Shots fired shots fired ... narcotics, dirty money... moonlighting officers with ghost-guns borrowed from the evidence lockers as gunshots ring through the night ... another corpse of a rap-star is found ... There's blood on the wax as hip-hop bleeds over the turntables, the case turns cold before it's in the ground ... Yet another closed casket with no clues ... Just another homicide where the evidence never left the locker room ... waiting to be disposed of after the original case is closed... It's simply a mystery, just another nothing murder ... At the stop-signs with flashing lights, gang members hide in plain sight behind a badge and a smile ... Nobody cares if they skim off the raids ... A room full of hookers, cocaine and dirty money ... it's how they like to party ... Some neighbourhood kids were set up for a little bank robbery that the cops themselves committed ... a classic case of wrong place wrong time, now they're down for twenty-five-to-life without the possibility of parole ... A victimless crime - as the evidence don't lie - especially when it is planted by professionals ... If nobody saw it, it was never there ... If you did see it, you simply wouldn't be believed ... but who would dare question them, as they act up like big stars, living life beyond their means ...
​

“Where to?” he asked his granddaughter Lucy as they stepped off the merry-go-round.

“Roller coaster!”

“That one?” he said, pointing to the kiddie coaster.

“No, Poppy. The big one!”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Yes,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes. “I’m seven!”

“Okay.”

When his kids were growing up, he’d taken them on the big coaster many times. But he hadn’t ridden it for 25 years. It had made him sick, and he swore he’d never ride it again.

Now he and Lucy were heading for that very ride. He’d begun taking her to this amusement park once a summer. Until now, she’d been content with the kiddie rides. But she was growing up. She was adventurous and full of energy. Now, as they approached the big coaster, Lucy jumped up and down with excitement.

“Do you love this ride, Poppy?”

“I used to. I haven’t ridden it in a long time.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to scare her.

“Because I haven’t been out of kiddie land for years!” he said.

That was true. But it was also true that he just wasn’t up to riding roller coasters anymore.

“This is going to be so fun!” Lucy said, looking up at him with a big smile.

She looks so much like her mother as a kid, he thought. That seemed so long ago, before his life became so serious, when he still took time to play.

They had reached the front of the line. Watching the coaster slowly glide toward them, he felt lightheaded. He felt like baling out.

But then it came to a stop, the aluminum gate in front of them swung open and Lucy said, “Come on, Poppy.”

She slid into their car. He sat beside her and helped her with her seatbelt before buckling his own. Then he lowered the safety bar. Too late to turn back now.

A ride attendant made her way along the cars, tugging on all the bars to make sure they were secure.

“All clear,” someone said over the loudspeaker.

His heart was pounding. He was breathing hard.

The coaster slowly took off. They went around a bend, then began climbing the big first hill. Click, click, click.

“How high will we go, Poppy?”

He looked over at his granddaughter. She looked worried. She’s too young to worry, he thought. Life will get serious soon enough.

He held out his hand. She took it and squeezed it tight.

“Everything will be okay,” he said with a smile.

As they reached the top, he let out a whoop, like he used to on roller coasters as a boy. It made Lucy laugh. They held hands and screamed in delight the rest of the way.

As they rolled into the station, Lucy said, “Let’s go again, Poppy!”

“Okay,” he said, still holding her hand.
​

As Diana set foot in the bathtub, blade in one hand and the liquor bottle in the other, Cherubin plaintively meowed as though the little critter divined her owner’s terminal intentions. What irked Diana was that she knew Cherubin wasn’t hungry. She had already made sure to leave her a plateful of food and had intentionally left the bedroom window ajar. In case her suicide went as planned, Cherubin would exit to safety. But her vocal persistence distracted Diana from her mission and snapped her out of her intoxication–the idea that a soul cared, albeit an animal's, made a difference. She hence donned her bathrobe, set down what was in her hands, and picked up Cherubin gingerly: “Concerned for Mummy, Arrenchye angel?”

Diana’s despair was rooted in her separation from her five-year-long hubby, the loss of her mom to COVED, and the ensuing suicide of her grieving father, in rapid succession.

She set Cherubin on the floor, calmed down. Diana went to the living room and crashed on the sofa, falling in deep sleep.

