Frank's Story Thread

[Frank Cox]

So about a year or so back I decided to write a story. Just one little story about a detective recovering a city's stolen Christmas cheer.

Which led to writing a story about a lounge piano player. Which then led to another story. And another.

Story writing turned into a more engaging activity than I had originally thought it would be. That hardboiled writing style is something that I've always enjoyed reading and now I've discovered that it's great fun to write and play with as well.

I'll post my stories in this thread and anyone of you folks who have any comments, questions or virtual tomatoes can feel free to add them here as well.

Also, in response to a couple of requests, I have started a small mailing list for these stories. If you would like to get my new stories by email, let me know and I'll add you to the list.

*ahem*
Alright, mate. I ain't no factory churning out stories like a assembly line. I write when the ink flows, and when the muse whispers in my ear. But don't you worry, I'll keep the hardboiled, gritty tales coming when they're ready. Just remember, it's a wild world out there. So, keep your eyes peeled and your ears to the ground. I'll be back with more stories when the time is right.

[Frank Cox]

The Sign
by Frank Cox Nov 11 2024

In the heart of the city where the shadows of skyscrapers stretch like long, dark fingers, a beacon of hope or ruin flickers. A hulking titan of neon, the sign towers in the evening mist, a symbol of the seedy underbelly that thrives beneath the polished veneer of the metropolis.

As the sun dips below the horizon the old neon sign springs to life, casting a flickering, pulsating glow onto the desolate street. The once vibrant tubes, worn and frayed like the dreams of forgotten souls, buzz and crackle with electricity.

The sign's frame, a twisted skeleton of rusted metal, groans and creaks with each pulse of electricity that courses through its veins. The neon tubes, once a symbol of life and promise, now flare erratically, casting a dance of shadows on the cold concrete walls.

The faded tubes emit a dim, flickering light that seems to dance and shimmer, as if the spirits of the past are trying to communicate through the cracked and fogged glass. A buzzing and crackling echoes through the empty streets, a symphony of decay that's both unsettling and captivating.

The sound is a chilling reminder of the city's secrets and the dangers that lurk just beyond the glow of the sign's light.

And yet, despite its menacing tone, the buzzing sound of the sign has a strange, hypnotic quality to it. It's a sound that seems to call out to those who seek adventure, mystery. Perhaps their own doom.

As the light spills out onto the street it illuminates the grime and decay, casting jagged shadows that seem to stretch on forever. The pavement, slick with rain and dirt, reflects the light, creating a mosaic of colours that seems to change with every step.

The nearby buildings, worn and weathered, seem to come alive under the glow of the sign's light. The brick and stone facades shimmer as if they're covered in a thin layer of ice. The windows, long shattered and broken, seem to tremble and dance.

The light from the sign penetrates the darkness, casting a ghostly luminescence on the city. It's a reminder of the passage of time, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and a symbol of hope that's as elusive as it is enticing.

The sign is a haunting spectacle that's as much a part of the city's soul as the people who call it home.

For some, it's a symbol of fear and dread, a reminder of the city's dark underbelly and the doom that awaits those who venture too close. As they walk down the empty streets, the buzzing and crackling of the neon sign echoes in their ears, a chilling reminder of the city's secrets and the dangers that lurk just beyond the glow of the sign's light. They quicken their pace, their hearts pounding with fear. Many shudder and turn away, their imaginations running wild with nightmarish visions.

But for others, the sign is a beacon of hope, a symbol of a brighter future that lies beyond the city's grime and decay. They see the sign not as a harbinger of doom, but as a signpost leading them to a new beginning, a chance to start anew and escape the crushing weight of their past.

For these hopeful souls, the sign's flickering, pulsating glow is a source of comfort and inspiration, a reminder that even in the darkest of places there's always a flicker of light, a glimmer of hope. And as they step closer, drawn by the promise of a better future, they feel a strange sense of exhilaration.

A young boy stands on the grimy sidewalk, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazes up at the old neon sign. The flickering, pulsating glow casts a kaleidoscope of colours across his face, making him seem almost otherworldly.

