Frank's Story Thread

[Frank Cox]

The Little Green Man
by Frank Cox

In the heart of a city that's seen better days, where the streets are paved with the ashes of dreams and the sun's rays struggle to pierce the veil of time, there stands a decrepit building that's a testament to the passage of weary years. The grime-streaked windows, yellowed by the sun's relentless assault, are like the eyes of a worn-out boxer, still bearing the scars of countless blows.

The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee, a bitter reminder of the countless cups consumed in despair, and the atmosphere is heavy with the weight of old tears.

The walls, paper thin and peeling, are adorned with faded posters and yellowed newspapers, each a silent witness to the tales of yore. The ceiling fan spins lazily, a relic of a time when the office was bustling with life, now barely moving, as if surrendering to the inescapable quietude.

The man seated behind the desk, a weathered hat pulled low over his eyes, is no stranger to the shadows that life could cast.

His face is a roadmap of lines and creases, etched deep by the burdens he carries and the battles he's fought. His nose, broken more times than he can count, sits crookedly on his face, a testament to the violence he's encountered. His jaw is squared, firm and resolute, a reminder that he's a man who doesn't back down from a fight.

His eyes, cold and calculating, are the windows to a soul that's seen too much. They hold a thousand stories, a thousand memories, a thousand regrets. They are the eyes of a man who's been to the depths of hell and lived to tell the tale.

He is a private eye, a gumshoe, hard-boiled, hard-headed, and with a knack for unraveling the most tangled of mysteries.

But today, it wasn't a dame with a heart full of tears or a lowlife with a wallet full of stolen cash that had caught his eye. Instead, it was a sight straight out of a pulp novel - a flying saucer, landing with a thump in the street outside his office.

A little man, a creature of just under four feet, emerged from the craft, his skin a sickly shade of green. He looked around with wide eyes, as if taking in the sights of a foreign land.

The detective vaulted out of his chair, crashed through the front door and ran out into the street.

The little green man's eyes locked on him like twin laser beams. "Take me to your leader," he croaked, his voice like the scratch of a dry leather purse.

The detective raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Sorry pal, I'm self-employed and have no leader," he said.

The little green man stood before the hard-boiled detective, his beady eyes scanning the rundown office with disdain. "This planet, it is barren," he croaked. "There is no sign of intelligence here."

The man leaned back against the wall, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, that's tough luck for you, sport," he said. "But I can tell you, there's absolutely nothing on Earth that you would be interested in at all. Not a single thing. So why don't you just load up back into your flying saucer and go somewhere else?"

The little green man's eyes narrowed, as if trying to discern the man's true intentions. "But this planet, it is the cradle of life! It is the birthplace of all intelligent beings!"

The man tapped a finger on his hat and shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Sounds like someone's been watching too many science fiction movies, pal. I've seen smarter rocks than the lot of us put together. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do and no time to gas with green aliens."

With a huff, the little green man climbed back into his saucer through a hatch on the bottom. The craft hummed to life, the sound like a swarm of bees, and it began to lift off the ground.

At first, it hovered just a few feet above the street, as if the little green man was saying his goodbyes. But then, with a sudden jolt and a blast of heat, the craft shot straight up into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. It soared higher and higher, until it was nothing more than a speck in the distance.

The detective watched it go, a grin spreading across his face.

He had saved the world.

Just another day in the life of a hard-boiled detective.

[Frank Cox]

The Beat
by Frank Cox

In the heart of the city's underbelly, where the neon signs hummed like a caged-up cat, there walks a man. A man as rugged as the cobblestones beneath his feet, as steady as the iron in his veins, and as relentless as the ticking of time itself. They call him the patrolman, a moniker as hard as the knuckles that bear it.

The patrolman stood at the corner, his boots planted firmly on the cobblestones. The night was alive around him, the sounds of the city filling the air - the laughter of revelers, the honking of horns, the distant wail of a siren.

The patrolman is a hardboiled policeman, a man who walks the streets of the city with a sense of purpose and determination. He is a tall man, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular build, a testament to the physical demands of his job. His face is rugged, with a strong jawline and sharp, piercing eyes that seem to see straight through a person's soul.

Under a worn uniform hat, his hair is short and dark, slicked back from his forehead in a style that is as much a part of his uniform as his badge and his gun. His clothes are simple and functional, a utilitarian approach to his job that allows him to move quickly and efficiently, that marks him as a guardian of the city and its inhabitants.

The patrolman's demeanor is serious and focused, a man who is all business when it comes to his job. He is a protector and a beacon of hope in a world that so often seems lost to darkness.

The patrolman is a man who is defined by his sense of duty and his unwavering commitment to justice. He is a man who walks the line between right and wrong, between law and lawlessness, and who is willing to do whatever it takes to keep the city safe. He is a man who is as tough as the city he patrols, as strong as the iron in his veins, and as relentless as the ocean's tide.

The patrolman's beat was a symphony of grime and grit, a canvas of humanity painted with the broad strokes of life's toughest battles. The tenement buildings stood like sentinels, their walls whispering tales of misery and redemption in the wind. The streets were a labyrinth of secrets, hidden behind the veil of darkness, waiting to be unearthed.

