wolves. Every story, except radical re-imagining of this condition, mentioned that I would have had to be bitten. The public library did not have a vast selection of books on this topic, however there was an anthropologist that had written about this condition being the rationalisation for medieval societies to understand random acts of violence. A combination of mistrust of strangers, lack of understanding of psychology, and fear of wolves and wild beasts basically fused under the werewolf myth. Other books mentioned other transformation linked to spirituality and other animals, but it hardly felt compatible with what I had experienced.

The full moon connection was also tenuous at best, however as chance would have it, I found an article in a psychology magazine that seem to indicate that people acted up a bit more during full moons, listening a lot more to their instinct than their reason. Nothing made sense really, but I did find the right excuse to avoid working on full moon nights: I would pretend I had selenophobia. Back then it felt like a smart excuse, thankfully it would become a bit stronger after I would share my new fear with my parents. When I started sharing this, my mother told me she understood, considering what had happened in the woods the previous month. My parents offered to have me see a therapist, to at least talk about the death, as I was the close to her when she died, and they feared I would have some sort of survivor’s guilt. From that day on, until I understood more about my condition, I would simply flinch and react whenever I would see a moon, real or fake. It wasn’t hard, whenever I was reminded of the moon, I remembered the pale blue light on the warm ruby blood dripping on my fur, fangs, and claws. Every time that image came back to haunt me I shuddered. Was it remorse, fear, or satisfaction?

Tonight I would sneak out again, facing the moon once more.

[Sorry I did not update Trouble as I said I would. Sitting down t write a story was a bit harder than I expected. By Saturday, a new chapter will be added to trouble. I would like to think this post however reflects the experience I am gaining every time I write. I don't have to slow myself down as much, there will be more parts dealing with this first hunt, which is basically the character reflecting on how he came into term with what happened back then. I also won't follow any version of the mythology behind werewolves beyond the basics: humans who turn into wolf like creatures. This is linked to the lunar cycle, but I may try to take it in a new direction. This is probably why some versions chose the 3 nights of the full moon... A story can only get so slow, and with the idea of one night of full moon, the werewolf of these legends could have easily slipped unnoticed.

I also realize I seem to have issues with naming protagonists. I'll try and fix that in the near future. For Trouble, it seems to work, for this one, I will give him a name as soon as I can.]

First Hunt, part 1 (Under a Crimson Moon part 1)

It’s hard to understand. I doubt any one of you reading this is going to see me, us, as nothing more than cursed people. I don’t blame you. At first I was certain I was cursed. I contemplated a lot of things, and I very much hated myself for what I realised: I liked it. Every month, for a couple of days, I felt alive. And it was nothing like what I had known before. After the first year, I understood what had happened. And with every ounce of understanding I gained, I got control. Why am I writing this text now? Because I want everyone to know the truth. I can read the papers, I can see the cover-ups. I can see how these betray fear and misunderstanding. But now I will come clean, I will let the world know, and after that, the world will still tremble in fear. But this time, they will fear the right thing.

It all started 10 years ago. I was a young boy back then. Of course, you could not have told me that, teenagers like to believe they are anything but young kids. Looking back however, I was an idiot. And like all teenage idiot, I liked alcohol, parties, and doing whatever the hell I wanted. This lead me to this clearing in the woods behind the drive-in with a bunch of people I did not know, drinking whatever we manage to buy from employees who couldn’t care less about laws. So there we were, in the woods, getting drunk, and being stupid. That’s when I saw her. She was cute, she was drunk, and she was practically naked, so I did the only logical thing: I started flirting. That wasn’t accounting for the jock boyfriend who was also a mean drunk.

He started yelling, I started punching. I felt my nose break; I heard his ribs crack when I slugged him with a nearby log. At this point, the party was over, I didn’t care. My face hurt, and I was left alone with all the leftover alcohol from the party. So I kept on drinking. It numbed the pain, my senses, and I decided to sleep. I found a comfortable log, and dozed off. I wasn’t alone in the clearing when I fell asleep. When I woke up there was blood everywhere. No one else was there. My face no longer hurt, I was sure my nose was broke, but I managed to breath without any problems. Couldn’t say that much about the other person that slept here last night, he was missing an arm, among other things.

When the police was called, I was still quite busy throwing up. The report said that a rabid dog or some other animal had come in, saw the free human buffet and went for it. Back then I had just been lucky. I had puked before falling asleep; this most likely kept the animal away. The rest of the exam period was a bit uncomfortable. The big outdoor party planned after prom was moved indoors, everybody was sad, and everyone started avoiding me, as if by surviving, I had been responsible.