The boy, with his ragged clothes and unkempt hair, is a stark contrast to the glowing sign that looms over him. Yet there's a look of determination in his eyes, a fierce resolve that belies his small stature. His mind races with dreams and wonders, as he contemplates the mysteries of the sign and the city it represents.

As he stands there, the buzzing and crackling of the neon tubes echoes in his ears, a symphony of sounds that speaks to him. The weight of the city presses down on him - the echoes of the past, the dreams of the forgotten, and the shadows of the lost.

He's just a small boy, lost in a big city, but he dreams of something more, something greater. As he steps closer, drawn by the promise of a brighter future, he feels the burden of hope that only a young dreamer can bear. An exaltation, a thrill of danger that only adds to his anticipation. Drawn by the promise of a better future, the city's pulse beats in his chest, the rhythm guiding him towards his destiny.

The neon sign creaks and groans like a weary traveller reaching the end of his journey, its tubing a whiskey-soaked nerve, struggling and straining to keep the visions bright. The letters, like the promises of a three-card monte con, flicker and dance in the dimly lit alleyway, a siren's call to the down-and-out and the down-on-their-luck.

Like a femme fatale, the sign is a vision of loveliness, a spectral glow that seems to pulse with a slow beat, a heavy heart, a rhythm that says "Come on in kid, we won't bother you much".

The colours, like the memories of a worn-out rose, are muted, subdued, and worn thin by the patina of a thousand nights - a promise of warmth, of comfort, of a place to lay your weary head and forget the world.

The sign's message, a cryptic riddle, seems to change with the wind, whispering promises of fortune, love, and escape. Yet those who venture near find only silence, the cold embrace of the abandoned building, and the lingering scent of decay.

The neon sign, a bewitching seductress, draws in the lost, the desperate, and the curious. Some, drawn by the promise of salvation, find only regret. Others, enticed by the mystery, are never seen again. But the sign stands, a testament to a time long past, a reminder of dreams unfulfilled, and a warning of the doom that awaits those who dare to enter its embrace.

Don't be fooled, pal - this ain't no welcome mat. This is a last-chance saloon, a one-last-shot joint, a place where the lost and the lonely come to forget their troubles and find their way back to the edge.

So roll up, friend. Step inside, but don't say I didn't warn you.

[Frank Cox]

This story is longer than any of my previous stories so I had to cut it into five pieces to make it fit within the maximum message length here.

Goldilocks: A Hardboiled Fairy Tale
by Frank Cox

In the heart of the city, the sweltering hub of this concrete jungle, a heatwave had taken hold, turning the city streets into a furnace. The air was thick and suffocating, as if a thousand suns had combined their scorching rays into one unforgiving beam that bore down on the hapless denizens below. The pavement radiated an intense, oppressive heat that seemed to rise up and slam against your skin like a vicious fist. The asphalt was slick with sweat, and the air was heavy with the stench of fear and desperation. The city, usually a pulsating mass of life and energy, had been reduced to a silent, sweat-soaked wasteland, where even the toughest men were left panting and gasping for breath. The relentless heat had stripped the city bare, leaving behind a desolate, sun-bleached landscape that was a far cry from the vibrant metropolis it had once been. The city was a broken beast, and the heatwave was its merciless tormentor, bending it to its will and reminding everyone that even the center of the world could be brought to its knees.

My office was a hole in the wall tucked away between a speakeasy and a broken-down pawn shop, where a neon sign buzzed outside my window like an angry wasp. It was a sauna of sweat and humidity and the air was thick with the odor of tobacco and cheap whiskey. The heat was oppressive, like a thick, suffocating blanket that seemed to weigh down on your every breath. The windows, long since coated in a layer of grime and dust, were sealed shut, trapping the heat inside like a caged animal. The walls were lined with shelves filled with dusty old books and yellowed newspapers, and the floor was sticky with the residue of countless spilled drinks. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, offering little respite from the oppressive heat. The air was heavy with the weight of the city's troubles, and I sat hunched over my desk, swathed in a cloud of smoke, my eyes bloodshot and weary.

