Claudia brought a Moscow Mule to her lips and took a sip.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I said, folding my arms behind my head. “Can't say I've had an experience like that before.”

She put her glass down and leaned in. “Hmm, yes I'd imagine many can't. Still, pretty exciting, though! You're going to have a lot of stories to tell!”

“Probably,” I said.

“You don't think so?”

I shrugged. “I mean, right now it just feels like a whole bunch of unknowns.”

She took another sip and nodded. “Sure, and that adds to the excitement, yeah?”

I shrugged again.

“Oh, come on, babe! How many unknowns did you have back in computer land, besides when the heck you'd be able to get out of there?”

“I guess you're right.”

“Um, no, you know I'm right.”

I pretended to look around the bar, trying to hide the fact that I didn't know how to respond. It was rather calm for eight o clock; clearest the music on the jukebox had ever sounded.

I’ve known Claudia for a little over two years, well before I moved to Whiskershire. Still wild to think we’d met in a little airport terminal over one of my business trips; one of the few things from that job I can say I’m truly grateful for. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to anyone in transit before then, but it was just so… natural. We’d gotten so lost in conversation, we both almost missed our flights. We exchanged numbers and, month after month, we’d talk on the phone. Month after month she’d visit me in New York, I’d visit her here, or we’d find some new little town to meet up in and explore for a weekend. When I’d made the decision to start anew, Whiskershire had quickly made its way to the top of my list of places to relocate to. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t a major reason for the decision. I might be lying if I said she wasn’t the main one.

“Look at you! Spence Robson, Assistant to the Private Detective! Solving cases, catching bad guys... gosh, it all sounds so... sexy!”

“Oh?” I said, nearly choking on my drink.

“Um, yeah. Very!”

Claudia’s hair has been dyed my favorite shade of blue the entire time I’ve known her and the lights above the bar had been giving it an incredible glow. All of her, really, like someone out of a dream. Over two years in and my heart still skips a beat every time our eyes meet.

“You know what? I've got a surprise for you. Consider it a congratulatory gift.”

I tried to not choke on my drink this time. “Really?” I swallowed. “Here?”

She giggled. “Just shut up and close your eyes!”

I obeyed, and within moments, I could feel Claudia's breath hitting my nose. A wave of electricity rushed up my body as I felt her getting closer.

Then, a whisper.

“Wake up Robson…”

“… huh?”

SMACK!

My whole body shot back, causing me to bang my head against my headboard. Before my eyes could gain focus on the figure in front of them, I felt it again.

SMACK!

“Wake UP, Robson!” a familiar voice yelled.

SMACK!

I placed both hands in front of my face to block any upcoming attacks. My blurry assailant slowly came into focus between my wrists.

“Ka... D... Detective? H... how did you get...”

“You didn't answer your door, so I shimmied in via the fire escape.”

“You... shimmied...” I glanced over to the glowing digits of my alarm clock. “It's 4 AM...”

“Crime doesn't sleep in, Robson! We have a case!”

“What? Where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“No time, lad. Kindly gather your things and get decent. I believe you'll be making a few first impressions. Beauregard and I will be waiting downstairs.”

“Wait, Beauregard, your cousin? The doorman?”

“Indeed. He is a cat of many trades, Robson... Master of some, I'm sure. There will be plenty of time for questions and answers on the way. Do not dilly dally.” She started back towards the window.

“I’m going to have to request you use the front door this time, detective, if that’s okay,” I groaned, rubbing my eyes.

“Fair enough.” She turned and dashed out into the hallway.

“Oh, and Robson…” she said, popping her head back into my room.

“Hmm?”

“Who’s Claudia?”

She smirked, before disappearing.

I threw off my sheets to realize that I had fallen asleep in my clothes again.

“Off to a great start,” I grumbled.

I changed into something fresh from my closet, some brown slacks and a white button-up, and grabbed my coat from behind the door. Before heading out into the hallway myself, I walked over to the window and locked it.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

The voice made me jump as I turned the key on my front door. Beauregard Moon, dressed similarly to our last encounter with the addition of some caramel-colored driving gloves, was rubbing down the mirror of a pristine-looking, what must have been vintage, dark blue automobile with a beige cloth. The detective was pacing back and forth behind it, a cellphone pressed up against her ear.

“That sure is a lovely car,” I said.

“You could say I'm a bit of a car cat, Robson; fortunate enough to have a profession that allows me many toys.”

“Your job with the detective?”

He laughed, “Oh, no, dear boy, my real job. My participation in this little outing is more of a family favor. Lucky for all of us, my employer has also taken special interest in this case, given its nature.”

“Its… nature?” I said, confused.

“Beauregard is what you might call a professional wheelcat,” Katya's voice interrupted. She'd finished her call and was walking around the car towards the passenger-side.

He laughed, and winked in my direction. “Something like that.”

“Everyone ready?” she asked.

Beauregard nodded and opened the driver-side backseat door, motioning for me to enter. He then got behind the wheel, Katya up front beside him. I slid in and closed the door.

“Just spoke with Harper,” she said. “The scene's still fresh, but we're going to need to pick up the pace. Beauregard, I believe you know what to do.”

“Indeed, dear cousin.” He tugged on each driving glove, then turned the key. The engine began to roar like a lion.

Katya turned around. “You're going to want to buckle up, Robson.”

No more than a second after following her instructions, I was pulled back by the force of the car taking off. Beauregard shot down 2nd Street, sliding onto Main. For someone of little grace he sure could handle an automobile.

“You’re way over the speed limit!” I yelled, gripping my armrest. “We’re going to get pulled over!”

