Short Story Time: Schrodinger's Author Part 4

 Sorry for the delay. Auntie has had such a busy week. Back to school and all that jazz. Since it has been a while, here's an update from our beloved Keystone Kop.

     There comes a time in an old cop’s life when they wonder if they should just turn in the badge and gun. Never fear, dear reader, this is not one of those times. I will find the missing authors if it is the last thing I do. How do I know they’re just missing and not dead? Easy, they’re still on social media, some of them have new books coming out, and they all seem totally clueless as to what is going on around them. Just ping their phones, you say? That just leads to the middle of the ocean and we all know she has them hidden in a cabin in the woods, she said so.

     I have every police force (but not the officers who are writers, they might be in on it) searching every cabin even remotely thought to be in the woods. We’ve even been approved for hazard pay regarding poison ivy, poison sumach, and teddy bear picnics. Yes, teddy bear picnics. That is what the ladies are calling them. The world has gone crazy. They are setting up picnics in bear territories(do not actually do this. I am begging you!) and having lunch as the bears just wander around. Some of these picnics have led to death but there has always been a note that reads “Better the honest bear than the lying man.” It is like these women have set up a movement of some kind. 

     Where was I before the bear rant? Oh yes, with every cabin in the United States and Canada thoroughly searched, we have decided to try the ocean again where all the authors phones are said to be located. To reach the location quickly, President Biden and Vice President Harris have let me borrow their fastest sub in the fleet, Sea Force One(patent pending), to see if there is anyway they have been thrown overboard and someone else on a boat with their phones. When looking for lost authors, one must learn to think like an author. 

     Sea Force One had us in the general location of the phones in two hours thanks to the Extra Super Amazing Nuke Engine (patent pending). What we found was amazing. On the floor of the ocean was a huge bubble of non-degradable glass. Inside the bubble was a small forest (don’t ask me how, I’m a cop, not a scientist). I could see birds flying, foxes running, rabbits jumping. Over to the left was a deer. Is that a freaking bear? Even down here? Really ladies? As we docked at the front door of the bubble, my fugitive came out of the cabin at the edge of the woods. She looks a little different, more like a bog witch in her dark velvets and lace. 

  “Officer, it took you long enough to find us.”

  “You didn’t make it easy and it’s Detective. You’re under arrest for false imprisonment, kidnapping multiple people, and I’m sure I can find somewhere in the States to charge you with witchcraft.”

  “This again? Do you see any authors here?”

  “Cuff her. Search the grounds. Stop flirting with the cops, it won’t save you.”

     My fugitive sulked while leaning against the porch railing, her hands cuffed in front of her. I joined the other officers in the cabin and I could not believe my eyes. It was a one room cabin but oh, what a room! Crystal chandelier, a wall of ornate bookshelves but instead of books, there are cauldrons. As I stride further into the room, heads start popping out of the cauldrons. Finn, Handler, Lane… wait! When the hell did she have time to collect Blackwood? On a lower shelf is LaFauci and Wright in a very Bedazzled, very sparkly cauldron. Flittering from cauldron to cauldron, is Ward, the missing librarian. Is she organizing the authors? Is she in on this too?

  “Put that little one in a jar until we figure out if she’s an accomplice. Don’t forget holes in the lid so she stays alive. Can we get a male officer for Blackwood? He’s seducing all the ladies again.”

     It took a few hours but we got all the authors safely on Sea Force One. Apparently, they refused to leave unless they were carried in their cauldrons. I really hope this is the last time I have to work with authors. My fugitive is going away for a long time after this.

Short Story Time: Schrodinger's Writer Part 3

Apologies for being a day late. Busy life, you understand. 

In last week's episode, our intrepid Author Collector had fled the police, drove to Spain (don't use logic, there's none to be found here), kidnapped Morgan who is an author with an insane sparkly addiction (you should see her shoe/purse collection. Sparkalicious!), and by now has returned to the States (driving due to a fear of flying... well, not so much the flying, more the amount of pain you're in when you crash land from such heights). Now onto to this weeks adventures in Author Collecting.