The heat was a tangible force, a physical reminder of the relentless pressure that the city placed on its inhabitants, a never-ending assault on their minds and bodies. It beat relentlessly on the buildings and sidewalks with the kind of rhythm that said trouble's on the way.

And trouble arrived.

The phone rang, jarring me from my thoughts, and I answered with a gravelly, "Detective office."

"Detective, this is Mama Bear. It's that Goldilocks girl. She broke into our house," a anxious voice on the other end said.

"I ain't got time for fairy tale nonsense, lady," I retorted, ready to hang up.

The voice on the other end of the line was insistent, but barely audible above the din of the city outside. "Detective, I really need your help. I know we've had our differences in the past, but I swear to you, this isn't a joke. We've got trouble, and I don't know what to do. Please don't hang up."

Mama Bear sounded really distressed, and I couldn't turn my back on her. I took a deep breath, and spoke into the phone. "Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can. But remember, I don't do imaginary animals and magic. I deal with the real world."

Mama Bear's voice cracked, and for a moment, I could hear the emotion breaking through in her voice. "I swear, detective, I'm telling you the truth. Please, just come and help us."

"It's ok, Mama Bear, I'll come by your place and check it out. Now, where's your house at?"

"Just follow the path through the woods, Detective. You can't miss it," she said before hanging up.

Oh joy. The woods.

The city was a cesspool of shadows but the woods were worse. I don't get many cases out there but at least it would give me a reason to get out of the city and escape this god-forsaken heat.

The forest was dark and foreboding, with mysterious rustlings in the distance and even a wolf howl far off in the distance. I followed the path, my eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of trouble. I'd be glad to get to the end of this little journey. A forest is not a comfortable place for a city lad like myself.

As I approached the house, I saw it was a quaint little cottage, the kind you'd expect to find in a storybook. But the broken window and torn up flower bed beside the front door told me this wasn't a storybook. I opened the door stepped inside, my senses on high alert.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. A combination of honey, oats, and something oddly familiar filled the air, like the scent of a bakery on a lazy Sunday morning. But there was also an undercurrent of fear, like the lingering echo of a gunshot.

The kitchen was a mess, with dishes scattered about and porridge congealed on the table. The bowl that once held Papa Bear's porridge was empty, while the one belonging to Baby Bear was knocked over, spilling its contents onto the floor. The one belonging to Mama Bear, however, was untouched, still steaming on the stove.

A small chair lay in the corner, smashed to pieces, its frame twisted and mangled.

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the bears. They had been violated in their own home.

I took a moment to examine the scene, my eyes scanning every inch of the room, wondering what other damage may have been done.

I made my way to the bedroom where I found a small blonde-haired girl, fast asleep in Baby Bear's bed.

I approached her slowly. "Wake up," I said, "you're under arrest for burglary, vandalism and grand theft porridge."

She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Detective?" she asked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Goldilocks. I'd heard the name whispered in alleys and bars, always in the same breath as trouble. She had a reputation - a grifter, a thief, and, some said, a master of playing the innocent act to get out of sticky situations. Now she was in the bears' house, eating porridge and sleeping in the bed like she owned the place.

"Well, well," I said, pulling out a cigarette. "Goldilocks. I'd say it's a pleasure, but I don't like lying to people."

She looked up, her blue eyes glinting. "Don't be so dramatic, Detective. I'm not here to steal anything."

"This is the Three Bears' house. You broke in. Ate the food, broke the chair, and then had the nerve to sack out in this bed."

"I was hiding," she said. "I didn't have time to knock."

"Hiding from what?" I asked, blowing out a stream of smoke.

She hesitated, her bravado cracking just enough to let something darker slip through. Her eyes darted to the broken window. "The Big Bad Wolf."

The name hung in the air like a bad smell. Everyone in the business knew the wolf. He wasn't just a crook; he was a predator. Fast and ruthless, he had a way of making problems disappear - permanently.

"What's your connection to the wolf?" I asked.