I could see him smirk in the rear view. “I’m fairly certain most of this town’s law enforcement officers are currently occupied,” he yelled back. “Dear cousin, where exactly am I going?”

“Stay put on Main until Ellison,” Katya said calmly, clearly used to her cousin’s driving, “then make a right.”

She turned to face me. “We’ve been tipped off on another instance of what now appears to be a string of art thefts, Robson. I’ve been following this one closely. This morning’s hit was the Whiskershire Museum of Modern Art. Detective Harper will have more details for us when we get there.”

The car slowed to a halt outside of the museum’s entrance. Beauregard wasn’t wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Whiskershire police force had shown up.

“Well, if it isn’t Katya Kat, Private Detective,” a voice broke through the sea of blue uniforms as we were exiting the vehicle.

“Detective Harper,” Katya shouted back, a slight smile between her whiskers. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I quickly spotted the voice’s origin, a tall, lean fellow donning a light brown trench coat over a beige khaki and white button-up combo. Somehow already sporting a five-o-clock shadow, he smiled back.

For some reason, he walked up to me first, extending an arm. “Detective Harry Harper. Very nice to meet you.”

“Spence Robson,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“You look troubled, Mister Spence Robson, is everything okay?” It felt like his blue eyes were piercing right through me… though, perhaps it was the morning chill.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like…”

He cut in. “All the time. And… Beauregard, correct? Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You are correct sir,” Beauregard responded reaching out his paw, “and the pleasure is all mine.”

“I’ve heard so many wonderful things,” Harper said, moving his hand over to Beauregard’s paw and giving it a firm shake. He looked over towards Katya. “Hey, you all want to watch a video?”

“Thought you'd never ask,” Katya said with an even bigger smile.

Harper led us under the police tape and through the crowd of under-caffeinated police officers. It was my first time seeing the Whiskershire MOMA in person. Giant white pillars lined either side of the front entrance at the end of a massive row of steps. The building clearly had history, looking more like an old courthouse than an art museum.

“As I’d been telling Katya, WPD received the call around 2 in the AM, after onsite security noticed a statue had gone missing while making their rounds. Perp appears to have made their escape through the back loading dock.” Harper opened one of the entrance doors and waved us in. “Upon closer inspection, they found this.” He produced a small tear of paper and handed it to Beauregard.

Beauregard briefly stopped in his tracks. “This is… cheese?” He passed the paper back to Harper.

“Their calling card, it seems,” Katya said.

“Correct. Ah, here we are.” Harper stopped us in front of a faded black door. “Security” had been written on an index card and taped, slightly crooked, around eye-level. Noticing it was locked, soon after jiggling the knob, he gave a rhythmic knock.

“It’s Harper,” he yelled. “I’m baaaaaack!”

The door opened to reveal a short stocky man, mustached, with an untucked black polo shirt. His eyes seemed to shoot past Harper and towards Katya, Beauregard, and myself.

“Don’t worry, Donovan, they’re with me,” Harper said as he started in through the doorway.

“It’s Vincent,” the man grumbled back.

“Oh crud, I’m sorry pal. Case of the early mornings.”

“That wasn’t even close, though,” the man said under his breath.

The room was small, dark, and lit only by the glow of a number of small black and white CRT television screens stacked on top of each other, each displaying a different location in the museum. Empty energy drink cans, paper coffee cups, and takeout boxes littered the floor around an overflowing trash can underneath a small black plastic work desk with two rolling chairs pushed up against it.

Harper sat down in one of the chairs and crossed his legs. “Don… Vincent, would you kindly show my friends here the footage you showed us earlier?”

Vincent rolled his chair over to a small console covered in knobs and buttons.

“Can do. Keep an eye on monitor number 7,” he said as he fiddled away.

Each monitor was labeled with small pieces of masking tape scribbled over in black Sharpie. We watched silently as the screen labeled “7” began playing time lapse footage of one of the museum’s many hallways.

About thirty seconds in, Katya broke the silence. “Hold on a second!”

“You noticed it too, eh,” Harper said. “Vincent, can I get a little rewind, please?”

The video whirred back with an audible hiss, then resumed.

“That statue,” Harper said, his finger pointing at what appeared to be a mouse constructed of gears and exposed pipes. “Now you see it.” The video continued until suddenly the statue vanished. “Now you don’t.”

“Vincent, lad, why pray tell was no one alerted about the presence of that contraption?” Katya asked.

“Things come in and out of this place all the time,” he answered. “I guess we all thought it was part of the new exhibit.”

“Oh come now, Modern Art is hideous, but it’s not THAT hideous,” she said. “Can you rewind the tape again?”

Vincent brought the display back to a point where the figure was still present. Katya leaned in closer.

“Well, aren’t you familiar” she said under her breath.

“Pardon?” Vincent responded.

“No time to explain, dear, there’s much to be done! Harper, I believe we’ve seen enough. Usual time, usual place?”

Harper smiled again. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We bid farewell to Harper and Vincent and made our way back out to the car. Surprisingly, even without Harper as our escort, all officers we passed just waved us on. I began to wonder how often this kind of thing happened.

“How long do you suppose they’re going to be out here?” I asked as I closed the backseat door and began buckling my seatbelt.

“Long enough to waste plenty of time and tax dollars, I’m sure,” Katya answered from up front. “We have all we need, Robson. It’s time to get to work.”

Beauregard started the car. “What the devil was that thing?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Katya responded. “Not yet anyway, but I’ve got a hunch. Back to the office, dear cousin!”

Katya brushed a mess of papers off the top of her desk and began digging through one of its drawers.

“No… no… not you… not you… aha!” She stood up, unrolling a small poster-sized paper onto her desk. It appeared to be some kind of advertisement. “Look familiar?”