Three weeks after school was over, I started feeling restless. Something inside me wanted to go outside, run, climb, move, hunt. Being still grounded for the reckless use of alcohol and other stupidities, I had to sneak out. The moon was full, and it was bright. The light was revealing the true nature of things.

And this is the important part: the moon was just revealing the nature of everything. Trees that were part of the background of every day life became living beings in the night. The sky was no longer obscured by the light of a lying sun, it was dark, the stars were no longer hidden. Everything is different under the light of the moon, and I realized back then that I was changing. It was strange, at first I felt cold, naked, alone. Then I felt my heard pounding, my body became warmer, I felt my skin stretch. I took off my clothes. I did not need the artificial skin they provided; the moon would only tolerate my true skin. Finally, I felt my senses grow stronger. I could hear everything that was around me, I could smell flowers from yards away, and I could see through the night.
What happened next was a great source of torment in my early months. I smelled something, it smelled sweet, tasty, I had to go for it. I ran, the smell becoming stronger, and after reaching a small forest about 2 miles away from home, I caught up with what drew me there. It was a deer. It was sleeping, but I was inexperienced, and loud. Still not adjusted to the changes in my body, to the claws were nails used to be, I mad a lot of noise trying to sneak up. The deer woke up. It started running but what I lacked in subtlety, I made up in speed and force. I caught it, ripped it apart and devoured it. The blood, the flesh, the taste was wonderful. As I brought my fangs deeper in the deer’s flesh, I started remembering. The alcohol, the party, the girl. I was hunting that night, I was already hungry. And when I slept, I ate. The girl that died, the rabid animal, all the sadness. It was my fault.

And I liked it.

I revelled in the destruction, I swallowed the flesh, gnawed at the bones. I devoured the dear like I devoured that poor girl’s arm. Poor girl? I had amusing sentimentality back then. It was the natural order of the thing. I am predator, but back then, I still felt attachment to these preys. And as I looked up from the deer, and stared at the moon, the light slowly becoming pure crimson reminded me of that night, the month before, when I had done my job as predator. Every memory returned. I was made aware of how, after everyone left, I woke up. She was there, half naked, trying to rouse me up. She had managed to remove most of my clothes as I slept. Washing away the fumes of alcohol that were hindering my body, I got up, and then I got in. As this primordial act was taking place, I felt the effects of the moon on my body. The moonlight rushed into me as I was losing myself into her. Her screams of joy turned to screams of pain. She saw who I truly was, and under the moon, I realised that she was just made of meat. She stopped screaming as se saw my jaws slowly wrapping themselves around her arm. She cried; I could smell the salt of her tears. And I ripped her arm off of its socket. Her blood was delicious. It filled me up quite nicely. She tried to crawl away, but I caught her leg. She was crying, pleading with me using these words that sound so empty when you see their true origins. I licked her body, it was now covered in dirt, blood, tears, sweat. I saw her eyes fill with a darkness that was beyond fear. No sound left her mouth anymore, she understood.

I was predator, she was prey. Her neck became my next snack.

I sensed that the night was almost over, I ran home, put my cloths back on and went up the wall and through my window. I took off the cloths again, looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t quite sure what I was, but I felt I was no longer just human.

[Yes, I am starting another longer story. And yes, this is what I wanted "Lunarity"to be like, something more visceral, more primal. A story where the character is not one we want to identify with. I also wanted to bring something new to make up for the last few days where I did not post. I will try to post another chapter of Trouble as soon as I can sit down and write it, and I will try to add to this new project of mine. I think it's time I moved away from the ultra short stories, I think I have reached the limit of what I can do in these tiny fragments of a real story. Crimson Moon here is gonna run in parallel with Trouble, but I will try to write Trouble on Saturdays and Crimson on Wednesdays. I may do some other experiments with writing, but I will no longer delude myself in thinking these work as stories.]

A Trail part 1 (Trouble Part 7)

I was pondering where I should take this new train of thought, when the phone rang. I picked up, expecting my father to give me some new ideas that popped up in his mind. My instinct was wrong yet again, Madeleine had called me. She had news: apparently her husband was going on a business trip of some sort, three or four days on the old continent. She invited me over to look through his stuff. This would be a great opportunity to get more information, maybe get in his head a little. I asked Madeleine what airline he was flying, and I lucked out. I knew someone who worked for them at the airport. This case was starting to be a lot more than I expected, so I was fully prepared to pull in some favours all over town. I made arrangements to meet Madeleine two days later, and called my friend. No luck, it ended on his voice mail. Whatever, I left a message and hopefully he will pick it up before tomorrow. The promise of a nice bottle of wine should be enough to get him to help me. And since I was told cost was not an issue, I won’t end up with the bill.