She woke up the next morning with a hangover, so she made a latte and seated herself on the tattered sofa on the porch of the dilapidated country house she resided in. As she reflected on what she plotted to do last night, she smiled at her furry angel napping beside her. She firmly believed Cherubin, relevantly named, knowingly and purposely intervened.

As she looked down on the porch's wooden floor, suddenly a large wasp dropped and beat its wings frantically before its fluttering came to a quick halt.

Soon after, a rambling, tiny ant approached, checked the dead insect, and feverishly traced back its steps. Diana sipped her drink, pensively engaged.

Many minutes passed, then a group of ants came and made repeated attempts at hauling the huge wasp. About two dozen of them worked in unison to haul it down one of the porch's wooden beams, but as they reached the end of the floor, the sharp angle made many haulers lose touch with the ground and left them suspended in the air.

The crowd fell down. Upon hitting ground, they were in disarray but quickly regrouped round the insect. They repeated the same attempt over and over, not minding the precipitous fall nor the wasted effort. Gradually, they decided to dismember the wasp. Some invaded its wings, others went for the limbs, hacking on voraciously, tirelessly, till all that was left was a headless torso. Within an hour, there was no trace of the wasp. Their collaborative effort paid off.

Diana reflected, life is full of hardships but perseverance and communal engagement create purpose. She must go on, for Cherubin's sake, for her country. It was cowardice to give in, to call it quits before she even began life. A young, pretty woman in her mid-twenties like her full of promise ought never to succumb to depression. She got up, rode her car heading to town, determined to get a job somewhere, anywhere.
​

“Howard,” Rachel called, “there are police cars in front of our house.” Howard looked out the window, counted six police vehicles disgorging armed officers wearing body armor and helmets with clear face shields. Two officers carried a large battering ram.

“Oh my word,” gasped Rachel. “They’re coming up our walk!”

The door frame shattered, the door flew open and officers rushed into the house. “Freeze,” screamed the first officer. He pointed a black rifle at Howard and Rachel. Another officer with sergeant stripes on his arms said, “Clear the house. Bring anyone you find here.” Three officers fanned out from the group.

“Are you Howard Morgan?” the sergeant demanded.

“Yes,” Howard said.

“Who are you?” the sergeant said to Rachel.

“Rachel Morgan,” she stammered. Rachel clung to Howard’s arm, her mouth dry as sand, her eyes wide and full of fear.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Morgan,” the sergeant said.

“What for?”

The sergeant read from a piece of paper he held. “Violation of Revised U.S. Code, American Regulation Number 15, failure to buy another firearm within the time frame mandated by federal law.”

“Howard, you didn’t buy another gun in the last two years?” said Rachel.

“No.”

“What did you do with the money?”

“I used it to pay for your prescriptions the insurance company refused to cover.”

The three officers returned. One said, “The house is clear, Sergeant Brett.” He pointed his rifle at Howard and Rachel as he spoke. “Just these two.”

Sergeant Brett turned to Howard. “We have to take you in, Mr. Morgan.”

“Arms behind your back, Sir,” said an officer. He stepped behind Howard and put cuffs on Howard’s wrists.

“How long will I be in jail?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. Violation of AR-15 is a class-A felony. Sometimes bail is granted and sometimes violators are remanded until they go to trial. Depends on the judge.” Two officers took Howard by his elbows and hustled him out to the police cars.

“Am I being arrested, too?” asked Rachel.

“No. Your name isn’t on the warrant,” said Sergeant Brett.

“What’s going to happen to me? I’ll die without Howard.”

“You aren’t our concern.”

“Why does the government force us to keep buying guns? This law is wrong, and you know it.”

“We don’t write the laws, Mrs. Morgan. We just enforce them.” Sergeant Brett turned to the remaining officers. “Let’s go.”

Rachel stood in the shattered doorway and watched the police cars drive away. “How did this happen?” she said to the silence surrounding her.
​

The meeting went on longer than I'd anticipated. When I powered up my phone there was a plethora of missed calls from my wife.

I didn't call her. Experience told me she'd be enraged, and we'd row before I got home at all. The journey took ten minutes and I pulled into our drive.

