Inspector Gustav Ackerson removed his bowler hat and knelt next to the corpse. A boy of fourteen years stared at the nickelodeon’s plaster ceiling with glazed eyes. According to the night guardsman, the poor lad had snuck into the theater after hours and had been discovered lying on the floor next to a mutoscope.
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Every year it’s the same. On the twentieth day of January, I’m hustled into a room full of my captors—some of which are my size but with no basic manners—and forced to perform. Sure, I’m given some capelin as payment during these exercises, but the treat is poor compensation for the humiliation…
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You might be wondering why I’m in an alleyway holding a blowtorch, about to cut into this steel door. Perhaps I should take you back to the days spent amidst flickering fluorescent bulbs, drab gray uniforms, and one-room holding cells. And no, I’m not talking about my old high school.
The Overseers call it…
I haven’t slept in three days.
I don’t dare. My chin quivers. “God help me not to slip.”
The accursed journal lies on the floor where I flung it last night. It’s skillfully bound, with crackled leather and twisted knotwork burned into the cover. A cover that should remain forever closed.
The back of the cab was warm and smelled vaguely of cigarettes. Morgan held Shauna’s hand, tears falling quietly in the darkness on the drive home.
Only emptiness greeted him when he opened the apartment door. He shuffled inside, dimly aware of his wife slipping off her shoes and wandering to the bathroom.
You can’t eat morals. This motto had earned Abraham quite the reputation across town, meaning many shady characters ended up in his tent on darkened nights. When the work Abraham had done for his clients tormented his mind, he told himself one thing.
Scruples didn’t stave off starvation—money did.
And the fellow…
An ocean of color floods Damien’s eyes as he steps out of the portal. A blinding array of purple, yellow, blue, and white blooms. He frowns.
Irises? Not what he expected. But little about this search has gone according to plan.
Jerking up his binoculars, Damien surveys the land beyond the field of flowers.
You cannot judge my father by the law of the land. The crimes your witnesses claim he committed at sea either did not happen or were done out of necessity. I stand before your honor, high on the quarterdeck, and the assembled “victims” in this court, clinging to the mahogany taffrail…
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I eyed Tira as she stumbled across our living room. Dressed in a sparkly pink thigh-length dress, zebra print high heels, and bunny ears, I almost didn’t recognize my usually reserved roommate.
Tira yawned and tossed her purse toward the futon. It bounced off the cushion and dropped to the floor.
Exhausted, Dr. Eitan Broshi clapped his hands together to dispel the clinging dirt from the dig site. His limbs trembled from the long hours of tedious effort. The sun had wandered behind the low mountain, and all his colleagues had long since returned to the camper. Even at this distance, he could hear their drunken debate.
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“Good morning, Centerville! It’s Saturday, March 31st!”
I leapt from bed, staring wide-eyed at the nightstand clock radio. “Again?”
Rushing around my apartment, I confirmed the deejay was not pulling an April Fool’s prank. My journal ended March 30. I needed to dust and vacuum—again. And those soggy brown bananas
“Ain’t no way they ever put anybody up on that moon,” Hank Owens said confidently.
Mayor Geoff Collins raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”
As Hank laughed, a thin stream of tobacco juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “They shot that rocket straight up into the air, right?
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