Beauregard gasped. “The statue!”

“Not statue, Beauregard!” she said. “Automaton… well… a giant toy. Manufactured in limited numbers by PawsPlay Corporation in the mid-nineties.” Taking notice of our looks of bewilderment, she continued. “I may or may not have considered procuring one in my younger years.”

“… Right,” Beauregard said.

“… Interesting,” I followed.

“For research,” she then added. “Only… something is very off with this one.” She stroked her chin. “These things were never built to operate independently.”

“Or to independently take up art theft,” I chimed in, attempting to contribute something clever to the conversation. Both turned and stared at me blankly. “Sorry, please continue.”

“Not a bad career choice for the fellow, though, is it?” Beauregard said, turning to give me a small smile. “I presume someone of his stature would be able to carry quite the load.”

“Indeed,” Katya said. “But something tells me this thing hasn’t been working alone.” She rolled the paper back up and stuffed it into a pocket beneath her cape. “I’ll have a better idea when Harper fills us in further. Speaking of which, it’s time we head out, team.”

I was a bit surprised to see the meeting place in question. Beauregard’s car had stopped right outside the Wilson, the same pub where I had happened upon the ad for this job. Its etched metal signage reflected the other cars passing on the street, illuminating the mostly empty outdoor seating as we exited the vehicle and made our way towards the entrance. The place was rather empty for a Monday evening, with only a couple patrons scattered among the tables and bar. That, of course, included Harper, who had already sat himself down at a table near the corner.

“Lovely to see you all again so soon,” Harper said, raising a glass and motioning for us to join him.

“Someone started early,” Beauregard chuckled, pulling out a chair.

“With this fellow’s hours, at a time like this, you’d be too,” Katya said, as we all took our seats. “Another long one, friend?”

“You make it sound like there are short ones,” Harper laughed.

“A robo mouse art thief, huh,” Harper said, looking down at the unrolled advertisement. “Makes sense, y’know, with the cheese. That is certainly… new.”

Katya swirled her drink. “Give it time, lad. Eventually nothing shocks you.”

“Video to prove it as well,” Harper said. “Which I’ve already ensured will be readily available without hassle. I suppose you were also thinking more to come?”

“Why quit while you’re ahead?” Katya responded. Harper raised his glass again.

“Well, we’ve still got quite a few exhibitions left for this season,” he said. “Our mouse friend has options.”

“Which means so do we,” Katya said. “What can you tell us about the hits that have been confirmed so far?”

“Counting this most recent at the Whiskershire Moma, there have been three. We found calling cards at each,” Harper said, pulling a small leather-bound notepad from his pants pocket. “First, the Heathcliff, then the Bol d’eau Gallery. They seem to have a thing for sad statues and paintings.” He pushed the notepad forward. “That’s everything we’ve kept out of the papers. Yours to keep.”

“Katya put her glass down and grabbed the notebook from the table. “Hmm… and you believe that’s the link?” she asked. “Sad things?”

“Lorenzo is certain,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.

“Is he now?” Katya’s eyes remained locked on the notebook. Something appeared to be bothering her. The rest of the table appeared to be picking up on that as well.

“Everything okay, detective?” I asked.

“Pardon? Oh. Yes, Robson, all good.” She slid the notebook into her cape pocket. “My, it’s getting late, Harper. We should let you get some rest. I’d say you’ve earned it.”

Harper laughed and downed the remainder of his beer. “If only I could be so lucky.”

“At least try, yeah?” Katya stood up, pushing her chair back. “I think some rest could do us all a bit of good. Good night, Harper. Pleasure as always. Robson, Beauregard can drive you home.”

I almost told them I’d rather walk, but I decided it would be rude to not accept the offer.

The sound of creaking gears silenced as the last figure fell into place with the rest; bright red eyes dimming to a dull gray.

“Well well, old friend,” a slightly muffled voice spoke through the rustling of newspaper pages. “It appears I finally have your attention.” A single exposed bulb, flickering and dangling from the ceiling, illuminated the front page headline.

ART THEFTS CONTINUE: PRIVATE DETECTIVE JOINS CASE

“Only a matter of time.”

#katyakat #serialized #fiction

“You're kidding!”

“Not in the slightest, dear. A little sketch of a piece of cheese.”

“Good gracious me, what is the world coming to?”

Case 01: The City Stands Alone

I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the two women, presumably old friends, behind me. I doubt they noticed. My forehead had been pressed up against the bus window since I'd sat down, watching all the shops and restaurants I had yet to visit fly by in a colorful blur.

I'd say it was raining cats and dogs, but I've recently been informed that's offensive. It was pouring, though, making me dread the next step in my day's journey.

It had been a month to the day since I'd first arrived in Whiskershire. After cuts at my old job, I realized it was time for a change. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what I'd be doing when I got here. I thought the unknown would be part of the adventure. Turns out it just makes me anxious and nervous.

I was thus incredibly fortunate to have happened upon an ad in the Whiskershire Gazette at a local pub, being used as a make-shift coaster for my whiskey sour. Encircled by a wet ring, it read:

WANTED: POSITION TO START IMMEDIATELY Personal Assistant to Renowned Detective Must be Organized, Well-Groomed, and Not Allergic to Cats. Non-Negotiable.

Seemed like a welcome change from “computer repairman,” to say the least. Safe to say, any detective work I’d be seeing would be nothing like the movies, but it seemed bound to have its exciting moments nonetheless.

And hell, it was a job. Extra appealing when you don't currently have one.

The bus came to a stop about a block from the destination specified in the ad.