"You're late," she shouted.

"Sorry, sweetie. But I'm here now, so go and enjoy your night with the girls." I wasn't surprised by her tone. After twelve years of marriage, I was used to it.

I poured myself a cocktail and sauntered upstairs to our bedroom.

My beloved was standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing what can best be described as a figure-hugging dress, if only one had the figure for it to hug.

My gut told me to kiss her neck and leave. However, I'm a guy not known for listening to my inner voice. I was tired. It had been a long day. I picked up the newspaper, kicked off my shoes, and lay back on the bed. I sipped my drink and sighed with pleasure. Then she asked:

"Does my bum look big in this?"

It was always the same If I said no, she'd call me a liar, and if I said yes she'd dissolve into tears. I looked up for a mere second. Any longer meant I needed time to think

"No, dear. You look lovely." I smiled.

I buried my head in the newspaper. Above the rim of my spectacles, I watched her twist and turn, trying to view the reflection from every angle.

To be honest, over the years, and after carrying our three children, my wife had gained some weight. However, in my eyes, she was still the girl I fell in love with fifteen years ago Next was the question I'd been dreading.

"Honey, are you sure? I don't want to go out looking like an elephant."

Should I tell the truth and suggest an alternative from her wardrobe? I couldn't break her heart so without looking up I said. "You look fine."

She believed me. After applying some lipgloss and brushing her hair, she blew me a kiss.

"I won't be late. We're having dinner and some drinks at 'The Plaza.'"

"Don't worry. The kids are fine. You enjoy yourself."

"I'll say goodnight to them before I go."

Our sons were sleeping, so she quietly closed their door. I heard her tiptoe into our four-year-old daughter's room. Katie was still awake.

"Honey, why are you not sleeping?"

"Not tired, Mom," she said, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Well, sweetie, it's late, so please try."

There was silence before I heard words that chilled me to the bone.

"Mom, did that dress used to fit you?"

As my wife approached I locked the bathroom door. It was dawn before she stopped screaming and I let myself out.

Who said women are the weaker sex?
​

“I’m moving away Mum. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m selling the house and moving to a lovely little Village to live by the beach.

I know you love this City. You’ve live here all your life but I don’t want to live my whole life two streets away from where I was born. Besides, there’s no beach here and you know I’ve always wanted to live by the beach.

I’ve found a house, only five minutes walk from the sea front. You can smell the ocean when you open the windows and hear the sea gulls. If you listen carefully you can hear the sounds of the pebbles moving across each other as the sea ebbs and flows. It’s wonderful. I’m even looking forward to the winter when the sea is wild. The awesome force of nature. A bit like you at times.

Do you remember when my daughter was born? Of course you do, silly question. I phoned you in the morning to tell you that you had a new granddaughter and you turned up at the hospital within the hour. It didn’t matter that it was outside of visiting hours or that the hospital staff said no visitors. You weren’t leaving until you saw us.

Anyway Mum, I’m reminiscing when I really wanted to talk about the move. I’ve been dreading telling you because I know you don’t understand why someone doesn’t love the city as much as you do. Village life maybe quiet, but it’s what I want.

After weeks of avoiding the subject I’ve finally plucked up the courage to tell you, that’s why I came around.

But I never got to tell you did I mum?

I used to let myself in and call to you and you’d be there in the kitchen ready to put the kettle on. I’ll never forget letting myself in that day and calling your name. Silence. Stomach churning I pushed open your bedroom door and there you were still in bed asleep. Only this time your sleep was eternal.
 
Standing here today in the garden or remembrance looking at the glorious rose planted in memory of you, I’m telling you all the things I never got to say on that awful day in July. I live by the beach now like I said I was going to and you’ve moved on too.

You know I’ve always believed there is so much more that this physical existence and I truly believe that you’ve gone to the next level, which is infinitely better than this one. I can’t visit you anymore, but you’re only in the next room.

Not everyone believes in the afterlife in the same way as I do, but if they only follow the science, they’ll know that energy cannot be destroyed, it simply takes another form.
 
We are all made from star dust.
 
Mum, you are all that was; all that is; and all that ever will be.
 