As the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the buildings, the patrolman trudged down the sidewalk, his footsteps hammering a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat. His eyes scanned the scene with the sharpness of a hunter's gaze, picking out the telltale signs of trouble like a master painter discerning the subtlest of shades.

He passed by the corner store, its neon sign flickering like a dying flame. The old man behind the counter, his wrinkles as deep as the lines on a weathered roadmap, waved a greeting. The patrolman returned the gesture, a small act of camaraderie in a world that saw little of it.

At the end of the block the patrolman encountered a group of young boys, their faces masked by the shadows. They stood on the street corner, their eyes filled with mischief and curiosity.

As the patrolman approached, the boys turned to face him, their expressions wary. They knew who he was, knew the reputation that he had in the neighbourhood.

"Hey, boys," the patrolman said. "What are you doing out here so late?"

The boys exchanged glances, their eyes darting around nervously. Finally one of them said, "Just hanging out", his voice filled with bravado.

The patrolman shook his head. "It's late," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You boys should be home, safe and sound. This is no place for you, not at this hour."

The boys exchanged glances again, their expressions shifting from bravado to uncertainty. They knew that the patrolman was right, that he was looking out for them. But the allure of the night was strong, and the pull of danger was hard to resist.

"Go home, boys." With a final, stern look, the patrolman turned and walked away. He knew that he could not force the boys to go home, that they had to make their own choices. But he also knew that he had planted a seed of caution in their minds, a small voice that would whisper to them whenever they found themselves standing on the edge of danger.

As he walked away, he could hear the sound of the boys' chatter fading in the distance, a reminder that they were still young, still full of life and energy. And he knew that he would continue to watch over them, to protect them, and he would do his best to guide them as they navigated the treacherous waters of the city.

As he ambled along, the sound of a scuffle and hammering caught his keen ear. He quickened his pace, his boots echoing a rhythm of warning on the wet pavement. Rounding a corner, he found a scene as common as it was tragic – a wild-looking man wearing dirty jeans and a torn once-white shirt, his hands yanking at the door handle of a car that the owner had been wise enough to lock securely before walking away toward the nearby bar.

"Hold it right there, pal," the patrolman growled, his voice as rough as the cobblestones underfoot. The man froze, his eyes flicking to the badge pinned to the patrolman's chest, then back to the car. "Looks like you just bought yourself a ticket to the big house."

The thief stared defiantly at the patrolman as he approached. His hands were clenched into fists, his body tense with anger and fear. But the patrolman, a man who had faced down the worst the city had to offer, was not intimidated.

With a practiced ease, the patrolman reached into his jacket and withdrew a pair of handcuffs, the cold metal biting into his palm. He clicked open the cuffs with a flick of his wrist, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet night air.

In a flash, he was upon the man, knocking him back away from the car and down onto the hard surface of the street. The man went down hard, a whimper escaping his lips as the hard wood of the patrolman's nightstick pressed against his throat.

With a swift, sure motion, he wrapped the cold metal bands of the handcuffs around the man's wrists, the crunch of the ratchet a final, emphatic statement that his night of stealing cars was over.

"You're under arrest," the patrolman growled, his voice low and menacing. "You're a parasite, leeching off the hardworking people of this city."

The man struggled, his muscles bulging with the effort, but the patrolman's grip was like a vise and the handcuffs were tight.

With a grunt, the patrolman hauled the man to his feet. As he marched the man through the streets, the handcuffs jingled like the tolling of a funeral bell. The patrolman had taken another thief off the street.

Later that evening as he continued to walk the beat, the patrolman came across a frail-looking, confused old lady wearing a tattered sweater over a faded dress. She sat on the cold sidewalk near a bus stop sign, her eyes wide with fear, her hands shaking like leaves in the wind. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, her face twisted with worry and confusion.

As the patrolman approached, the old lady recoiled, her body trembling weakly. The patrolman, a man who had seen the worst that the city had to offer, felt nothing but compassion for her. He knelt down before the old lady, his voice gentle and soothing.

"It's alright, ma'am," he said, his voice filled with warmth and understanding. "There's no bus that runs here at this time of night. Do you need me to help you?"

The old lady looked up at him with panic in her eyes. "I don't know where I am," she said, her voice quavering. "I can't remember where I live."

The patrolman's heart went out to the old lady. Obviously she needed help, and he was determined to find it for her. He stood up, taking the old lady's arm gently in his hand.

"Come on, ma'am," he said, his voice firm but kind. "I'm a policeman. Lets find you a place to rest, and make sure you're safe."

With a small, grateful nod, the old lady allowed the patrolman to take her hand and lead her down the street. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the buildings and the faces around them, searching for any clue that might lead him to the old lady's home.

After what felt like an eternity, the patrolman found himself standing at the door of an old, run-down brick townhouse. He could see a weak light inside, a small glimmer in the darkness. He knocked loudly on the door.

A moment later, a woman opened the door, her eyes widening as she saw the old lady standing beside the patrolman. "Mom?" she cried, her voice filled with shock. "What in the world are you doing out here?"

The patrolman stepped back, allowing the woman to take her mother into her arms. He watched as the two embraced, their bodies shaking with the force of their emotions.