“This is you, champ,” the driver, an older gentleman with a rather wild mustache, called out in a gravelly voice. With the weather being as it was, there were only a few passengers on the bus, which I’m sure made it much easier to remember who was stopping where without anyone having to yank one of the cables hanging by each window.

I thanked the driver and exited out the back.

I followed the ascending house numbers until I reached the address I’d been reciting in my head since stepping off the bus.

Doubting my memory in another wave of nervousness, I pulled the torn newspaper page from my messenger bag to double-check.

522 F Friskies St.

I took a deep breath. “I guess this is it,” I whispered to myself, and began to ascend the short staircase to the front door of the three-story brownstone-esque building.

Beneath the buzzer, a metal plate with raised lettering read:

KATYA KAT: PRIVATE DETECTIVE APPOINTMENT ONLY

I could hear the buzzer echo through the building after I pressed it.

No answer.

In an attempt to avoid being rude, I opted to give it a minute or so before buzzing again.

That minute or so soon became five. I pressed down on the button once more, but before I could even hear the sound this time, the door cracked open.

“Can I help you?” a rather perturbed-sounding voice boomed through the opening.

There didn't appear to be any lights on inside the entranceway and, combined with the gloominess outside, I couldn't make out more than a tall outline of the voice's owner.

“I'm here about the Personal Assistant posting?”

“The what?”

“You posted an ad in the paper about a Personal Assistant.”

“Who did?”

”... You... did?”

“It's fine, Beauregard, they may enter,” a new voice called out from what sounded like another room. “Wipe your feet!”

The door creaked open further, fully revealing the figure behind; a Feline, covered head-to-toe in a mix of brown, black, and white fur, donning an unbuttoned navy comfort jacket over a slightly wrinkled white oxford shirt and matching navy slacks.

“You heard the lady,” he said, motioning inside and giving me room to enter. “The Detective you seek is in her study. Last door on the right.”

I walked into the dimly-lit entranceway, and down a narrow hallway towards the only open door. The walls were lined with portraits and statuettes, most of which I was pretty sure I recognized... just not as cats.

They were all cats.

The study looked like something right out of a Sherlock Holmes television special. A massive fireplace flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves faced the doorway, a small table and ornate blue velvet chairs sitting in front. The lighting situation matched the rest of the building, though everything appeared much brighter thanks to a large window in the back of the space. In front of the window, behind a cluttered walnut mid-sized writing desk, sat a tall leather office chair, back facing me and the rest of the room.

From the space between the chair and the window, a voice I’d recognized from earlier broke the silence.

“I hear you’ve discovered our little posting.”

“Yes, hello my na…”

“Hush now, just a moment!” An arm emerged from the right side of the chair, holding out a light-orange paw.

I complied, and paused for a length of time that, in another wave of nervousness, felt much longer than it actually had been. From where I stood, I could faintly make out two little squirrels darting around a tree outside the window. Our conversation resumed at almost the exact moment the two critters had scampered out of view.

“Brilliant! Where were we?”

“Whe… we haven’t started.”

“Precisely!”

“I… what?”

The chair spun around, and its occupant stood up. Another Feline, fur almost entirely covered by a full brown tweed suit and cap that allowed their ears to poke out the sides.

“You found our posting, yes?” They pushed the chair against the desk and began to walk towards me.

“Bravo! Wasn’t sure if anyone would, but I wasn’t about to pay the ghastly amount the Gazette demands for quote unquote extra visibility these days. Your name?”

“My…” I was still struggling to recover my train of thought.

“Your name, lad. Surely you have one?”

“Robson,” I replied in an almost stabilized voice. “Spence Robson.”

“Oh, you poor thing… Nevertheless, pleasure to meet you, Robson.” She extended her paw.

“Katya Kat. Renowned Private Detective. You may call me Detective Katya, and that, dear boy, is also non-negotiable.”

The gentlecat from the front door poked his head into the study.

“All is well, Beauregard,” Detective Katya shouted across the room. “Robson and I are just getting acquainted.”

He nodded, and continued down the hall.

“I see you've already met my cousin.”

“I...”

“Beauregard Moon. You'll have to forgive him. Still not used to playing doorman.”

Shortly after she spoke, a loud thump, followed by a crash, echoed throughout the hallway.

She winced. “Still not very graceful either, I'm afraid.”

“I... see.”

“So,” Detective Katya said. “Here you are. Here we are. Tell me about yourself, Robson. Where are you from? Any prior experience with detective work?”

“Well, I was born in Miami, Florida. I lived there through college and...”

“Ah, Miami, yes! Lovely.”

“Oh, you've been?”

“Goodness, no. Your major?”

“Religion and...”

“Fascinating. That's not detective work.”

”...Can that… be a major? To be completely up front with you, I don't have much detective work experience, at all, really. Your posting was the first opportunity I'd ever discovered.”

“Well,” she said, walking closer to me, narrowed pupils locked on mine. “Lucky you.”

“Pardon?”

“That's perfectly fine. You don't need detective work experience to do as you're told... unless you're a nitwit. Are you nitwit, Robson?”

”... no?”

“Marvelous. Kindly keep it that way. Now, I presume you're curious about hours. This is a role that demands you keep your schedule flexible and open. Not a nine to five in any way, shape, or form, understood?”

“Understood. I'm still fairly new to town. Not much going on.”

The Detective smirked. “Oh, there will be Robson, there will be.” She extended her paw. “Well then. welcome to the team.”

“Wait, that's it?”

“What, would you like a cup to pee in?”

“I... think I'm good.” I reached out for the pawshake.

“Spectacular! Beauregard will get you some necessary paperwork and show you the way out. We'll be in touch very soon.”

“Th... thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Yes yes, good day now.”