After a day of relaxation, and laundry, I was ready to meet with Madeleine. I picked up a copy of all her books at a book store on the way over, I figured I might do a little extra for my father. On the way over, I started regretting doing this, she might see me as a star struck idiot. I was starting to feel like such a fool that I considered throwing the books out on the way from the bus stop to her place, but this was a nice neighbourhood that lacked in recycling bins on the streets. I was heading toward her place when I decided to check my messages yet again. My friend had not called me, and he was unreachable by all the means I had tried. When I reached her house, I remembered why I hated this neighbourhood. I guess you can never get used to the difference between the richest and poorest people in town. I rang at the gate, which opened almost instantly. Even under the rain, it was obvious the garden was well maintained, the grass was green and the flowers nice. Yet I could not help but think about how much space was wasted in this neighbourhood on houses with huge backyards with no one to enjoy them other than the people hired to maintain them.

I went up to the door, trying to forget my issues with this part of town, and knocked. She answered wearing simple clothes. She hadn’t been crying today, and she was much more attractive than last time I saw her. She also spotted the bag with the books and after greeting me, she asked while looking at them: “Learning a bit more about the client?” I had no choice but to explain that I had read her books before, and that I bought these hoping she would autograph them for my father. She smiled said it was not a problem, and asked what I thought about her view of the world of detectives. I politely explained that when I managed to stop being so critical of her outsider’s misconceptions, the books were actually entertaining. I also told her that it wasn’t her fault this type of job had been romanticised and that obviously a simple cheating spouse specialist like me would not provide much material for a novel.

She apologised for the state of the house, she casually mentioned she asked the cleaning service to come after my visit, that way I would see his office in its natural state, and it would cover my tracks a little better. If only all clients were that smart, I guess she does have the ability to think like one of us. Noticing a motion detector, I asked if their security system was linked to a station. She told me it wasn’t, the cop had come once by accident and Albert felt it was too much. I asked if he had any cameras in his office, and she said she did not think so. I decided to make sure of this before I would go in his office, she seemed curious at that idea. At that point, I felt it was my duty to tell her that I suspected her husband of being involved in some sort of fiscal evasion scheme or something worse. She first laughed, but then decided to ask about the evidence. She said we were in no rush, and that she would be offering dinner if I had to stay too late because of her questions. I decided to first look at the wiring for their security system, nanny-cams can watch a lot more than a babysitter, and a DVR would be easy to spot. I went downstairs, with a flashlight, but did a first inspection in the dark. I installed so many surveillance equipments, that I knew a bit what I was doing. And it turns out my instinct was right, there was a camera watching over a DVR in a locked box I managed to open on the first try. I would have hated to show my only client at the time that I had a hard time picking locks. Thankfully, I knew what type of setup he had, and I knew what to do to make it fail to see us snooping around. This particular brand had an extremely high default encoding rate, but a small hard disc, it was meant for day to day backups, and would certainly fill up quickly judging by the 6 video feeds it was receiving if it was on default settings. I also knew that these things went back to default setting after a loss of power unless you changed these defaults, so I simply went to the breaker box in the dark, killed the power to the DVR, unplugged the battery, and then reconnected everything and started the whole system. I then waited in the dark to see the little red light warning about the lack of space turn on.

[Again, I am slowing down my story. No sense in rushing it, right?]

Phone Call (Trouble part 6)

I waited until it was past 8 pm. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath and dialled. This would be the first time I would call my father asking for help since he left the business 7 years ago. It wasn’t pride that kept me from calling; it was that I never ended up in a case that warranted his assistance. The cases I had taken care of were simple, the request was simple, and the target was simple. I had to prove husbands and wives were cheating, employees were stealing, and people were on workman’s comp when they were clearly healthy. All it took was a camera, some patience, and people were quite quick into selling themselves out. This case, however, was something else.

Thompson had money. It was obvious by the few things he did own. The problem was that he left no traces anywhere of his money. It came in from many sources, all legit, but there was logic to these sources. He had some money in shipping, he had shares in a company that owned some buildings downtown, and the other shares of that company were partially owned by another company that reported to Thompson as well. I had talked with a friend more involved in the financial world, and while he wasn’t breaking any laws, it did not feel right for him as well. He had lots of money, but it wasn’t old money. He owned a lot of things, but mostly focused on companies that barely made a profit. He owned buildings entirely, but no one could see that because they were owned by companies he owned through other companies. In fact, if I had not spent about 6 hours reading financial records, I would still believe he was an average but lucky investor who made some good choices.

I had a list of questions I wanted to take care of, but I hadn’t talked to my father in a while, so I also wanted to take care of some civilities. When he answered, I started: “Hey dad, how’s it going? Still sunny in...”

“What’s the case about son?”

“What case, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” at this point, I wondered who contacted my father.

