Corpus Delicti

“Seriously, Perry, you shouldn’t eat the Fae.” Barton’s glasses were glowing, reflecting the flames from the campfire. His head was wrapped in a black plastic bag and his face was smeared with soot. Draped over his shoulders was a thick, soiled cloak made from an old quilt. He was sharpening his machete, applying the sandstone to the blade in slow, loving strokes. “I’m serious, Perry, killing it is understandable but eating it? You’ll bring us all bad luck.”

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The Animal Lover

It was late and a frost had settled, crisp and brittle, over a thin trail running between the Rhine and the sagging, weary town. Hond sniffed the air and the cold stung but he was sure he smelled the warm, metallic tang of food. At this hour no butcher would be plying his trade so he suspected a darker tradesman had left the meat cooling in the winter air. He followed his nose through the filth along the river bank and the water flowed, black and sluggish, no faster than he walked. The river reeked of sewage and threatened to drown the smell of blood that cut a ribbon through the air and led Hond on a desperate hunt for sustenance. He was close now and began to run in the hopes that he might be the first to the meal. The competition would be fierce and he wasn’t sure he could survive another fight, a collision of fangs and boney hides, over meager scraps of garbage.

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When Summoned

Charlie paused, silhouetted in the doorway, and slapped dust from his leathers while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A window overlooked the mud of Main Street but the glass had long been stained by grime that choked every feeble mote of light. The Law Office of Martin Banks Esq. was painted on the window in gold script and the lettering was chipped and fading. Like everything in Cherry Cove it was worn and in a state of advanced disrepair.

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The Spirit of Giving

It’s Christmas morning in St. Joseph, Michigan, and Caroline Hubbard peels away layers of thick, silver wrapping paper to reveal a heavy, yellowed wheel of cheese. Odor, rich and fetid, spreads across the living room in a wave and her husband looks up, frowning from his easy chair.

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Sun Chang Happy Fortune

    My boss takes a bubbling sip from his caramel latte and steam from the drink fogs his glasses. His lips are wet and pouting, his eyes are weak and watery. They don’t match the power he’s struggling to project from behind his desk, a giant oak sonofabitch that’s been in his family for generations.

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