     The drive back to the States was mostly uneventful. I was able to keep Morgan quiet and co-operative by giving her a Bedazzler kit and some old purses that were in the stolen car. About halfway across the ocean, we did have to make a stop and get some sparkly shoes so she would stop being upset about the high waves. It took us a while but we eventually found ourselves in Canada. At one point, we took the Ice Road (yes, I know it is August but I wanted to see it for myself so they refroze it for me) because I do enjoy the scenic route to my destinations. A few highways and byways later, I pulled up in front a beautiful gothic Victorian house in the middle of a swamp. 

  “Fay! This is a kidnapping! Car’s waiting outside!”

     

     A pale face framed by dark ringlets looked over the balcony and down to the front door where I stood. Somewhere between the car and the front door, I had changed my clothes from comfy pajamas pants and a t-shirt to a long gown that a Victorian witch would be jealous of. Layers of black lace and dark purple velvet, my own hair was layered in waves of long purple curls. 

  “Be right down! I’ll need to make a stop on the way to the cabin.”

    

     Fay looked like a gothic romance writer’s wet dream. As she raced down the curved stairs, black silk robes trimmed in silver lace billowed around her. Fog swirled up the stairs to tickle at her slippered feet and from somewhere above us, a murder of crows called to the sudden moonlight that shone down on her. Dracula would have fallen in love with her. 

     

     With Morgan and Fay settled in the back, a King Arthur joke that fell flat, we were on our way. We turned down that one street, grabbed Willie (who insisted we bring the canoe since we were hitting the abandoned cabin) and then we were over the border into the States. Following Fay’s directions, we stopped by a library. I have no idea if it was the right library but it smelled right, old books and silence. I love that smell. I found the manic pixie who ran the library, tossed her in a burlap sack (since everyone knows pixies don’t mind this. Source: Peter Pan) and dragged her to the car. I gave the sack to Fay to hold who opened it and hugged her tiny best friend (being careful not to crush the pixie wings).

  “To the cabin!”

     For those of you wondering, the flatfoot copper is still trying to find the sun with a flashlight on the dark side of the moon. Maybe we’ll see him again next week.

Short Story Time: Schrodinger's Writer Part Two

      In our last episode, the detective (who’s barely smart enough to be a beat cop) was trying to get me to tell him where I hid Anthony. Like I was going to tell this flatfoot who was probably a writer in his spare time anything of value. If anyone was going to win Anthony’s “Hide The Author’s Body” competition, it was going to be me. Although I probably should have waited until Anthony announced the prize to see if all this trouble was worth it. Now, back to the adventures of me and the flatfoot.

                                                               *  *  *

     If there was ever a time for a cunning escape plan, it was probably now. I could lie and tell you an amazing tale of how I slipped the cuffs, knocked out the detective, and escaped into the Canadian wilds and lived happily ever after with the animals but I’ll save that kind of stuff for fiction. No, I will be honest with you instead. I was unceremoniously dragged to the detective’s car and placed in the back. As a lady who requires a cane for balance, it was quite difficult to stay on my feet and they left my cane in the motel room. How am I supposed to walk anywhere? 

  “It is against regulations but we’re going on a little drive. I expect accurate directions from you.”

  “Of course, Officer.”

     Had he continued looking in the rearview instead of pulling out into traffic, he would have noticed the smirk that reached my lips. Just because I didn’t have a cunning plan earlier, although one was hatching in the back of my broken brain. The Detective wanted to go on a road trip, I would take him on one he would never forget. 

                                                                *  *  *

     I could bore you with the hours we drove in silence. The trees had leaves, the sun started to set, the city had passed hours ago. Blah blah blah boring details that authors use to pad their stories. And please don’t ask me for street or names of towns and cities, I’m not American and I lost count of how many numbered streets I saw. The only time I spoke was when I’d tell the Detective to go left or right. When I told him to, he pulled to a stop in front of another house. It was awkward getting out of the car but with his help, I was able to. I had to lean on him to walk up to the door and he knocked for me. I know you’re all wondering how I know where these homes are without really knowing American geography but a lady knows when to memorize what she needs for future reference. 

  “Good morning, I’m Detecti—“

  “Morgan! Help! He’s gonna kill me!”

     Morgan didn’t wait for an explanation as to how we got to Spain, don’t ask me either since I hate flying. She grabbed me by the front of the shirt, dragged me through the door and slammed it shut and locked it on the Detective before he could do anything to stop the escape of his criminal. Knowing the difficulties I had with walking, she guided me through the house to a room filled with sparkling bags and shoes. I had always wanted to see the Museum De Sparkle since watching Morgan’s videos on Twitter. 