Her face was went pale, and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

"I really didn't mean to break into the bears' house. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't think he'd track me here, but I was afraid to leave."

She explained that she had been walking in the forest picking berries when she heard something behind her and turned to see the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to pounce.

"I dropped my basket and ran away as fast as I could, but the wolf was hot on my heels. I could feel the cold breath of death on the back of my neck. I knew that I had to keep running if I wanted to survive. The wolf was relentless, and I knew that if I stopped, even for a moment, it would be the end for me.

"Just when I was about to give up I stumbled on the bears' house. I broke in to hide and after I ate the porridge I fell asleep in Baby Bear's bed."

And then I came in.

I nodded. This was no act. The girl was terrified.

"I understand, Miss," I said. "You didn't mean to do any harm. I know that the wolf is a dangerous criminal, and he must be stopped."

She nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, detective," she said. "You don't know how much it means to me to have someone who believes me, someone to help me."

I spent the next hour fortifying the place, boarding up the broken window and trying to reinforce the door.

Night fell, and the woods grew quiet. Too quiet. Then came the howl, an awful sound that tore through the trees, rattled the door and rose to an unearthly screech at the end.

"That's him?" Goldilocks whispered.

"That's him," I said, reloading my pistol.

The wolf didn't knock. He didn't need to. He came through the front door like a battering ram, his gray fur matted and his yellow eyes blazing.

He snarled, revealing razor-sharp teeth.

What followed was chaos. The wolf lunged at me, claws flashing. But he didn't count on Goldlocks coming up from behind and bashing him with Mama Bear's rolling pin, catching him off guard and making him stumble over the chair.

He shook his head and before he regained his feet I caught him with an uppercut that smashed him back against the wall.

Goldilocks pounded the rolling pin against his head like she was chopping wood and the wolf howled, a sound of pure rage. He bolted out the door and into the night, his tail between his legs.

This was serious. The wolf had gone berserk. I had to find him before he hurt anyone else, and I had to do it fast.

The wolf had disappeared into the trees but I didn't know where. He was a cunning predator and he had been evading capture for years.

I started asking around, talking to the animals and the people who lived in the forest. Finally one of the neighbours told me that th[

continued part 2...

[Frank Cox]

e wolf had been seen in the area of the Three Little Pigs' houses. I knew that I had to get there before he had a chance to strike again.

As I made my way to the first Little Pig's house, I could hear the faint sounds of struggle and then a loud crash coming from within.

The house, made of straw, was barely standing, its flimsy structure bending and swaying in the wind.

I burst through the door where I found the first pig cowering in a corner, his eyes wide with fear.

"Detective!" he cried out, his voice shaking with terror. "The wolf is in the house! He's going to blow it down!"

I wasted no time, drawing my gun and ordering the wolf to surrender. But he was too quick for me. He bulldozed his way through the back wall and left the house, moving on to the next one.

Hot on his trail, I made my way to the next house, but even before I got there I could see smoke billowing into the sky and the smell of burning sticks filled the air. The house, made of sticks, was now little more than a pile of ashes, the wolf's fiery breath having reduced it to ruin.

I could hear the pig's screams coming from under the remains of the house, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames. I waded into the flames, fighting my way through the heat and smoke, trying to reach the pig before I was overcome myself.

I found him trapped under a charred piece of lumber, his fur singed and his eyes red with tears. I wrenched at the lumber and threw it aside, scooped the pig up in my arms and carried him out of the burning wreckage with the flames licking at my heels.

"You'll be ok, little pig, but I have to go right now and rescue your neighbour before the wolf gets to him too."

I raced to the third house and caught up just as the wolf crashed through the front gate. This place looked nothing like the cheerful sketches in the books. It was solid brick, sure, but grime coated the walls, and the windows were barred. These wasn't a carefree pig building his dream home. This was survival, fortified and ugly.

Almost out of breath, I was still running up the path when the wolf arrived at the door. He didn't bother knocking, slamming his massive shoulder into the door again and again until it splintered. Inside, panicked squeals echoed as furniture toppled and the sound of hooves on hardwood filled the air.