“Well, in the last seven years, you haven’t called on a Wednesday, you usually call much closer to 6 than 8, and Sherry called for the first time in years, saying something had made her think of me.”

“Well, I can’t really be surprised, you were quite the good detective back in the day,” at this point, I figured I should just tease him into helping me. “Familiar with the name Madeline Thompson?”

“The author, I love her books, is she in any kind of trouble?”

“Not really, her soon to be ex-husband is however. She asked me to make a list of all his assets. The problem is, the guy leaves as much of a trace as a snowflake in a blizzard.”

“Well, don’t go into too much details, you worry about those, tell me the big picture,” dad was still very much straight to the point, I missed that.

“Okay, big picture: I have pictures of him with a possible mistress, however, during lunch, they covertly exchanged briefcases. He owns small bits of many companies that are also partially owned by companies which also partially belong to him; so far I have a clear web of 20 to 30 companies each holding around 10% in some of the other companies, so that he becomes the only person owning all of these, but they all have various people hired to represent themselves on the boards, so that no one can clearly see that it’s all his,” as I was saying this, I realized how big this case actually was, we are talking about billions of dollars being moved around, and if it wasn’t for his wife, I would not be poking my nose in all the right spots.

“Well, I have a better idea why you called. This seems big; shouldn’t you be calling the feds on him?”

“Some laws may have been broken in obtaining this information, wouldn’t want to burn an informant with a big mouth. The other thing that bothers me is that what he does requires a high level of knowledge about business, but as far as I know, he hasn’t graduated from any universities in the country. He would also have needed a big amount of money to start his scheme, but there are no traces of that money as well.”

“Have you considered that he might not have always had that name?”

“Actually, I did, but there are no usual traces of a name change. He has a legit birth certificate, everything fits,” as I was saying this, I realized something but I felt like letting my father saying it.

“Laws have changed, so there might be some name changing involved, a simple way to get to where it started is to trace back the money to where it was before it was in this guy’s pockets. I can hear you thinking, I think you should look at the info you have from that new point of view. Also, you can always catch a cab and go to the companies in person. Sometimes, people who don’t know something is supposed to be secret will give you the info you need.”

“Thanks dad.”

“One last thing...”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me an autographed copy of Madeline’s “Walker in the Dark” book? It’s my favourite.”

[No comments really, I like the progress, and I have a better sense of how to get where I want to get.]

Honest Discussion 2 (Trouble part 5)

“What do you mean by ‘proper behaviour’?” That seemed out of place, and she said these words with more anger than anything else. At this point, I knew I was veering away from my investigation, but there were some things I wanted to find out, and it had been a few boring months, might as well make this investigation worth my time. When I started this business, I was more interested with ending a case; the details were just getting in the way. Rookie mistake really. The more time you spend looking into subtle things, the better you understand a case. The better you understand a case, the easier you avoid the obvious pitfalls.

A couple of years back, I was looking into this mistress case. It was similar to Madeline’s, the friend saw the man with another woman. I did not pay enough attention to the story and did not notice some details that might have clued me on the truth. The husband had been with the wife’s friend. From that point on, everything got messy, and I almost had to face a lawsuit. Thankfully, everything was resolved before any permanent damage was done to my name and my career. I was afraid I would have to fall back on my nursing degree. And that’s why you need to pay attention to the details; missing one could mean the end of a career, so I paid attention when Sarah started talking again.

“He was annoying with this ‘proper place’ speech. He wasn’t old fashioned, but it’s as if he had married Maddy without knowing she was somewhat famous. Back then, she wasn’t really to be honest. But her works were selling, and her name was becoming more commonplace. That’s when he started changing. In fact, I remember one day in particular, we were all eating in a restaurant. In those days, I still tried to be friendly with Albert. Suddenly, there’s this woman that walks up to Maddy, asking for an autograph. After the fan had left, Albert went ballistic. I think that’s when he realized she would not depend on him like he hoped, but that she had a career of her own. It should have been a great day for her too, if it weren’t for her husband. What was worse was that the woman had approached Maddy talking about one of the books that had money given to a gay and lesbian foundation. That’s when he started getting on my case. Some of the things he said... So yeah, he believed that women were meant to stay at home, and not be famous. He said he was doing everything to keep Maddy happy, and that it should be more than enough for her. He got angry, but he never got violent. And a few days later, he was back to being nice and mellow. I did not forget what he had said however. I think Maddy never forgot as well. But she loved him; she told me he loved her. And at some point I probably believed as well they were both in love. But with what I saw here, I became sure he had never truly loved her. Call it a sixth sense, but the look in his eyes with the other woman had nothing in common with the way he looked at Maddy.”