With a nod to the women, the patrolman turned and walked away, his boots thudding against the cobblestones.

As he turned the corner, the patrolman was confronted with a scene that was all too familiar in this neighbourhood. Two men, their faces masked by the darkness, stood over another man, their hands reaching for his wallet. The man struggled, his eyes wide with fear, his body trembling with the force of his panic.

The patrolman moved towards the scene, his body a whirlwind of movement. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, a trained response that had been honed by years of experience.

Confronted with two muggers, he drew his nightstick, the wooden handle biting into his palm. He knew that he had to act quickly, that he had one chance to take these thugs down before they could overpower him.

With a roar, the patrolman lunged at the first mugger, lashing his nightstick through the air like a whip. The man recoiled, his mouth opening wide in shock as the nightstick connected with his shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground.

The second mugger lunged at the patrolman in an attempt to grab him, but he ducked down beneath the man's arms. Again he swung the nightstick with a powerful two-handed grip, the crack when it connected with the man's body echoing through the night like a gunshot.

continued...

[Frank Cox]

continued...

The muggers groaned, their bodies writhing on the ground as the patrolman stood over them, catching his breath. "This is my neighbourhood," the patrolman growled, his voice low and menacing. "And you're under arrest."

The two men continued to lay on the ground, and the patrolman turned to the man who had been attacked. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

The man nodded. "Thank you," he said, his voice shaking with emotion. "I don't know what I could have done without you. They attacked me without warning."

The patrolman smiled. "That's what I'm here for," he said. "This is my beat."

The night wore on and the patrolman continued to walk the streets, watching over the neighbourhood.

There was a joint on the corner, a diner with worn red booths and tarnished chrome fittings. An old radio blared, while the sizzle of bacon and the hiss of steam from the espresso machine provided additional accompaniment to the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen.

The patrolman sat wearily at the counter, nursing a cup of bad coffee. His hat lay on the counter beside him, the frayed edges of the cap a worn-out testament to a thousand nights patrolling the mean streets.

Suddenly, the door swung open, letting in a gust of cold night air and a little girl, no older than eight, her eyes wide with fear, ran up to the counter. She wore a tattered nightgown, her feet were bare, and her hair was matted with sweat. "Mommy's boyfriend is hurting her and she told me to find you," she cried, so out of breath she could barely get the words out.

The patrolman pushed back his stool and followed the girl as she led him to a narrow alley where the sound of a woman's muffled cries could be heard. He clenched his jaw. "I'll take care of it, kid," he said. "You go on home now."

As the patrolman entered the alley, the sound of the woman's cries grew louder, a haunting symphony of pain that pierced the night like a dagger. He moved stealthily, his footsteps soft as a cat's, his eyes scanning the shadows for his prey.

Suddenly, he saw him. The boyfriend, a man with a face like a butcher's block, stood over the woman, his fists raised, ready to strike again. The patrolman's hands tightened around his nightstick.

He moved in quickly. The nightstick cracked once again, the sound echoing through the alley. The boyfriend stumbled, surprise etched across his face. The patrolman's fist connected with the man's jaw, and he went crashing to the ground.

The woman, her face bruised and swollen, looked up at the patrolman with a mixture of fear and gratitude. The patrolman helped her to her feet, his voice stern and unyielding. "You stay away from her, you hear me?" he growled, his eyes flashing like thunder. "Women are treated with respect in this part of town."

The man whimpered, cowering on the ground, knowing that if he even thought about rising he would be sent sprawling again.

The patrolman helped the woman back to the diner, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body shaking with sobs. He ordered her a cup of coffee, his voice gentle and comforting. And as he watched her sip her coffee, her eyes filled with tears. The woman, her face still swollen and bruised, looked up at the patrolman. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. "You saved me."

The patrolman looked at her with pity and more than a little frustration. He knew that she would go back to the boyfriend, that the lure of love and the counterfeit promise of a better life would be too strong to resist. He wished he could do more, but he also knew that it was a losing battle.

"I wish I could make all of this right for you, ma'am," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "But I can't. You have to take responsibility for your own life, be strong, for yourself and for your kid. You gotta find a way out of this, because if you don't someday it's going to be too late."

The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face. "I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just don't know how."

The patrolman reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "You'll find a way," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. "Just remember, if you ever need me again, you come find me."

The woman nodded.

"I'll try," she said.

She turned and walked out of the diner, disappearing into the night. The patrolman stood alone at the counter, his heart heavy with the weight of the world. He took a deep breath, took another sip of his coffee, and went back out onto the street.

The clock struck the hours and the night dragged on. The patrolman, his face etched with lines of worry and fatigue, continued to walk his beat, his footsteps echoing through the empty streets like a solitary drumbeat.

He passed again by the alley where the woman had been beaten, a reminder of the darkness that lurked just beneath the surface of the city. He took a deep breath, his chest tight with emotion, and continued on his way.

As he patrolled the streets, he saw the city in all its glory and its ugliness. He saw bright lights and laughter, the sound of music and the clinking of glasses, and he saw darkness, the shadows that hid the pain and the suffering.