I turned around, rather startled to see Beauregard Moon in the doorway, large yellow envelope under his arm, motioning for me to follow.

“Oh, and Robson.”

“Yes, detective...”

“Don't disappoint me.”

I paused, then answered with the first thing that came to mind.

“You have my word.”

Chief Constable Lorenzo Black stared down at an empty coffee mug as the line to the machine inched forward. The station had grown five heads in the last year and still just one coffee machine for the lot of them. It sat about fifteen feet away from his office door, though. One of the few perks of his recent promotion.

“Things should be moving faster now, sir,” an officer holding a bear-shaped mug, filled to the brim with coffee, said as they passed. “Just put on a fresh pot.”

“Bout damn time,” Lorenzo grumbled.

The line moved up another. Two more to go. He looked to his right, noticing that he was now standing in front of the office's only copy machine. Turning the yellow tint many electronics from the late twentieth century turned, it must have been as old as the station itself. He doubted that in its entire lifespan it had ever seen the same lines as its coffee-dispensing officemate.

The morning had been off to a busy start, per usual. Only a few high-ranking officials had private offices, with everyone else occupying dark brown wooden desks scattered about an open green carpeted main area, already buzzing with chatter about ongoings and open cases of the day. Adding to the buzz, shortly after he'd turned his head away from the copier, a familiar ring echoed from nearby.

“Oh for goodness sake, is that my phone,” Lorenzo yelled out, knowing full well it was. Nobody else in the station would have chosen to set Queen's “Don't Stop Me Now” as their office ringer, and if they did, how dare they!

No response.

Not about to abandon his place in line after making it so far, he yelled out again. “Could somebody please answer that!?”

No response.

“You have my permission!”

An officer at a nearby desk sprung up and darted into Lorenzo's office, just before Freddie Mercury could inform everyone that he was having a ball.

Lorenzo couldn't hear the conversation over the chatter, though it didn't last long. The officer soon poked his head out from the doorway.

“Sir, I've got Detective Harper on the line. He says it's important.”

“Coffee is important,” Lorenzo yelled back. “Officer...”

“Hewitt, sir. Evan Hewitt.”

“I know your name, Hewitt!” (he didn't)

“He says there's been another one. Last night.”

Lorenzo's grip around the handle of his mug tightened. “Seriously!? The same...”

“Yes sir. Same MO. Same calling card.”

Lorenzo took a deep breath, then let out a frustrated sigh while running his free hand through what remained of his dusty gray hair. “You tell Harper we're sending more heads over there immediately.” He turned back around to face the coffee machine.

“Um, also sir,” Hewitt shouted back.

Lorenzo let out a another long sigh. “What!?”

“Detective Harper also wants to know if we should loop in...”

“Absolutely not! I will not have her sticking her meddlesome paws into this one.”

“But sir, don't you think she's going to find out about it any...”

“Of course I think that! Let's... just not advertise, okay!?”

“Roger, sir.” Hewitt, disappeared back into Lorenzo's office just as Lorenzo finally reached the front of the line. He looked down at the machine to see the carafe empty.

“Fucking cheese!” he yelled.

#katyakat #serialized #fiction

“Quit your flailing around, kid, this isn’t a dancehall!”

Tom’s glance shot back up at the arms-crossed instructor towering above him, to the rest of his row, then to the row behind.

“Apologies, Roth... Sensei.” He straightened back up, mirroring the form held by the peers on either side of him. As the most senior student of Roth’s Academy for Martial Arts, he felt some obligation to lead by example, but sometimes his inner class clown won out.

“I pray, for the sake of all of us, that you’ll have the ants out of your pants before this weekend’s finals. This is the closest our academy has come to the trophy since I stood on that mat.”

Roth motioned her head to the left, towards a flickering digital frame displaying an old class photo; three rows of four, one being a much smaller version of herself, up front, closest to the previous owner, the dapperly dressed Gabriel Case.

Case-Sensei was a local legend in Block 7. His mastery of the craft had earned him a rare one-way ticket to the Continent, where he took a huge risk, using up every remaining credit in his pocket to open the Academy in small section of Calico Tower’s first floor. That small section later grew out to occupy the entire bottom half of the building. Tom had long lost count of how many times Roth had told the story.

“He used to live out of that storage closet over there, you know. This place was his world. Look at what he shaped it into!”

Roth signaled the end of the day’s session and the class broke out of formation. Tom, along with many others, started his way towards the locker room. A blue belt from the back row, had been keeping pace beside him.

“Holy hell, dude, I thought Roth-Sensei was going to flash kick you through the ceiling after that stunt. You know how much these tournaments mean to her.” She pulled the tie from her long black hair and moved it to her wrist.

“Come on, May, I think she’s used to me enough by now to know I can be serious when I need to be. Look at my face!” He turned to her, pointing both fingers at an overly stern facial expression.

May’s face scrunched up, holding back a chuckle. “I really don’t want to laugh at that, Tom”

“But you can’t help it,” he shot back with a smile.

“Hey, you two gigglefolk want to pick up the pace a bit?”

Waiting for the two at the entrance to the locker room, propped up with one foot against the wall, was a tall boy with dreaded hair spinning his own blue belt at his side.

“G… gigglefolk? That’s not a word, Noah.”

“Oh, my dear May, anything can be a word if you dream big enough.”

Noah and May had earned almost every one of their belts at the same time. It had produced a bit of a friendly rivalry, which they’d often mutually overplay for the amusement of friends, Tom included.

“Not to interrupt what I'm sure will be a thrilling back and forth,” Tom cut in, “but we are all still good for the Garden tonight, yes? I think it’ll do us good to detach from these finals for a bit.”