These words stuck with me as I was reading my notes on the bus on the way back home. He looked at his mistress with more love than his soon to be ex wife. That was another detail that stood out. It’s not something I had heard before. Cheating husbands tend to hide behind a mask of guilt and shame. He had none. He loved her. I almost regretted not asking more questions to the owner, but he seemed to prefer not saying anything. I don’t mind, he’s allowed to respect his customers’ privacy. Too many things stood out now. The briefcase, the hatred of fame, the love between Albert and his mistress, and the place where they met; all details that made this more interesting than a regular divorce case. However, my gut instinct told me I might be in over my head. It might be time I called my father; he had known interesting cases back in the day.

[Not much to add really, I felt the conversation could have a bit more to it, and so I added more. A wonderful thing really. At this point, I am noticing how much revision my previous parts will need. I want to end my first draft however, and it might take longer than I originally expected.]

Honest Discussion (Trouble Part 4)

“So, you’re telling me that you came to this place after a business meeting? In this part of town? Here’s the thing about witnesses: they lie. Unless you can believe 100% of their story, you can’t seriously believe any part of it. They will try to change the story to hide something, and because of that, they will forget one or two details, and that will make my job a lot harder.” Lunch has been over for a while, we’re on our fourth cup of coffee, and I still don’t have the whole story. I’ve learned a lot more about what she saw, she even told me what her phone was and why the pictures were so great, but I hate not getting the whole story at once. And I hate having to force it out, she wants to help, she should be entirely honest, guess I’ll have to play her little game.

“Look, you can tell me anything, I don’t care enough about your personal life to have it matter, but it’s about knowing everything about this story. To you, it might seem like a simple job, but I gotta make sure I don’t make any stupid mistakes. It’ll cost me, and it’ll cost my customer. She’s your friend, right? Then tell me what really happened, from the start... Was that okay? Did it sound “noir” enough for you?” Apparently Ms Blake is a bit of a sucker for private investigators. Should have expected it with the talents she represents. But she’s really been screwing with me; I had to say stuff that was entirely unneeded just to fulfill her fantasies. But I’ll play along, for now. And it seemed to have worked; she was ready to talk again.

“Well, I have to say, it was quite impressive for someone who says the job is not like that anymore.” Her voice was filled with professional curiosity, and personal disinterest, a rather unique combination. “You did lack confidence by the end. So, as I was saying, I was close by, meeting a possible new author, some poor student who believed he could write a detective story. He lives on the other side of the street, and I felt like meeting him in person. I grew up around here, and the place has changed quite a lot, but I felt like coming around. We met here, talked, and he handed me a paper copy of his manuscript. I already had the file on my computer, and I had it printed for my assistant to read, but I didn’t feel like breaking his heart. After he left, I decided to get something to eat. As I said, I was sitting over there, where that fat man is sitting.” The “fat man” turned around, looking somewhat hurt, and went back at devouring his meal. “After I had finished eating, I saw him walk in, with that woman. Well, not quite like that, he walked in, and she walked in about 30 seconds after. Seeing him here convinced me to order a dessert, I wasn’t leaving when my best writer’s husband was going to sit with a strange woman.” I raised an eyebrow at the “best writer” comment, but she misinterpreted my reaction. “Oh well, she’s also a good friend, and I also stayed here because of that, but we don’t always see eye to eye, so when it comes to her husband, I tend to think of her as a writer and not a friend.” I stopped her and asked her what was so special about her husband.

“Maddy’s been a friend of mine for a long time. I met her over twenty years ago; we were both at crossroads in our lives. I had studied law but I was going nowhere, too much of a girl for the old boys’ club, and not enough a woman to fit in with the rest. I didn’t know where exactly I was going when I met her. She was stuck in between dead end jobs, typing documents for people who did not care to read. She had typed a manuscript whenever she wasn’t working; I don’t know if you’ve read it, it was quite a unique story, not at all like what she’s writing now. It was almost children oriented, but it really got to me, it was about acceptance, and being open to difference. Twenty years ago, it was a lot different. And what is seen as educative now was revolutionary back then. But Maddy, you would not believe it now, she was extremely shy. She was afraid to even look for an agent. We met randomly at a Laundromat. It was after a guy had made a move on me, and got turned down politely. She came to my defence when he started hurling insults, claiming to be my sister-in-law. I was grateful, and we went for coffee afterwards. Anyway, long story short, I decided to represent her, my job wasn’t working anyway, so I took a big chance, pulled out all my savings and went to get her published. The second publisher was convinced, proposed a couple of changes, and that’s how it started. We actually figured out my salary after the contract was signed. By then, she knew of my orientation, and had started getting involved in some organisations, even if she was straight. She gained my respect; she could have played the game by the rules that were in place, but she decided to support us. So, five years later, she meets this Albert. He is a jerk, it’s that simple. He started looking down on her involvement in different causes, because he felt they were inappropriate for a woman he loved. He said horrible things that I really just don’t want to repeat. Maddy knew I didn’t like him, and it was fine by her. She kept her personal and professional life separate, and suddenly our friendship was professional.”