I sprinted up to what was left of the broken door and kicked it in, gun drawn.

"Wolf!" I barked. "Back away from the pig!"

He turned to face me, snapping. Blood matted his fur, and desperation gleamed in his eyes. He wasn't just hunting anymore - he was cornered. And that made him dangerous.

"This doesn't concern you, Detective," he growled, stepping toward little pig in the corner. The pig was a sorry sight, trembling and clutching a broom to defend himself. "This is old business. These pigs owe me."

"Funny," I said, training the gun on his chest. "Because it looks like you're the one running out of time."

The pig backed away until his back was up against the wall.

"Detective," he stammered, "We didn't do anything to him!"

"That's a lie!" the wolf roared, snapping his jaws. "I'll tear this place down if I have to!"

"You already lost this fight once, wolf," I said, stepping closer. "Don't make me finish it here."

The wolf charged before I could react, claws swiping toward me. I dodged, fired once, and clipped his leg. He howled but didn't stop. The pig darted out the door, overturning furniture as the room turned into a battleground.

I needed to end this fast. The wolf had too much rage, too much momentum. If I didn't put him down now, someone was going to get hurt.

He came at me again, and this time I aimed low, firing into his other leg. He collapsed with a snarl, blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

"You think this changes anything?" he spat, his voice a mix of fury and pain. "There's no happy endings in these woods!"

With a scream of uncontrollable fury, the wolf leapt to his feet and hurtled through the door, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Now he was wounded, desperate,and twice as dangerous as before.

But desperate animals make mistakes.

I followed the trail of blood drops to an open clearing where a crooked shack sat beneath the shadow of something massive. At first, I thought it was a trick of the moonlight. But when I got closer, I realized it wasn't my eyes playing games.

A beanstalk.

The thing was as thick as a redwood and stretched so high into the sky, it disappeared into the clouds. The shack was barely holding itself together beneath its shadow, and there was an rickety old cowshed beside it that looked like it hadn't been used in years.

It looked like the kind of place where you wouldn't find anything but misfortune. And the mailbox confirmed it: J. Nimble.

I approached the shack very quietly with my gun in my hand. Listening at the door, I could hear voices inside, one low and menacing, the other high-pitched and frantic. I couldn't hear the words but somebody was definitely in trouble.

I didn't bother knocking. One kick sent the door flying open.

I stepped into the dimly lit room. "Wolf, you're done running."

The wolf turned to face me, his gray fur slick with sweat and blood, his yellow eyes wild. He had a scrawny young man by the collar - Jack.

"Stay out of this, Detective," the wolf growled, his claws pressing against Jack's neck. "This still isn't your fight."

"You're making a habit of telling me that," I said, keeping my gun trained on him. "But everywhere you go, people end up needing protection. Let the kid go."

Jack, wide-eyed and shaking, managed to stammer out, "H-he came here looking for the gold! Said he wanted the giant's treasure!"

"You've been climbing beanstalks, wolf?" I asked, smirking. "Didn't think you were the agricultural type."

The wolf snarled. "Shut it. I came here for payback. This little thief stole from me and the giant."

"That true, Jack?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the wolf.

Jack hesitated, then nodded. "Maybe... maybe I borrowed a few things. But I needed it! You don't understand what it's like to live down here! There's no honest work to be had!"

"You're not exactly a saint yourself, wolf," I said, my voice cold. "The way I see it, you've got no high ground to stand on. Let him go, and I'll take you in."

The wolf's lips curled back in a sneer. "You don't get it, Detective. This isn't about gold or revenge. It's about what's owed. And I'm never going to stop."

Before I could respond, the wolf threw Jack aside and made a break for the beanstalk. He moved like a wounded animal - determined and still very fast. Jack scrambled to his feet, yelling, "He's going up! You can't let him climb that thing!"

I didn't hesitate. Holstering my gun, I grabbed the first vine and started scrambling up the beanstalk. The wolf was really moving, even with a bullet wound, but I'd been chasing him too long to let him slip away now.

