So, I did something stupid.
A barn cat’s number one rule is simple: catch the rats, leave the chickens alone. It’s not a hard rule to follow. Chickens are mean. The ones with the larger combs threaten to kill me just for walking by—rude considering I protect their nests from rats.
“We risked going to prison for a flashlight?” Big Ricky’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. Meager light from a flickering yellow streetlamp outlined the alley’s brick wall and a dumpster off to the side. A brisk September breeze swept past them as Ricky and Jimmy crept down the alley. You wouldn’t have guessed…
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I stand on the Goldberry Bridge, glaring at last week’s newspaper. “Good Boy, Ace!” the headline declares. Everyone in Tuttlesburgh thinks Ace is a heroic golden retriever responsible for dramatic river rescues. But there’s more to the story. I think it’s a ruse, and Ace himself is at the center of it.
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Ever since I read through fifty-six Nancy Drew books in one summer at age eleven, I’ve wanted to be a detective. Five years later I got my first case. What I hadn’t imagined was that my first case would be the mystery of my own disappearance.
After my older brother Levi learned…
“Nina,” whispered Greg. “We shouldn’t be out here at night.”
“Go home, Greg. I never asked you to come.” She walked on, the water continuously lapping around her ankles.
“If Mum finds out, we’ll be in huge trouble.”
“Well, it’s a good thing she won’t find out, isn’t it?” She spun around and glared at her little brother.
Staring at the gray wall before him, Ben couldn’t quite remember how long he’d been sitting in the office. There were several chairs next to him, with the same cheap faux leather used at the DMV. There were no windows, and the only light came from old, pulsing fluorescent bulbs that filled the room
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Blood sits heavy on an empty stomach, I thought bitterly as the crimson pool around me expanded. My insides howled with pain, yet I lay motionless, listless in my doomed state. The sticky sand embalmed me while the turmoil in my intestines raged in a battle between empty, gnawing pain and boiling, tumultuous nausea.
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With my publisher’s demand for a retraction—practically a resignation in this journalistic environment—hanging over me, I approached the production booth. Through the window, I watched Clint Bell at the microphone bringing his show to commercial break.
“You’re deep in The Bell Hole, live on Eastville’s ZAP-95 FM. We’ll be back after these
“Rope secure?”
“Check.”
“Snacks on hand?”
“Check.”
I passed a bag of freeze-dried oranges to the shadow shaped like my roommate and watched him fumble to open it in the dark.
“Ugh. Connor. This is the best you have?”
“We’re in space, Barrett. Not many options.”
He sighed and shifted on the lumpy mattress.
I can’t escape the song. It winds through the air in snatches, filling my head with memories. The melody cuts the half-healed wounds on my heart open again, but I deserve the pain.
I chase the elusive notes through the busy city streets, narrowly avoiding collisions with ladies carrying parasols, children wearing tiny sailor suits…
I remember my first glimpse of her in early July. She peeked in the window of my bakery as I went about my opening routine. I may never forget the morning sun shining on her platinum hair, surrounding her with a luminous halo.
She next brightened the door of Bob’s House of the Rising Bun…
I was about to flip the sign on the front door of my office from “Closed” to “Open” when I spotted a bulky black form on the sidewalk. My heart jumped.
Then I recognized my visitor and smiled.
“Papa Bear! You caught me by surprise.” I swung the door open. “Come in.”
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