“So, when you saw him with that other woman,” I interrupted her. After a while, you learn when to interrupt people for their best interest, “you figured he was up to something bad?” She smiled and started talking again: “I did not take that long to figure it out. They were obvious, you saw the pictures. They came in separately, but they sat down as if they had walked in together. They ate food from each other’s plates, even shared a dessert, and they kissed. Albert was not afraid of being seen around here with her. He’d been here often too, because he did not look at the menu. I was pissed, that guy with all his mighty speeches on the place his wife should occupy and proper behaviour, here, with another woman. I should have walked up to him and punched him in the face.”

[So, here it is, part 4. And it's not the end of their discussion, I think. I gave a lot more backstory than I had expected to give, but I like how this story is progressing. It's so funny, I'm discovering some parts of it as I write it.

I must also share some, well, worries is not the right word for this, but I have some questions about the inclusion of a lesbian character. Basically, I'm afraid she will not feel true, after all, I am a guy. Funny thing is, I'm not worried about the many mistakes I know I'll make about the private investigator world. Oh well, I guess I'll have to deal with this, so far I don't feel I've written her in any way that could be seen as offending. If someone does find her inclusion as somewhat untrue, please let me know.]

Places (Trouble Part 3)

First things first, I had to make a phone call. This briefcase deal was interesting, but first and foremost, this was a divorce case. Thankfully, Sarah Blake was available for lunch today. I find that people are much more ready to talk if they can eat at the same time. Plus I was hungry and didn’t have anything I wanted to eat at the office. I transferred some of the files on my PDA, and started thinking about the briefcase. What could he be exchanging? This was not an official business meeting, their affection showed as much, but he wasn’t on any of the watch lists. He was clean as a whistle. Almost too clean. I call the restaurant where he was seen with his mistress, that’s where I’m eating with Ms Blake. They don’t take reservations, but it’s more of a coffee place than a restaurant. I start looking at addresses. The restaurant is in the west part of town, in this tiny neighbourhood that is slowly growing. Madeline’s address, as well as her husband’s, is in the north part of town, where gated community and rich people are found, and Blake’s office is in the east part of town, where all the office buildings are. I’ll have to ask what she was doing at that restaurant. I look at my watch, and then at the bus schedule. I’m almost late, so I rush out of my office, lock the door and go to the bus stop. I’d pretend the choice was an environmental one, but when a business is slow, you have to know where you can cut expenses.

Over the bus ride I look at the city, or more precisely what the west part of town, what was once the poorest part. When this town was founded, the west was the riches parts, and so people wanted to live here. And as this part got more expensive to live in, crime found its way. At first it started with a branch of the mafia, which caused the land to lose its value. Then it was the motorcycle gangs. But then the police started busting them left and right, wasn’t that hard, they all had tattoos and jackets. So this left room for the gangs, smaller, more brutal, and less visible. There were no pipe bombs, but “random” beatings happened. That was the new face of crime. Or so it was until recently. Recently, in this town anyway, the gangs got too visible, and the punishment more severe. The police were more visible and it seemed that the west part of town was becoming a better place to live in. This was bad news for the south, but that’s where the corrupt unions were, as well as the docks and all the traffickers. Of course most people did not know that. The headlines paint a partial picture of the state of crime in a city. Probably was for the best too.

So the restaurant was there, surrounded by apartment buildings that were too old, filled with people that were too young, and in a part of town that did not know if it was old and refined, young and alive, or dead and decaying. At a first glance, the restaurant reflected all three aspects of the neighbourhood. The name, Jo-Anne’s Diner sounded like it was out of the 50s, retro and very classic in a sense. However, everything inside lacked the lustre it once had. The chrome must have been shiny back when the restaurant was new, but now it lacked any light, and life. Finally, the clientele was young and full of life, as was the staff. It was also quite diverse ethnically and culturally. Call it a sign of times changing, but I am sure that neither Jo-Anne nor her husband would have expected to see one of their tables used by a group of young Muslim women. I really hope this part of town gets better now, it was the first time I set foot here in ages and I really liked this new energy. I walked in the diner, looked around, Ms Blake was not here. I studied the place and found the table I wanted, the one where Albert Thompson sat a few days ago. I sat in his place, and pushed my hand between the cushions of the seat, maybe he had dropped something. After I “accidentally” pushed my spoon on the mystery woman’s seat, making a mental note to not order any soup, I did the same on her side. Nothing. It was worth a try.