He saw young lovers holding hands, their faces bathed in the glow of the streetlights, and he saw the old men sitting on their porches, their faces etched with lines of pain and regret. He saw people coming and going into the all-night bars and nightclubs, laughter ringing out into the cold night air when the doors were opened, and he saw the homeless, huddled behind dumpsters in the alleys, their bodies wrapped in rags.

He saw it all, and he felt a deep sense of sadness, a sense that the world was a cruel and unforgiving place. But he also felt a sense of hope, a belief that there was still some good left in the world, that there were still people who cared, who would stand up for what was right.

And so, he continued on his beat, a lone sentinel in a city that never slept, a guardian angel in a world that was far from perfect. He knew that he could not save them all, but he would do his best, one case at a time, one heart at a time, to make a difference.

At dawn, the patrolman stood at the edge of the city, looking over the neighbourhood in the first light of the morning. The night was finally over, the darkness receding like a wave that had been battering the shore. And as the patrolman looked out at the city that was slowly coming to life, he knew that he had done a good night's work.

He could feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, the burden of responsibility that came with the badge he wore, the gun and the nightstick. But he also felt a sense of satisfaction, a feeling that came from knowing that he had made a difference, that he had protected the innocent and brought justice to the guilty.

He took a deep breath, the cool morning air filling his lungs and cleansing his soul. The city was coming alive around him, the sounds of the day filling the air - the honking of horns, the chatter of vendors, the laughter of children. It was a symphony of life, a testament to the resilience and determination of the human spirit.

And as the sun continued to rise, casting its golden light over the city, the patrolman knew that the night would come again. He would continue to walk his beat, his boots thudding against the cobblestones in the center of a city that will always need him.

[Tony Bandiera Jr]

Frank, these are great!! I hope you plan on publishing them as a book someday. You have a solid grasp of the genre and this would do well as a published work.

I have been looking into the self-publishing idea for the novel I am working on, and another short story based on a modern take on the King Arthur/Merlin legends.

Self publishing has become pretty inexpensive, for less than $1,000 US you can publish online and printed versions. (The most expensive part is hiring a professional editor which every self-publishing company strongly advises to do.)

And back to post 7,

Of course after I posted that I found a few mistakes in it. Pigs don't have fur Plus a few awkwardly worded sentences.

Oh well.

No matter how many times I re-read it there's always something I guess.

I am having that same set of issues with both the novel and the short. Some of the mistakes made it into my thread too. (Which is why the publishers always suggest hiring an editor.) Some of the grammatical errors are deliberate, as they are part of the characters. Others though have been cringe worthy and thankfully I have caught most of them.

Let's both keep plugging along and hopefully we can see each other's works online and in bookstores someday.

[Frank Cox]

Thanks, Tony. Glad someone likes my stories.

I have a few readers around here too. I'm not really all that serious about the whole author thing, though. I just write stories because I never learned how to knit a sweater!

[Frank Cox]

Goodbye Darlin'
by Frank Cox

The joint was as dim as a cat's eye in the dead of night, the only light coming from the flickering neon sign outside and the dusty old jukebox in the corner. The smoke hung thick in the air, a foggy shroud that seemed to choke the life out of the place. It was a den of the weary, the downtrodden, and the heartbroken, and on this particular evening, it was my turn to wear the latter's crown.

My dame, sweet as a summer's breeze and as beautiful as a sunset with her fiery red hair and deep, passionate eyes, sat across from me at the worn-out bar, her eyes as big and round as saucers. I could see the hope flickering in them, like a dying ember clinging to the last vestiges of life, but I knew it was futile. This was the end of the line, the final chapter in our tumultuous tale.

"Babe," I said, my voice as rough as the gouges in the floorboards underfoot, "I got something to tell ya." I took a deep pull on my whiskey, letting the amber liquid burn its way down my throat. "I can't do this anymore."

Her eyes welled up, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. "What are you saying, Johnny?" she asked, her voice quivering like a leaf in the wind.

I let out a deep sigh, the weight of the words heavy on my chest. "I'm saying it's over, darlin'. We got to kiss and say goodbye."

She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the bar as if for support. "Why, Johnny? What changed? Just tell me what's gone wrong."

I shrugged, running a calloused hand through my hair. "Nothing changed, sugar. It's just that... I got too many demons chasing me, and I can't let 'em drag you down with me."

Her eyes pleaded with me, a silent question hanging in the air like a noose around my neck. "But I love you, Johnny. I thought you loved me too."

I shook my head, the pain etched deep in my features. "I do, babe. More than anything. But sometimes, love just ain't enough."

She stood up then, her big eloquent eyes flashing with anger and betrayal. "You're breaking my heart, Johnny. You're breaking my heart."

I stood up to meet her, my voice hard as steel. "I'm sorry, darlin'. But I can't stay here, in this place, with you. I got to hit the road, chase down the shadows that keep haunting me."

She looked at me with tears rolling down her cheeks, her lips trembling. The whole world stopped for a moment.

And then she spoke. "I thought I could trust you, that you'd be there for me when I needed you the most. Dammit, Johnny, I thought we were something special."

I reached out, taking her hand in mine. "We were, darlin'. We really were. But sometimes, the world just ain't fair."