I’ll see you again one day.”
​

The food server stood next to the table, pen poised over her order pad, smiled and asked pleasantly, “What will you have, Hon?”

Hon? The word rattled Howard. He had never been called Hon before. He didn’t know how to respond. It took him some time to get his breakfast order straight.

“Here you are, Hon.” She put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon strips on the table, refilled his coffee cup and said, “Enjoy.”

Howard thought about the word Hon as he ate. He wasn’t sure of its spelling. Could she have meant Hun? Of course not. He didn’t act or look like Attila, so Hun was out. Hon had to be short for Honey. Yes, that was it. But why was a food server calling him Hon?

He left a 25-percent tip on the table, paid his bill and went home. All day he thought about the implication of being called Hon. What did it mean? To get some resolution to this vexing question he fired up his computer and got on the Web.

Hon, he discovered, was an appellation, along with Luv, Dear, and Sweetheart, frequently used to address older persons in a polite and endearing way without using their given names. Other sites suggested Hon was a gentle but dismissive and impersonal way of addressing older persons.

Older persons? Those words shocked Howard. Was he really an older person? He didn’t feel old. He wondered how an older person was described. For an answer he turned to the Web again.

A few of the sites he scanned startled him by suggesting geezer was frequently used as an impolite synonym for older person.

Howard went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “Dude, you are a geezer,” he said to the ageing image staring back at him. “Deal with it.”

Saddened by the forced acceptance of this truth, Howard sat in his favorite chair and considered his condition; the food server had, by uttering one small word, metaphorically changed him into an older person then into a geezer and then transported him and his comfy little cottage from the town of Chipping Norton where he now lived to the village of Geezerville where he knew he would dwell until he died.

What a transformation! And all in one day! Then he laughed out loud and said, “At least she didn’t say, Waddaya want, ya old fart?”

The next day Howard sat at the same table in the cafe. The same server approached and with pen poised over her order pad, smiled at him and said, “What will you have, Hon?”

Howard grinned and said, “Scrambled eggs and bacon, Sweetheart.”
​

Mother kept her father in a cookbook. Julia Child, but still. He dropped from the pages one day and I picked him up. "You belong in the family gallery," I said, carrying him to the wall of relatives. I pinned him where he fit best but he wriggled away like a sullen butterfly. I took him to be framed and watched the twist of wire attach to his back. "Let’s try this again," I said as I hung him from the new hook on the wall. He pulled away and fell off. "And again!" I murmured, hammering a sturdy nail into the wall. I set him on that but he writhed and swung and would not stay put. "Maybe you just want to be with your wife." I pushed some uncles out of the way so he could join the woman he had abandoned long ago. But then the wall began to crack and crumble, spilling entire generations onto the floor. I picked up my grandfather, marched him into the kitchen and into the book he had come from.There was no resistance this time. I piled every other book in the house on top of him, just to make sure.
​

It started like any evening, sitting around, wasting away in his depressive excuse for an apartment. The cracked and yellowed linoleum in the kitchen had taken on the appearance of what Treddle could only describe as a three-legged dog with the face of Marlon Brando.

At first, it was simple, polite conversation and favours. "Would you mind scratching behind my ear? Third tile to the left."

Treddle didn't speak canine, and nobody understood the actor.

One night the polite conversation was replaced by demands. "Never bring a mop into this room!" Brandog barked. "You walk around! Not on, around! Get it!"

By this point, the entirety of the kitchen was now off-limits. Treddle had to stop keeping his vodka in the freezer.

Later that afternoon, Treddle awoke from a bout of day drinking. He could hear Brandog whispering, but to whom? He had no idea. His best guess would be the insectoid demons that had taken over the sink, freaky multi-legged bastards. There's also a splinter cell in the bathroom with biochemical counterinsurgency and freakish guerilla tactics.

Treddle was sure they were planning to one day invade the living room, his very last bastions of hope.
​

Every morning on the way to work Howard walked by a house where a little white poodle lived. Sometimes the poodle sat in the window and watched Howard pass by on the sidewalk.

Howard named the poodle Pablito and began calling to him as he came near the house. After several days, the little white dog began sitting by the window with his black nose pressed against the glass, waiting for Howard to appear.