May extended her right hand with a thumbs up. “I’m still good to go! Looks like the weather is going to be awesome tonight.”

“Yeah, it’s like someone forgot to pull the gloom lever,” Noah responded. “Put me down as a still-can-go too.”

“Ugh, the views are going to be so perfect!”

“Spectacular,” Tom responded, breaking into a small dance in front of the two. “Shall we wrap up and prepare for our adventure then?”

May joined in on the dance. “We shall!”

“Hey! You’d better save some of that energy for this weekend!” Roth’s voice could be heard yelling behind the front desk, where she had been doing some wrapping up of her own.

The three laughed and filed into the locker room.

#songbird #shortstory #fiction

Always read the staff list, dear reader.

My time with an old Highlights magazine was cut short by a familiar voice, matching a familiar figure in the doorway.

“Oh. Hell. No.”

“Hi... Stacy,” I said, nearly choking on my words.

“What the hell are you doing here,” she asked.

“I swear, I had no idea you were working here. Barb recommended I get a massage, and that this place was great and...”

“Oh, do you two know each other,” the ponytailed gentleman behind the reception desk, seemingly not reading the room, cut in.

“Unfortunately,” Stacy grumbled.

“I can reschedule,” I said. “With someone else?”

“Don’t bother. I’m the only one with openings right now, and I can be a mature adult. Can you? Finally?”

She turned, walking back through the doorway, seemingly expecting me to follow.

A massage table sat in the center of the small plant-filled room. Ambient music played through a small speaker on the wall, so low it seemed to stop whenever one of us spoke.

“Lie down, face down,” she said, pointing at the table. I followed her directions.

“Am I allowed to talk,” I asked, as her hands gripped my shoulders.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” she said.

I nodded. “Okay. This does feel really good, though.”

I felt the fingers push deeper, and I’m pretty sure the music actually stopped. “You know, you’re a total ass,” she yelled.

One more thing, dear reader. Always ask your partners what they do for a living.

#microfiction #romanticcomedy

From Prime Station One, God Lord Bezos can see it all. Grinning, and cracking twelve-million-dollar knuckles, he gazes down upon his vast empire.

He reaches for a jeweled goblet of the finest privatized water, gripping it like an Amazon Essentials hand grenade, a 2039 bestseller. Bringing the expensive liquid to his lips, he drinks.

“Delicious.”

#shorts #fiction

“Everything all right there, Carl?”

“Oh, just peachy, Cap. Visuals bugged out on me for a moment again there. Had to wait for the service to restart.”

“Jeez, again? Your replacement surrogate will have an improved optics system, so hopefully...”

“Hopefully I'll get it before I time out.”

“Management marked it to be expedited. Best we can do on our end. You know things slow to a crawl when there's a rush on...”

“There's always a rush.”

“Be grateful you've still got this opportunity. A lotta folks...”

“Always.”

Carl let out a deep breath and twisted his right hand. His surrogate mirrored the action, turning the key in the PCDS Delivery Vehicle's ignition.

“We all good?” Cap's voice popped in through the audio channel.

“All good,” Carl responded, moving the weathered chrome hand to the center console. “Everything's back in focus. Resuming route.”

He tapped his name on the console and opened a new log window.

DELAY10MIN REASONTECHNICAL

“Solid. Okay. Pay attention to your meter. My dash is showing you've only got enough Hylo for a couple more runs today. Should be enough to finish the route, but don't dilly dally, yeah?”

“Roger that.”

Carl sighed into the audio pickup of his RMP rig, crammed into the corner of his small probationary continent apartment, as the surrogate stepped out of the delivery vehicle and into what must have been one of the Surface's hottest days on record.

“Okay, kiddo. Let's do this.”

#songbird #shortstory #fiction

The stranger sat down at the bar, two stools from some of the regulars.

Saying it’s uncommon for someone nobody recognizes to be wandering into my saloon would be an understatement, even more so looking like this fellow. Clothes tattered, coated in goodness knows what, the gentleman looked like he’d been wrestling a tiger in a tar pit, and had a smell to match.

The whole place erupted into whispers. Couldn’t make out the lot of them, but I presume they were saying something similar to what I had going through my head.

Some, I also presume, were wondering what I was fixing to do.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m typically more than able to hold my own when a need to get rid of unruly or unwanted guests arises, but I was running low on fuel from a long week and had nothing close to a clue as to what this individual was capable of. Plus, money is money. I figured if this fellow could pay, he was welcome to stay, so long as he didn’t start any fuss.

“You’re new, aren’t ya,” I said, attempting to start some polite dialogue. The stranger looked up at me.

“Just passing through.” His voice was deep and rumbly, like he’d been taking shots of desert sand.

“I see. We don’t get many folks like that here,” I responded with a smile, wiping down a glass. I could feel the stares of half the room locked on the interaction. “Can I get ya something?”

“Whiskey,” he said.

I filled the glass and placed it in front of him. “If you don’t mind me saying, friend, you look like you’ve been through some ordeal. You alright?”

The stranger took a sip from the glass. If the tone of his voice wasn’t serious before, there was no question it was at this point.

“Thank you, kind sir, but an ordeal doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve been through. I’m lucky to be sitting here today in one piece.”

There was something in the way he said it. I can’t explain it, but under that rough, tattered exterior presented in front of me and the other patrons, I began to see a shaken, frightened soul.

“Anything you want to get off your chest,” I asked. “We’re all good folk in this town, and I’m certainly willing to lend an ear if ya need one.”

The stranger stayed silent for a while, then asked, “Ever heard of Whiskey River?”

“Can’t say I have,” I replied. I looked around the room for anyone who may have also heard the question. “Y’all ever heard of Whiskey River,” I shouted.