She pulled her hand away, her eyes filled with hurt and resentment. "Goodbye, Johnny. I hope you find what you're looking for, out there in the dark."

I nodded, my heart heavy with regret. "I hope so too, darlin'. I hope so too."

And with that, she turned and walked out of the bar, her footsteps echoing around the room like the tolling of a church bell at midnight. I took one last look at her, my heart aching with the knowledge that I was losing the one thing in this world that truly mattered to me.

But the road called, and I answered its siren song.

I picked my hat off of the table and stepped out of the bar. The cold rain pelted down, soaking through my trench coat and sending a shiver down my spine. The street was a desolate, dark expanse, glistening with strange shadows, the cobblestones slick with rain and the streetlights flickering like dying embers in the wind.

The rain fell in torrents, each drop stinging my skin like a thousand needles, as I made my way down the street. The wind howled like a wounded animal, tearing at my coat and sending shivers down my spine. The empty buildings loomed overhead, their windows dark and vacant, as if they were keeping a watchful eye on me, a lone figure making my way through the storm.

I could hear the distant rumble of thunder, its ominous growl echoing through the deserted streets, as if the heavens themselves were crying out in mourning for the love that had been lost. The rain fell in sheets, obscuring the world around me, making it feel as if I was walking through a dream, a ghostly apparition in a world that had long since given up hope.

At the end of the block, I stopped, taking one last look back at the bar, grief crushing my soul. The neon sign flickered in the rain, casting an eerie glow over the scene, as if it were trying to hold on to the memories of happier times. But the rain continued to fall, washing away those memories like sand through an hourglass, until there was nothing left but the cold, hard reality of the world.

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as I turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving the dark, rain-soaked street behind and stepping out into the unknown.

[Frank Cox]

Death of a Unicorn is a really interesting title so I built this story around it.

Death of a Unicorn
by Frank Cox

In the dim, gritty corner of a forsaken town, where the sun's last rays trembled like a broken promise, the Guardian stood, his heart as heavy as a tombstone in a midnight cemetery. His eyes, two pools of dark despair, were fixed on the wounded unicorn, a creature of rainbows and dreams and joy, now a symbol of sorrow and misery.

The unicorn, once as radiant as the morning sun, now lay in a pool of its own crimson blood, its shimmering mane matted with the remnants of a life snuffed out too soon. The Guardian could see the life ebbing away from its eyes, a mirror reflecting the extinguishment of hope, love, and joy from the world.

The culprit, a hunter known for his recklessness, knelt beside the dying unicorn, his face white and strained. The Guardian had seen many faces, but none had ever held such raw, unadulterated anguish as this. The man's hands, once calloused from the grip of life, now trembled as they tried to stem the unicorn's bleeding.

"I never meant for this to happen," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a broken echo of the laughter that once filled the world. "I thought I was protecting... But I thought..." He trailed off, the sound swallowed by the heavy blanket of silence that had descended upon the world.

The Guardian watched as the unicorn took its final breath, its soul escaping like a dove from a cathedral, leaving behind a world bereft of colour, of joy, of laughter. The Guardian felt the entire world shudder beneath his feet, as if the earth itself mourned the loss of its most cherished child.

As the unicorn's spirit ascended, the Guardian could see joy and happiness seep away, the vibrant hues of life draining from the world, leaving behind a monochromatic wasteland. The sun's last rays faded, the stars lost their twinkle, and the wind lost its song.

The Guardian stood there, a sentinel in the desolate landscape, now bent under the weight of the world's sorrow. He looked at the hunter, a symbol of mankind's folly.

"You've broken the world," the Guardian said, his voice as hard as cold steel and his eyes like black stones.

The hunter sobbed quietly.

After some time the Guardian spoke. "Maybe, just maybe, there's still a chance to mend it."

And so, in that moment in the heart of the darkness, a small glimmer of hope was brought forth, a tiny watchfire showing dimly through the despair.

For in the heart of the toughest of men, there lies a well of hope, a flame that refuses to be extinguished, even in the coldest, darkest of times. And as the Guardian walked through the desolate landscape, the world held its breath, waiting to see if the flame could light the way back to the warmth and beauty of the world that once was.

In the days that followed, a new unicorn emerged, a radiant beacon of hope in the desolate landscape. Its birth was like a rebirth of the world itself, the sun rising brighter, the air growing sweeter, the earth once again vibrant and alive.

The Guardian watched as the world transformed, the pain of the past slowly receding like the waves of the ocean. The new unicorn, a symbol of the world's resilience and the enduring power of hope, brought colour back into the world, laughter echoing through the streets once more.

The hunter, humbled by the power of the unicorn and the lessons it had taught, vowed to make amends for his actions. He dedicated his life to protecting the unicorn, to ensure that it would never suffer the same fate as its predecessor.

The Guardian's remembrance of the dead unicorn would never fade, but he found solace in the knowledge that the world was healing. He continued to stand tall, a defender of hope, a protector of the innocent, a beacon of light in the darkest of times.

And so the world moved on, a testament to the power and indomitable spirit of the human heart. The memory of the dead unicorn would forever be a reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing each moment, but it would never overshadow the new beginnings that had been born from the ashes of despair.

