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IN THE LAND OF WORROMOT

IN THE LAND OF WORROMOT

To the one who knows it all, I salute you. I admire you. I’m even jealous of you. (Don’t tell.) You should know that I used to be one of you. I used to understand the deepest threads of philosophy and the longest ribbons of words a voice can speak.

FREDDIE RUSTLER AND THE MAGICAL MEAL

FREDDIE RUSTLER AND THE MAGICAL MEAL

Here’s something you might not know: If you’re meeting a magician for breakfast, you must never order soup. The act is very much like using an umbrella to kayak stormy waters or dressing in clown costume to mow an unsightly lawn. It is simply not done. Some say the soup

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part Three]

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part Three]

Another white wine, chilled so her fingers ran down the glass to clear away a light layer of frost. How he knew – when she didn’t say – that she only drank Sauvignon Blanc could’ve been a mystery worthy of Premier Private Detective investigation but something about a missing painting or a dangerous message

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part Two]

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part Two]

“Perceptions are like waves. They ebb and flow with the moon.” This was one of the many strange things Mr. Dupoil told Miriam while they waited for Sandoval Jorgi to return home. He also told her, “Men who wear gloves shouldn’t be trusted.” And, “Never eat refrigerated cheese.” They had

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part One]

THE CASE OF THE MISSING VEUVIAN COLPETTA [Part One]

Miriam Baxter lived life on the periphery, or so she told anyone who might ask. Really, she lived at 55 Snowflake Drive in a skinny building wedged between tall pines and a railway, and made from ten little apartments neatly stuffed inside a dark brick frame. With prim type –

THE WHISPERS OF WHEAT

THE WHISPERS OF WHEAT

“I wake up every morning and say to myself, ‘Son of a bitch, I’m still alive.'” It was the farmer, John Dittlesby, who said this between falsetto snivels of his wicker rocking chair. Before that he sat in silence, staring at an upturned floorboard on the porch that wrapped a dilapidated

THE HANDS OF SALAMANDRE [PART 1]

THE HANDS OF SALAMANDRE [PART 1]

“This story begins as many stories do: from the very start and from nowhere else in between. It is a tale about what follows that distinct moment in every great man’s life, when he must choose a path between defending his beliefs or else accepting his ultimate demise. And in

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THE GOLDEN CLAIM-JUMPER

For as long as he could remember, Cash Silver thought his name unfitting but today – with only a bankrupt bar in Colorado and three dead goldfish to call his own – the thought was stronger than ever before. Cash Silver seemed right for a six-foot-four cowboy with bronzed skin and

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AN INTERVIEW NEAR SIGNAL STREET

The subway car came to an abrupt halt.      “Signal Street!”      With a polite nod to the plumpish redhead whose morose stares he had endured for the larger part of his 57-minute trip from Eagleshead to Signal Street (“So sorry miss, didn’t mean to bump you there”),

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