Head shakes and silence.

“I guess that’s not too surprising,” he said. “We don't get many folks passin' through either.” He finished his glass. “Could I get another, please?” I nodded and poured him one more.

“It’s not the type of place people really get to leave,” he continued.

My eyes widened. “Pardon?”

“Sorry, I guess there’s a lotta story to tell.”

I walked over, moving the whiskey bottle closer to his glass. “I’m listening.”

The stranger swirled his glass as he took in and let out a deep breath.

“Town library don’t offer much as far as dates, but more than a couple generations have been born and buried there, including my Pa and Grandpa. Books say it was founded by a man called Luke. Luke Barrowood.” He looked up at me, as if to see if the name rang any bells.

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” I told him.

He let out a small sigh. “Guess that’s not too surprising. Story goes Luke set out to found a town for brilliant thinker types, to dream up and create all kinds of things. Travel, food production, storage…”

“And whiskey, I’m assuming,” I cut in.

“Of course,” he said, with the closest thing I’d seen to a smile from him since he walked in. “There’s always going to be whiskey, right? Anyway, it started out well enough. Luke managed to convince all kinds of scientists, doctors, engineers, and such to settle down out in the middle of nowhere. Whiskey River was lookin’ to be a new wonder of the world, or something like that.”

“But…”

“But eventually the wrong folks caught wind of Lukes special town too. Those folks also saw potential. Potential riches for the taking.”

“Bandits?”

“Flocks of ‘em. Residents of Whiskey River were smart, but most ‘em weren’t what you’d call fightin’ folk. Story goes years worth of work got snatched up, taken apart, and sold to the highest bidder. There was talk of callin’ it quits, of closing the whole town down and writin’ it off as a failure. But Luke wasn’t about to give up just yet. He told the townsfolk he had one more trick up his sleeve. He gathered up a bunch of those scientists, doctors, and engineers to build a guardian; a protector that would watch over the town. That guardian was Parakeet.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I nearly choked on the Gin I’d been sipping while listening to the stranger’s tale. “Did you say Parakeet? Like the little bird?”

“Luke seemed to think it was clever. Parakeet is far from little though; an over fifty foot mechanical monster. I think the engineers called it an automaton.”

I put my glass down.

“Wasn’t enough to have someone control it like a puppet; too many chances for human error, Luke’d say. No, Luke took it upon himself to build this creature a mind of its own.”

At this point, more than half the saloon had left their seats and drifted over, as drawn into the story as I was. “But how is that even possible,” I asked.

“Nobody knows,” the stranger said. “At least, nobody remembers. And the books don’t say.” He took another deep breath.

“Parakeet was very good at his job. He either killed all the bandits off, or word spread enough for the rest to know it was a bad idea to come tryin’ somethin'. The future for Whiskey River looked mighty bright for a while until…”

He stopped.

“Until?” I responded.

“Yeah, until?” an eavesdropping patron shouted from the back of the newly gathered crowd. The strangers hand started to shake.

“Until it wasn’t,” he continued. “Thing about giving a monster a mind of its own is it starts to think on its own. Parakeet had his own ideas about what was good for Luke and the townsfolk of Whiskey River. He decided the only way to keep us safe was to make sure nobody got in and nobody got out.”

“Why didn’t Luke just… shut him off,” another patron asked.

“Story says he tried, but he realized too late that he’d built something that was never meant to be controlled. Nobody knows for sure what happened, but nobody saw Luke again after he went to confront him up at his perch.

Soon after, we were forbidden from speaking of Parakeet, and later from speaking at all. Anyone who did, well, they went the way of Luke.”

It took some serious strength to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. “What did the townsfolk do,” I asked.

“Wasn’t much we could do,” he said. “Every couple of years, you’ll have some folks that’ll try to organize and rise up against the beast, but Parakeet’ll always manage to catch ‘em. More common, some brave, foolish soul will try to sneak out of town undetected. That don’t usually go very well either.”

“Usually?”

“Usually,” he said. “Like I said, I’m lucky to be sitting here today.”

Another patron leaned forward. “Do you need anything? Where are you going to go?” The room was flooded with questions.

“So what now,” I asked him.

The stranger pushed his empty glass towards me. “Now, I thank you all for the hospitality… and I go back.”

“You can’t be serious…” The whole saloon was wearing the same expression.

“I’ve got a brother and sister in Whiskey River… and I made them a promise. This freedom’s nothin’ without family.”

With that, the stranger got up, tossed some coins on the table, and walked towards the exit. As the door swung open, I called out to him.

“Do you need someone to come along with you? There’s gotta be some way we can help.”

The stranger stopped, for a moment, in the doorway. “I think it’s best that y’all just forget about Whiskey River,” he said.

“Maybe that way we'll never see another one.”

#hitrecord #shortstory #fiction #submissions

Stranded, out in the cosmos, all I hear is static. White noise where there had once been chatter.

My face is itchy. I can see its reflection in my visor, superimposed over an ocean of stars.

Stars, planets, and my ship.

My ship. No more than twelve feet away. May as well be twelve miles out here.

I'm alone, but I don't feel it. Not yet. Just my face. I wish I could scratch it.

I wish I could feel the recycled air from the vent in my cabin. I wish I could hear its hum, the whir of the filtration system, the echoes in the corridors.

I just wish.

In an ocean of stars, you can wish forever. Until it takes you as its own.

#shorts #hitrecord #submissions

Everyone remembers the day the man in black breached the maze.

“My lord, The Dark Emperor’s forces continue to grow. I’m not sure how much longer we can hold them off.”