I studied the restaurant once more. It wasn’t the best place for a date, no romance, no intimacy. If the restaurant was not chosen for its ambiance, then it must have been chosen for convenience. The woman must have lived around here. Again it was something that did not add up. If the woman lived here, then where did he meet her, he would have avoided this part of town in his daily life. As I was thinking, I barely noticed Sarah Blake walking in the front door. I waved, she noticed and walked over to the booth. Time to get some more information.

[Part 3. I am taking a lot more time than I expected to get where I wanted, but I think it's a good thing. I know where the story is going, but now it feels like the pieces don't fit perfectly, but I guess that's what rewrites are for.]

Names (Trouble Part 2)

Madeline Clark, author of five best sellers, three about the awful P.I. Walker. They are not bad entertainment, they are even somewhat interesting. Well written, with a complex intrigue, unique characters, interesting events, truly great books. I only hate them because the real work is so boring. In the last 5 years of work, I have not felt the need to even carry a gun. I have a cell phone in a holster now, not a firearm. Her Walker is always running, dodging bullets and solving horribly complex and important crimes. I read her books when I’m bored, and with the true nature of this work, I have read her books often.

She was married to Albert R. Thompson. She met him 15 years ago, got married two years later. A thirteen year long marriage, seems lucky enough nowadays. He’s not a celebrity, he’s basically a nobody. Thankfully I know where to look. When my father left the job, he left behind a ton of important contacts. A couple of phone calls, some pulled favours, some promises and I can get the info I want. He’s 47 years old, worth more than your average city block, partially owns a bunch of companies here and overseas. He seems to favour shipping companies, however I am told it is a tendency in some investors. No matter what the state of the economy is, things need to go in and out of countries. He’s been moving money around for about 17 years. Again, people like him don’t leave big traces until they start moving things. Too old for all the things kids use for social networking, these tools make my job a lot easier, when I have to do it, when it comes to twenty-somethings.

He has no kids too. That is surprising, but he also wasn’t married before Madeline. Married at 34, that seems odd. He must have studied somewhere for a while. I’ll have to search for him in academic networks. Something doesn’t quite add up. A cursory search doesn’t bring his name up in the families of movers in the financial world. He may have been getting the money needed to start his investment career. I am told, however, that the choices he makes are usually educated, with some exceptions. Could he be involved in insider trading? So far however, nothing sticks. He has money, he invests it, he makes more money. He must have work to start his initial investment because he was not born into money. He has some sort of education or works with someone educated in financial investment. He also owns enough to get a lot of money, but not enough to end up in the big journals. He is not a big player in any company either. The most he owns is a tenth of any company. My sources are drying up however, no files with the police, no records anywhere. He does not own a car, owns one house and doesn’t bring any attention to himself. He wasn’t even at his wife’s book signings or launches. Even their marriage was not mentioned in any papers. The most I get would be a mention in an interview by Madeline: “Yes, I am married, however our marriage is not something we want in the public sphere. This is a decision we made as a couple, and I will respect it.” Too bad you were the only one honouring the decisions made as a couple.

And now the third name I know, the friend who reported the infidelity: Sarah Blake. Madeline’s agent, and apparently the reason for her success. She represents many authors, most women. And if it weren’t for the fact that she was such a vocal advocate for the rights of gays and lesbians, I would almost suspect her to be the mistress, however I know the husband would be packing the wrong tools for the job. I’ve seen that happen before, the friend starts sleeping with the husband, and after a while she feels guilty and “runs” into the husband with his nondescript mistress. Sometimes they also run into the husband with another mistress, get jealous and take him down. But in her case, it would not add up. Even if I omit her orientation, she would not be the mistress, since she used her cell phone to take a picture of Thompson with the mistress. I’ll have to talk to her but now I am more interested by the picture I have just received by email. I can’t say much about her other than she is the opposite of Thompson’s wife. Short, nondescript and her eyes are weary. This is a good picture: I have to remember to ask what phone this Sarah was using, I needed to replace mine. It might just be one picture, but the body language is wrong. They are not scared; they sit in the middle of the restaurant. They have two identical mallets. They are both dressed in what would pass as corporate casual clothing. To the casual observer, this would be a normal lunch business meeting. A second picture comes in, they are holding hands, and he’s pushing his briefcase with his foot. This is odd. A third picture comes in; Madeline must not know that you can attach multiple pictures to one email. Can’t help but smile. The third one, she is standing up, she has the briefcase that was on his side in her hand. Next picture, they are kissing. They exchanged briefcases and kisses. What does it all mean?

