Moonlight glistened on the Bahamian waters surrounding South Beach. Waves lapped the shore and plantain tree shadows snaked across the sand. Pastor Shantel paced, anxiously scanning the horizon as immigration officials scrambled along the beach. A flash of blue and gold in the clouds caught her eye. Weird.
Shantel stumbled into…
She swept into town like the swirls of dust that haunted the desert plains, a lonely traveler like a bounding weed, and struck out to seek what was lost.
The town, its decrepit buildings leaning into the incessant south winds, swiftly spread the name of Mellie Rembrandt. Nobody forgot a name like Rembrandt…
The world swayed around me like the ocean waves, but I couldn’t feel the water’s calming caress. Pain pounded in my left temple. My eyes refused to focus. I tried to swim, yet I couldn’t lower my arms from over my head. And my tail… where was my tail?
I wiggled my toes…
The inspector tapped on the microphone. A sharp burst of static filled the room. “All right. We have Prisoner WVM-01 here for questioning. Please detail for our records your involvement in the Silver Bridge Accident on December 15th, 1967.” He flicked on a floodlight, and I blinked behind my night vision goggles.
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Martin awoke to a few unexpected discoveries, the first of which was finding himself suspended upside down from a tree branch. Considering his last memory was losing his footing and tumbling down a sharp embankment, this predicament came as a relief. After all, he wasn’t dead or grievously injured. So that was a plus.
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