The Guardian looked upon the world with newfound optimism. He knew that the world would never be the same, but he also knew that it could be better, brighter, and stronger than ever before. And with that knowledge, he stepped forward once again, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

[Frank Cox]

The Chase
by Frank Cox

In the heart of this concrete jungle, where the rhythm of the city usually hums like a well-oiled machine, a discordant symphony erupted, as if some celestial jukebox had accidentally slammed the wrong lever. The clang of a burglar alarm, a hammering bell, pierced the night like a dagger through the blackest velvet, echoing off the steel and glass skyscrapers, a jolting reminder that the city wasn't sleeping.

"Stop thief... Stop thief..." the bell cried into the blackness of the night, down the foggy streets and across the dark and deserted rooftops.

A man in a fedora and a long coat, his face obscured by a silk scarf, was weaving through the labyrinthine streets, carrying a large canvas bag in one hand. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, almost drowning out the shrill beat of the alarm. The city was his playground, but tonight, the game was afoot.

The man raced out of the shadows and onto the curb, his eyes locked on the getaway car parked unobtrusively under a tree, a nondescript grey sedan with a deceptively powerful engine. He ripped the door open, tossed the bag into the back seat, slid onto the driver's seat and slammed the door.

He crammed the key into the ignition, twisting it hard and muttering under his breath. The starter whined and the engine rumbled to life, the sound like a wild beast awakening from its slumber. The man in the fedora gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, as he jammed the car into gear and floored it. The tires screeched a protest against the pavement, the sound piercing the night like a knife, as the car surged forward leaving a trail of smoke and burned rubber in its wake.

The roar of the engine filled his ears, drowning out the cry of the burglar alarm that still clamoured in the distance, echoing off the buildings. The city was the stage for a game of cat and mouse, a game that would only end in one of two ways: capture or escape. And as the man in the fedora pushed the pedal to the metal, the city seemed to bellow its approval, a wild, primal sound that seemed to say: run, brother, run.

The buildings were a blur around him, the lights and shadows a swirling, kaleidoscopic dance, as he weaved through the empty streets, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

Suddenly the wail of a police siren blasted through his car. It was right behind him. A sleek black police interceptor, its lights flashing like a strobe in a dark club, hot on his heels. The streets were empty, the city asleep, save for the dogged determination of the officer behind the wheel of the police car and the snarling, snapping dog in the passenger seat.

The chase was on, and he was the hunted.

The getaway car screeched around a corner, tires squealing in protest, and the police car followed right behind. The stakes were high and the tension was as thick as the smog that hung over the city. The man in the fedora pushed the pedal harder against the floor, the engine howled like a freight train, and the view of the city through the windshield was a neon-lit jumble of lights and shadows.

The chase was a dance, a deadly tango of speed, skill, and two steel missiles hurtling through the streets. A ballet of evasion and pursuit. The wail of the siren echoed back from the buildings and rocketed into the night, the engines screamed and the tires screeched; the city watched, a silent, unblinking witness to the drama unfolding in its streets.

The man in the fedora, his heart pounding like a drum, could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck. The red and blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror, casting a crazed mishmash of colours on the darkened buildings along the street. The siren screeched, a relentless and unforgiving pursuit, and the dog in the passenger seat of the police car was a snapping, snarling beast that seemed to be fueled by pure, unbridled rage.

The robber tried to get away, his fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his foot heavy on the pedal, but no matter how fast he went, no matter how many corners he took or traffic lights he blew through on the red, the police car was behind him like it was chained to his bumper. The police interceptor was an unwavering, unyielding force, a machine designed for speed and pursuit, and he was the quarry.

They raced onto a main street like a hare before a hound. Shocked drivers crashed into curbs and mailboxes trying to get out of the way. Horns blared, tires screeched, and glass shattered, but the man in the fedora was undeterred. He was a ghost, a phantom, and he would not be caught.

The man in the fedora was a ghost, but the police officer behind the wheel and the snarling, snapping dog in the passenger seat were indefatigable, their sights set on their prize. The siren wailed and the tires screamed; the city seemed to roar its approval: catch him, brother, catch him.

The man in the fedora could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sweat dripping onto the seat beside him, the high-speed chase and the relentless pursuit of the police officer and the snarling, snapping dog terrorizing his every thought. The noise of the siren and the high-speed driving made it hard to concentrate, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and images, a storm of fear and desperation.

He tried to focus, to remember the streets, the turns, the shortcuts that would lead him to safety, but his driving became more and more erratic, his mind clouded by fear and dismay. The shrieking siren and the dog's snarling, barking filled his ears, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts, and he felt himself losing control. The entire world was contained in his speeding vehicle and his mind was becoming detached from reality.

There was no time to think, no time to plan. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror, the red and blue lights flashing in his eyes, a constant, incessant reminder of the pursuit that made it difficult to see through the windshield. The city blurred around him, a confusing set of lights and shadows, as he weaved through the streets, his heart pounding, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His face was reflected in the rearview mirror, demonic in the flickering light.