One morning Howard stopped opposite the window, said, “Good morning, my friend,” then clapped his hands and shouted, “Pablito, Pablito, Pabliiiiiito!” The little white dog responded by jumping up and down, barking and pawing frantically at the window. Howard smiled, waved his hand at the little dog and walked on.

Over the months this became a morning ritual; Pablito, with his nose against the glass and Howard calling to the little dog from the sidewalk.

One morning an old woman stood outside the house. Pablito trembled with excitement as Howard approached. Howard stopped opposite the window, called to Pablito and clapped his hands. Pablito barked and pawed at the glass.

“You son of a bitch!” the old woman shrieked. “You’ve ruined my dog! His name is Murphy, not Pablito!” She went into the house and slammed the door.

The next morning, Howard walked a different route to work and never went by Pablito’s house again.

​

I became attached to you in the schoolyard when we were eleven years old but you were distracted, too busy, with ballet class, piano, chorus, and all the girls in your circle. Still, I hung around and waited. Then spring turned into summer and summer into fall, and the seasons rolled-rolled on and on until you fell, got caught up with someone else, a foul guy. Everyone knew he was up to “no good,” running around, lying, and smacking you hard when you dared to question him.

Now you're here, you’re finally here beside me on the farm with his baby, the carbon of you, those nut brown eyes and golden curls. My hope is you both will grow to love the land, and the horses, the sweet scenery, with the whoosh of the creek nearby. My hope is, we will find a kind of sleepy life, and I can tuck you away, shield you from the darkness in this world.

Yes, we can be those school kids again, Vivian, under the endless sky, carefree.
​

Donna was a woman of easy virtue who lived in the quiet Mid-West town of Spitsville. She made no attempt to hide her source of income; far from it, she advertised on television, sponsored local events and handed out leaflets outside church after Sunday services. Donna loved the limelight. And for the most part, folks around Spitsville just shrugged their shoulders, accepting that every town needed a Donna like it needed a sheriff: and Donna provided an ‘education service’ of sorts.

No one, including the IRS, knew how much Donna earned. But as she grew older, what did become clear that she was using hard-earned dollars to buff up her image. The hair was always blonde, her face botoxed and there were even rumours that she wore a wig. She continued to earn, but with age and experience came power: town officials and politicians discovered Donna was not a woman to cross. If Donna thought Spitsville needed a new shopping mall, it was as good as built.

Things changed completely the year Spitsville decided to elect its town prostitute. Forced to seek Republican Party nomination, Donna found herself up against a Joanie-come-lately in Lolita Leybrand, a young Democrat brunette. The campaign was dirty. In the event, Lolita was the clear winner, but Donna was having none of it. On the very day Lolita was due to be sworn in, a party of Donna’s most loyal clients stormed the town hall. Four people died, including a police officer.

A furious Spitsville split in two. The Democrats wanted to charge Donna for insurrection; Donna’s supporters insisted that no such assault on the town hall had ever happened, it was all “fake news”. What was needed was hard evidence of serious lawbreaking.

But this, of course, was Spitsville, and even if folk weren’t that bothered about an attempted revolution, financial cheating was another matter. Daniel Storm, an old client of Donna’s from way back, came forward to testify he’d paid her $500,000 in service fees, but she hadn’t paid anything in local taxes. Locals had starved because of Donna’s greed. Clearly Donna was therefore a witch. And Donna agreed: it was a witch-hunt, she said.

Donna was therefore put on trial in the one way that would establish if she were indeeed a witch. Tied to a stool, she was ducked in the town pond. Innocent, she’d drown; guilty, she’d survive.

Fully five minutes later, the stool re-surfaced. A triumphant Donna had not only survived, she’d emerged triumphant, waving and promising to “make Spitsville great again”. For half of those watching, it was proof that Donna was guilty as charged; to the other half, Donna was a god, the new Messiah. The two groups started to argue, then they came to blows, then the guns came out. Until then, folk in Spitsville had always wondered why the US needed a Second Amendment, but now their no-longer-quiet town had finally found a use for their weapons.

Meanwhile, Donna just stood and watched. And grinned.