Katherine Smyth needed a miracle.
The anti-matter induction chamber was history. Instead of a silvery sphere nestled in the heart of the Fortunato’s engine, a metal flower blossomed, as if opening toward weak sunlight. Her toolkit slipped from numb fingers, thudding onto the deck. Without the chamber, the Fortunato had no engines.
“You’re making enough noise to wake the dead,” Dad said from over my shoulder as I upended every bit of stainless-steel-ware in the kitchen drawer, trying to find my giant soup spoon.
“Well, you’d know,” I quipped, “considering you’ve been dead three years.” Then I turned to ask, “What brings you back this time?”
Wan December sunlight shone down on Fairyland, softening the edges of nearby buildings. The clear blue sky boded well for the first day of business at Frank’s Detective Agency.
My detective agency.
I turned toward my desk, clapping my fore-hooves in anticipation. Perhaps my first case would be a big one, like those portrayed
Ice battered the door as Newt flipped his farm sign to “Closed” and released a happy sigh. Another year of cutting and baling noble firs seven times his height and trying not to get squashed by troll customers was complete.
He’d survived.
He pressed his body against the door, fighting the wind
I stood beside a cliff’s edge above the Pacific Ocean, preparing to jump.
Theoretical physicist Wanda Pepper stood between me and the edge. Her cropped, raven-black hair had a stray, orange-dyed curl in front that bounced when she moved toward me.
Wanda patted the electrodes on my chest. “You’re all set.”
I scratched the
The sticky dough dripped off my fingers as I blew a stray strand of hair out of my eyes.
This is a lot tougher than she made it look, I thought. I eyed the oozing blob of dough on the countertop with suspicion. There was still half the butter to go into this dough and I was already losing the battle with the cloying mess.
“Quarantine means no going outside, old man,” the guard growled beneath his face mask. Well over six feet with a vice-like grip, he dragged me inside as his name tag bobbed in and out of my peripheral vision. Pickerman was clearly stamped in sparse utilitarian lettering.
“Just going for a walk, sonny,” I said…
Muzzy from sleep, I worked my way up from under the soil.
The Alarm has sounded! We must rise!
After emerging, I dusted off my tattered clothing, working gently so as not to abrade the grey skin on my palms. My shirt appeared more frayed than last time.
Well, what did I expect?
November 9. The best and worst day of my life.
I paced my minuscule apartment, plagued by a frenetic excitement that made my fingers twitch and gut clench. Outside, a frigid, torrential downpour assaulted Portland, obscuring the cityscape.
Dad’s ringback music played in my ear. On the last note, he picked up.
“’Ello?” He sounded almost… groggy.
“Mr. Thompson left his house, truck, and bank account to you, Courtney. Kim, he left you his… catapult.” I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the older sister’s understandable outrage. Dealing with this kind of reaction is the toughest part of my job.
But it was Courtney who sprang to her feet.
When someone dies, the general assumption is that they will stay dead. But every Day of the Dead, the laws of time and nature look the other way, and deceased relatives can drop by for family reunions.
Deceased relatives like myself.
I waited at the end of the driveway where my family lived. Reynolds stood by me with his arms crossed.
Moira turned the knob on the dashboard, silencing the radio. She sat quiet for a minute, listening. Funny. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. She shrugged and leaned back in the passenger seat, singing a little under her breath. Dad was taking forever. How long did it take to pay for the gas and grab a soda?
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