"Faster," he sobbed as he tried to keep a grip on the steering wheel with slippery, sweat-soaked hands. But the entreaty did no good: the man's shoe had the accelerator mashed to the floor, the motor was bellowing, and it just wasn't enough.

The roar of the motor, the scream of the siren and the frenzied barking of the police dog behind him were the only sounds in his world.

The man in the fedora, his heart pounding, his mind ever more confused and overloaded by sheer terror, knew that he had to find a way to escape, or it would all be over.

"Stop it," he whimpered.

He moaned in dismay and in a moment of panic he made a turn, the car's rear end slewing around almost out of control. His heart sank as he realized too late that it was a dead-end street. He had to stop, and as he did, the police car behind him pulled up, blocking the street. The doors on the police car flew open and the police officer and his dog jumped out. The dog snarled and the police officer ordered him out of the car.

The blue and red strobe lights whirled, painting the street with psychedelic colours.

The man in the fedora knew that it was all over. He had been caught, the game of cat and mouse ended in defeat. He lay his head on the steering wheel for a moment and then, shoulders slumped, he opened the door and stepped out of the car, his hands raised, his heart heavy. He knew that his days of crime were over. He had lost the game, and the city had won.

[Frank Cox]

Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice
by Frank Cox

In the concrete jungle where the asphalt rivers flow, I, Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, stand as a relentless sentinel. My eyes, two fiery orbs of determination, pierce the gloom, cutting through the fog of the city like a hot knife through butter. The wind howls through my grizzled fur like a siren's wail, and my muscles, taut as steel cables, are coiled for action.

I'm no ordinary canine, I'm a beast bred for duty, honed for the hunt. Officer O'Malley, my human counterpart, and I, we're a force to be reckoned with, a team that leaves no stone unturned, no trail unscented. We're the scourge of the underworld, the thorn in the side of the city's criminal element.

I can smell the fear in the air, the sweat of the guilty, the desperation of the trapped. It's a scent as familiar to me as the comforting aroma of home-cooked bones. I'm no stranger to the mean streets, the dark alleys, or the neon-lit dens of iniquity. I've seen the best and the worst of humanity, and I've come to know that justice, like a silver bullet, always finds its mark.

I'm Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice. I'm relentless, I'm ruthless, and I never forget a face. I'm the grim specter that haunts the dreams of the wicked, the guardian angel of the innocent. I'm the snarl in the night, the growl in the darkness, the howl that rings out when the city sleeps.

The city is my playground, a sprawling labyrinth of concrete, steel and hot asphalt.

The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the streets, but I was wide awake, my senses sharp and focused.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the distant echo of sirens, but my ears perked up when I caught the scent of something else, something more sinister. A bank robbery, a loud clanging alarm, the scent of fear and adrenaline, was in progress.

The human, Officer O'Malley, clapped his meaty paws on my shoulders, his breath reeking of stale coffee and whiskey. He told me that the bank robber was escaping through the streets. I knew that I had to act quickly.

I leapt from the patrol car, my powerful legs propelling me forward as I darted through the crowded streets. The people of the city scattered before me, their eyes wide with shock and awe as they beheld the sight of a dog like no other.

I could hear the bank robber's footsteps, the telltale clatter of his shoes slamming into the sidewalk and echoing through the concrete canyons. I picked up the scent, a mixture of sweat and fear that seemed to beckon me closer.

I weaved through the traffic, my body a blur as I closed the gap between us. The bank robber, a sneering, cowardly man, didn't stand a chance against me. I could see the terror in his eyes as I bore down on him, my teeth bared and my eyes focused.

He tried to outrun me, but I was relentless. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I gained on him, my powerful legs carrying me faster and faster.

I leapt into the air with a snarl, my body a graceful arc as I jumped over the heads of a group of shocked onlookers, my powerful jaws clamping down on the robber's arm. He screamed, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the streets, as I brought him to a halt, his bag of loot scattered onto the sidewalk.

The police, led by Officer O'Malley, swarmed around us, their guns drawn, shouting for the robber to surrender.

The bank robber, a sniveling, pathetic man, was taken into custody, his crimes avenged by the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice.

As I was petted and praised by the officers, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. I was more than just a dog. I was a hero, a guardian, a symbol of justice in a world filled with evil. And as I looked out over the city, my territory, I knew that there would be many more criminals to bring to justice.

For now, I was content. I'd done my duty. I'd brought a criminal to justice. And as I lay down on the warm concrete, my head resting in Officer O'Malley's lap, I knew that I was more than just a dog. I was Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I was unstoppable.

(continued...)

[Frank Cox]

Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice (2)

Early that afternoon the school loomed before me, a towering edifice of bricks and mortar that seemed to stretch on for miles. I, Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, knew that I was about to embark on a new adventure.

Officer O'Malley, my partner and friend, led me through the bustling halls, the children's laughter and chatter echoing through the air. I could sense the excitement in the air, an almost visible wave of energy that seemed to fill every corner of the school.

We were here to talk to the kids, to educate them about crime and justice and the importance of protecting the city. I knew that I was the perfect ambassador for our cause. I was a dog, a symbol of loyalty and courage, and I had a story to tell.