  “The police are on their way. You hide in here until it’s safe.” 

     I was tucked away for a few hours in a dark cubby hidden behind the shelves in one of her closets. I could make up some wild story about what happened here but this is after, real life. Shut up about going from America to Spain in a car. Morgan eventually showed up with a pair of handcuff keys. I was grateful to have the use of my hands again. Our arms linked like two of the world’s oldest friends, we headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a good long chat. 

                                                                       *  *  *

     Long story short, I now have two authors hidden away in the cabin deep in the woods, one very upset Detective hunting for me again, and I had a tour of Morgan’s sparkling shoe and bag closets. I know the contest said we only needed one author’s body but when the authors make it so easy, how can I resist seeing how many I can collect?

                

                                                                   Not The End Yet

Short Story Time: Schrodinger's Writer

     "Well officer, it's like this--"

  "Detective."

  "Whatever. If you want a confession, you'll shut your yap and let me talk without all these silly corrections." The detective sighed and only watched me. I know I'm getting on his nerves and it makes me want to smile. He's cute but an idiot obviously. When a suspect is willing to talk, they should just shut up and let the suspect ramble. One would think he never watched a murder documentary. 

  "It all began on Twitter--"

  "You mean X?"

  "I will stop calling it Twitter when that fool of a Musk stops deadnaming his daughter and means it."

  "We both know that will never happen."

  "Exactly. Now, I will start again, no more interruptions."

                                                                       * * *

     It all began on Twitter. I had made some author friends and we would joke around and share in each other's writing accomplishments and disappointments. At some point, I had become friends with Anthony. He was another author, some weird comic thingy, a full time dad, I don't know but that wasn't good enough for him. He also started a podcast. We Have Issues. Ha! Don't we all? 

  "What does --"

  "Shut up, I'm talking now." Where was I? Oh yes, Anthony. Podcasts, a graphic novel (okay, I'll admit the cover is cute) and like seventeen thousand followers. Do you know how hard it is to get a following like that on Twitter?

  "X."

  "Shut up or else." Cops these days. Anyways, I started noticing a thing about Anthony. He would start these posts with a really fun twist on something and make it sound like it would be released in the fall. Like this one. It sounds like it would be a fun story.

  "Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hide and Seek. I guess so."

  "What do you know about writers anyways?"

  "I know Anthony LaFauci is missing and everyone says you were the last one to see him. Where is he?"

     Do all cops have a one track mind or just the one I have to deal with right now? The only thing this one has going for him is that he's cute. As I said, we were Twitter writer friends and he's just throwing these ideas around while I've been working hard on this novel. Honestly, what author just throws ideas around like that for anyone to steal? And he had his greatest idea not long ago so it really is his own fault he's missing. All he had to do was stop tweeting (don't even think of correcting me, officer) his ideas as they came to him and he never would have gone missing.

  "What did you do with him?"

  "Do you think I'm stupid, Officer? What proof have you given me that you are even a real cop? How do I know you aren't a writer and didn't borrow that costume from a cop family member to get the information out of me so you can hide him to win?"

  "Why would I want to do that?"

    Why indeed? Anthony never got around to saying what you would win if you hid the author the longest. Perhaps I should have been more patient with him but it sounded so fun. Maybe it's part of my undiagnosed ADHD brain that just wanted to jump in and get started. Just look at all these story ideas and half finished yarn projects that litter my room. Stealing Anthony away was easy. I waited until he got the sitter situated and then followed him. Once we were secluded, I got him with the Vulcan neck pinch. Did you know that doesn't actually work? Luckily, a swift kick to the nards and a hood over his head made it possible for me to toss him in the trunk. I managed it, I guess my broken brain pumping adrenaline this evening is really helping. I wish it would do that when I really want it to. I drove for hours, the music up loud so I wouldn't hear the thumping in the back. It was almost dawn but we finally reached the rundown cabin. I let out a nostalgic sigh as it reminded me of the cabin from that movie with Bruce Campbell. I wonder if Anthony minds being the Cellar Hag until his contest is over.

  "So I just find your cabin and then I'll find Anthony."

  "Small problem with that, Officer. I don't own any property. For one, a Canadian owning property in the States would add tax complications I don't want to think about. And two, best of luck to trying to win the competition."

                                                                     The End?