I have a hunch, the answer lies in his past, and my only key to Thompson’s past is this woman who he seems to know well. However, I have to remember this is only a divorce case. However, I might be able to bill for time spent on my hunches if they lead to some hidden money. Plus, I have been having a boring week.

[The long awaited sequel to Trouble... I'm gonna try to update "Trouble" once a week. Mostly on Saturdays. As you can see, I have somewhat of a plan with this. I'll try to not go too fast, and I don't know how long it will take to get to the end, this might end up as a long short story, or a very short novel...

Also, I apologize for the late posting, I have been giving myself a little vacation, and I was away from the internet for most of the day. The story is here and I think it's getting better.]

Trouble Part 1

As she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble. Or at least, I knew that was what I was expected to think. Horrible stories written by authors who don’t know a thing about the job always started the same way. The woman walks in, and says something along the lines of: “You have to help me, my husband is in danger.” But they always end up coming too late, and then they fall in love with the gruff detective. The truth is: most women who walk in here are not “trouble,” they are trying to get as far away as possible from trouble. And they never fall in love with the detective, especially after they receive the bill. So this woman walks in, she looks as if she’s been crying a lot. The box of tissue on my desk is there for a reason. No one walks in my office with a smile. She’s about five foot six, brown hair, green eyes. She’s wearing jeans, and an old shirt with a university name on it, but the shoes don’t match. They are the expensive kind, and her purse, while old, was a very popular and expensive brand a couple of years back. When you see a lot of women walk in, you know what to look for. She’s rich, but she doesn’t want me to know. She’s also here anonymously, since I can see sunglasses poking out of her leather purse. It’s raining today.

Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.

Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.

She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.

[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]

Introduction Part 1

[So I decided to try my hand at something longer, but I can't help but see the influence my readings have had on it. This is what I have so far, it's the first part of an introduction / chapter 1 for a fantasy type book. Hope you'll enjoy it.]

The old man knew it was time to pen that letter. He had wished he could avoid having to do so, but as he looked out the window to the snow covered forest surrounding the village, he had no choice. Time had come for Jarrick to leave this village, the resting place of his dear wife, and his grandchildren. It had been his destined duty back from the day he received a letter similar to the one he was writing. It came from his father, as he was nearing that age. But unlike his father, he could not write to his son. The traditions of ancient times had stayed the same, but the world had changed quite a lot. And because of that, his letter could not be identical to the one he received. He had changed, he knew his duty, but over the generations, it had become a curse. But it was his duty, and no matter all the questions it brought up in his heart, he would do it to honour his father. But first he would write the letter to make sure that the curse carried on to the next generation.

My dearest grandson:

Life for you will soon change. You might be more pre-occupied with starting a family, but it’s not the life fate has chosen for you. First, I must tell you of the history of the world, you must know what they did not dare to teach you in school. You have been lied to, but by the end of this letter, you will understand why, and you will forgive your teachers for the lies. With each revelation, I want you to think of your sisters and brothers, and how their life would be with this knowledge. It will all make sense I promise.

As you know, the world was created eons ago by the Heavenly Mother. Through her loving embrace, the ice that covered her infant Taera melted away, revealing a virgin world filled with potential. You must have learned how this angered the Dark Fear, and that he desired nothing more than to destroyed Taera. This was a lie. Just as you needed both a father and a mother to be your parents, Taera needed a father and a mother to be born. Taera’s father was what we now call the Dark Fear. You know that now, the Dark Fear is what comes to take away children in the night, and what causes pain and suffering in this world. It is said that the Dark Fear’s touch can turn any field into a battleground and destroy any life that it comes in contact with. All wars that have cursed this kingdom were the Dark Fear’s doing. It was him who took away your father, and your mother. You know by now that your father was a soldier, and a great one at that. He trained for the battles that were coming with great enthusiasm, and even as a little boy, he wanted to be the hero of this nation. And so when the war came, he volunteered to join the army. He did not abandon you however; he was trying to protect the kingdom from the evils from across the great river. Our kingdom has been both blessed and cursed by the creators. The curse of shadow is strong in our blood. Especially women. By now you must have wondered why there are no women over 40 in the village, let me assure you, there are none to be found around here. Even if their faith in the Heavenly Mother is strong, the shadow fills their veins. You see, the Dark Fear was jealous of the Heavenly Mother’s ability to create life and fill the world with animals, plants, and humans. And in this holy kingdom where it is said the touch of the Heavenly Mother was last felt, he decided to corrupt women and twist their life into his service. As you also must know by now, our kingdom is the only one without any wizardry. We have rejected the ways of evil and are devoted to the Heavenly Mother, angering the Dark Fear even more. This is why we are constantly attacked, because of the Dark Fear’s gaze upon this kingdom.