As we entered the classroom, the children's eyes widened in awe. They had never seen a dog like me before, their faces filled with curiosity and wonder. Officer O'Malley began to speak, his voice strong and steady, as he explained the importance of staying safe and following the law.

But it was when I entered the room that the real magic happened. I could see the children's faces light up as they beheld the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice. I walked slowly around the room, my tail wagging and my ears perked up, as I took in the sight of the children.

I knew that I had a message to share. I was more than just a dog. I was a symbol of hope, a beacon of justice in a world filled with darkness. And as I looked into the children's eyes, I knew that I had a chance to make a difference.

Officer O'Malley told them stories of my adventures, of the criminals I'd brought to justice and the lost children I'd found. He explained the importance of staying safe, of following the law, and of standing up for what was right.

The children listened, their eyes wide with wonder as he spoke. I could see the understanding and the excitement in their faces, a spark that seemed to ignite within them. They knew that they had a role to play in the fight against crime, that they too could make a difference.

As we left the school, the children cheered and clapped, their faces filled with gratitude and admiration. Officer O'Malley and I exchanged a proud smile, knowing that we had made a difference. We had given the children hope and brought joy and happiness to a small corner of the city.

And as we walked back to the patrol car, a wave of pleasure washed over me. I was more than just a dog. I was the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I would continue to fight for justice, to protect the city, and to inspire the children who would one day take up the mantle.

In the muggy heat of the midnight hour, I, Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, found myself saddled with a new case. O'Malley drove the patrol car to the edge of the city and grumbled something about a child gone missing in the dense, dark woods that hugged the city like a ravenous beast.

I knew the woods. I'd been chasing varmints through those tangled thickets since I was a pup. But this wasn't about a rat or a fox. No, this was about a little girl, lost and alone. A knot formed in my stomach, a human emotion I'd never felt before, but I knew I had to find her. I was Rex, the relentless canine, and I never backed down from a fight or a challenge.

O'Malley and I entered the woods, the underbrush snatching at our legs like witch fingers keeping us out. The moon itself, a waning crescent, offered only the faintest sliver of light, casting eerie shadows that danced like specters in the underbrush. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, but we pressed on, my keen senses guiding us through the labyrinth.

I could hear the despair in Officer O'Malley's voice as he called out for the lost child, his pleas echoing through the woods like the mournful wail of a lost soul. He called her name over and over, but there was no reply.

We walked through the woods for several hours and then I picked up the scent, a sweet, innocent aroma that seemed to beckon us even deeper into the heart of the forest.

I darted through the trees, my powerful legs carrying me forward with the grace of a panther. The woods were filled with danger, but I was undeterred. I'd faced rattlesnakes and coyotes, and they all fell before my unwavering determination.

As I delved further into the woods, the scent grew stronger, leading me to a clearing where the moonlight fell like a spotlight. There, huddled against a gnarled oak tree, was the lost child. Her eyes, wide with fear, locked onto mine.

I approached the little girl and nudged her gently, my ears flicking in assurance. She reached up and petted my fur, her small fingers trembling. I knew then that I'd done it. I'd found her. I was Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I'd saved the day once more.

As Officer O'Malley rushed to us my chest swelled with satisfaction. I was more than just a police dog. I was a hero, a guardian, a bringer of hope to the lost in the darkest of nights. And as the sun began to rise, casting its warm glow over the woods, I knew that there would be many more adventures to come.

But for now, I was content. I'd done my duty. I'd saved a life. And as the little girl's laughter rang out, a melody that was music to my ears, I knew that I was more than just a dog. I was Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I was unstoppable.

The city was finally quiet, the hustle and bustle of the day and the terrors of the night giving way to a new-made morning. I, Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, lay on the cool concrete, my body weary from patrolling the streets, protecting the innocent and defending the right.

Thoughts of the day just passed swirled through my head like leaves in the wind. I had chased down bank robbers and saved lost children, but the nature of crime was a complex and ever-evolving beast.

I pondered my role in the fight against crime, my place in the grand scheme of things. I was a dog, a symbol of loyalty and courage, but I was more than that. I was the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I had a duty to protect the city and the people who lived within it.

I thought about the children I had met today, their wide eyes filled with curiosity and wonder. I knew that I had a responsibility to set an example, to show them the path of righteousness and justice. I was a guardian, a guiding light in a world filled with darkness.

But as I closed my eyes, my body wracked with exhaustion, I couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. The fight against crime was a never-ending battle, a war that would rage on for as long as there were criminals in the world.

But I knew that I was up to the task. I am Rex, the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and I will continue to fight for justice, to protect the city, and to inspire the children who would one day take up the mantle.

As I drifted off to sleep, my body finally giving in to the fatigue, I knew that tomorrow would bring new challenges, new adventures, and new opportunities to make a difference. I was ready for whatever lay ahead, my determination unwavering, my spirit indomitable.

I'm Rex, and I'm here to serve and protect. But make no mistake, for every crook I put behind bars, for every villain I bring to justice, there are a hundred more waiting in the wings. But I'll be there, Officer O'Malley at my side, ready to face whatever comes next. For I am the Iron-Jawed Hound of Justice, and justice will be served.

We are the guardians of the city, protectors and defenders of the innocent, and scourge of the guilty.