Rogan, First General to the King, could hardly speak through struggles to catch his breath upon entering the castle throne room; the young man’s dirty blonde hair made dirtier from ash which had mixed into a sludge of sweat and blood.

King David sat atop his throne, accompanied by his advisor, Ganji, and his other Second Generals, James and Austin; all eyes shifting between the giant entrance doors and a small decorated box to the right of the platform.

For years, a sorcerer calling himself the Dark Emperor had been attempting to reach castle Pillact and steal the box’s contents. Nobody knew his motives, and the Dark Emperor never explained himself. This evening had been an attempt like no other, however, bringing with it a massive army surrounding the castle perimeter. Numbers continued to increase to those beyond that of King David’s army.

Screams of soldiers on both sides grew louder, echoing through the halls and ears of everyone within. It was all only briefly drowned out by the sound of the throne room doors pushing open once more, revealing a single member of David’s highest-ranking battalion, armor badly battered and face so gashed that none of the generals nor the king could tell exactly who he was. He had only made it a couple of steps in before collapsing to the ground.

“We tried,” he gasped. “We tried, but it was hopeless. There are just too many of them. Save yourself, my king.”

The soldier lowered his head back to the ground, never to speak again.

David, normally known for his calm, became frenetic, hand grabbing around the side of his throne for his sword. Shaking, he gripped the handle, holding it close to his side. James and Austin ran to the two golden doors of the throne room, pushing them closed and barricading them with the help of a number of soldiers.

“He’s sure to come here.” Austin said. “It’s best that we at least delay him.”

Ganji turned to his king. “What should we do with Taleb?”

“Leave it be,” David said. “If we hide it, he’ll find it. We’re going to have to try and protect it ourselves.” He stood up from the throne and unsheathed his sword.

“Even if that means we die trying.”

The generals, accompanied by Ganji, rushed to Taleb, drawing their own weapons as well, the yells continuing to grow louder, as if they were coming from the next room.

It wasn’t long before the barricaded doors began to shake, the rods holding them starting to come loose. It soon became too powerful for the barricade to hold and the doors burst open, sending bodies and pieces of shattered support rods in every direction while smoke crept into the throne room. The hearts of everyone began to beat faster, knowing very well what would be revealed when the smoke faded.

Out from the smoke he stepped; eyes, as cold as ice and armor as black as night. His pace remained slow as he walked towards the group, stopping just a few feet from the king.

The man in black gave no introduction. He didn’t need one. There wasn’t a soul in the room who didn’t know who stood before them.

“The Dark Emperor,” Austin said under his breath.

“So... David,” the man uttered. “Finally, we meet face to face.”

“I’ll never give it to you,” the king yelled.

“What a shame. Well then, I guess I’ll just have to take it.”

With that, he raised his hand, causing a green beam-like staff to materialize in his palm. David held his sword out in front of him, prepared to protect Taleb with his life, and charged the Dark Emperor swinging frantically. Unfortunately, not a single swing hit its intended target, passing right through the Dark Emperor, as if he had swung at a ghost.

“Is that the best you can do,” the Dark Emperor laughed. His staff began to glow an even brighter green as the three generals near the back of the room watched in terror. The outcome of this encounter was becoming very clear.

A beam emerged from the end of the staff, hitting the king’s chest, knocking him to the floor.

“Pathetic,” the Dark Emperor laughed again. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He paused briefly before shifting his glance towards the generals. “I guess so. I believe that means the three of you are next. Now, are you going to play nice, or any of you planning on playing hero too?”

Each man stood perfectly still for what, to them, felt like an eternity. Though none uttered a single word, each knew what the other was thinking. He couldn’t be allowed to have it. They pointed their swords at the intruder.

“We would give our lives to protect Taleb,” Rogan yelled. “You may have defeated our King, but you won’t defeat the three of us together.”

“How foolish to be so certain,” the Dark Emperor said. “And as for your lives… It will be my pleasure to take them.”

His staff continued to grow brighter as he walked towards the three men, until it had changed into a blinding white.

All ran towards him, attacking in almost perfect unison, and all watched each attack, as with David earlier, pass through the Dark Emperor without so much as a scratch. They too, like their king, soon fell victim to his staff.

The man in black looked down at the lifeless bodies on the floor and laughed.

“What a waste.”

He turned to face two of his own soldiers, who had been waiting and watching quietly outside the throne room entrance.

“Do whatever you’d like to these… ants, but do ensure they never see the sun again.”

The soldiers ran to the fallen men as the Dark Emperor shifted his focus back to the small locked box beside David’s throne. Another beam from his staff shattered the lock as he began to walk towards it.

The box opened to reveal an ornate glass bottle of thick purple liquid. As his soldiers dragged the first two men from the room, the intruder in black removed the bottle, placing it into an empty pouch on his side.

“At long last,” he said. “It begins.”

“Taleb is mine.”

#nostalgia #fantasy #novel

At least once a year, I'd fly out West, taking that train up and down the coast, visiting incredible friends along the way.

This adorable itinerary, complete with illustrations, detailed someone's adventure to the zoo. Many of the hand-drawn boxes had been left unchecked, but I've always imagined they'd managed to have a spectacular time and made some neat new memories.

Something about this step-by-step outline for an exciting day made me want to hang onto it and bring it back with me to Florida, so I rolled it up and stuffed it in my backpack before getting off at my stop.

Back before I had become lost to the point of no longer covering my walls, I used to pin this little wrinkled sheet of paper up, near the door, in every apartment I lived in.

Over a recent holiday break, I dug it up from within a storage box in my Fort Lauderdale family home and brought it back to New York, where I promptly pinned it to my wall, near the door...

A reminder that every day should be a great adventure.

#nostalgia #travel