The beanstalk swayed under our weight, the wind howling as we climbed higher and higher. Below, Jack shouted something I couldn't hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

I knew that this was my chance, my opportunity to take him down and bring an end to his reign of terror.

Finally, I caught up to the wolf near the clouds. He was leaning against the stalk, panting, the blood from his wounds staining the vines beneath him.

I stopped climbing just a few feet below him, braced myself against a large leaf and looked up.

"It's over, wolf," I said, drawing my gun again. "You're busted. There's nowhere left to run."

The wolf laughed, a guttural, bitter sound. "You don't get it, do you? Up there above the clouds. That's where it all changes. No rules. No debts. Just power."

"Power doesn't mean much when you're injured and bleeding," I said.

He staggered a bit and lurched close to the outer edge of the vine he was standing on, the clouds swirling around him. "You still don't understand. Down there, I'm just the Big Bad Wolf. But up there?" He looked to the sky. "Up there, I could be invincible."

"And down here," I said, cocking my gun, "you're about to be in cuffs. Make your choice."

For a moment, I thought he was going to leap. His wild eyes looked past me, searching for something only he could see. But then his legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the vine.

I could see the fear in his eyes, the knowledge that he was cornered, that there was no escape. But he wasn't about to go down without a fight.

His body tensed and with a fierce growl, he charged at me, his body a blur of motion as he came at me with all the ferocity of a predator on the hunt.

My gun went off with a roar but the bullet went wild and I didn't have time to take another shot.

I dodged and weaved, using every ounce of skill and instinct I had to avoid his claws.

But the wolf was fast, and he was strong. I fought, but he managed to land a tremendous blow to my chest, sending me flying back down onto the ground where I landed beside the cowshed. I could feel the wind knocked out of me, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

It was no use. He was just too strong, too fast. He scrambled down off of the beanstalk and disappeared into the night, leaving me alone and defeated.

I lay there on the ground, my body battered and bruised, my spirit crushed. I had come so close, so very close, and yet I had failed. The big bad wolf was still out there, still terrorizing the countryside, still preying

continued part 3...

[Frank Cox]

on the innocent.

I spent the remainder of that night and all of the following day trying to track him without success.

Brute force and wandering around randomly searching through the forest wasn't going to find him.

My only option was to try for information from the Underground. There are no stool pigeons underground, of course, but plenty of rats.

I spent days hanging around in some of the worst places, the lowest dives, talking to informants, trying to get leads on the Big Bad Wolf. The Underground was a strange and dangerous place, filled with all sorts of animals, some of them friendly, and some of them not.

I talked to rats, and I talked to mice. I talked to snakes, and I talked to spiders. I talked to everyone who would talk to me, trying to find out where the Big Bad Wolf was hiding.

But it was a difficult task. The Underground was a tight-knit community, and they didn't trust outsiders. They were suspicious of me, and they didn't want to talk. But I was persistent, and I didn't give up.

Word got around that I was looking for the Big Bad Wolf and nobody wanted to get involved in anything he was associated with.

Finally, I heard a third-hand rumour that he was hiding in Grandma's house and he probably had a hostage, so as soon as I got the information I hotfooted it over there as fast as I could.

When I got to Grandma's house, the smell of pie cooling on the windowsill hit me as I was coming up the path - sweet and inviting, the kind of scent that made you forget you were in the middle of a dark and dangerous forest. But I wasn't here for dessert. I was here to save a girl who didn't even know she was in trouble.

The quaint little cottage was too picturesque to be safe, with its thatched roof, lace curtains, and a wooden sign set in a flowerbed out front that read "Welcome to Grandma's House."

I kicked the door open. I didn't knock. I learned a long time ago that polite detectives can be dead quick.

Inside, the scene was almost laughably cozy. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over a neatly set table and shelves lined with jars of preserves. Sitting in a rocking chair by the fire was Grandma, wrapped in a shawl and sipping tea. Across from her sat Little Red Riding Hood, her red cloak draped over the back of the chair.

She looked up as I stepped in, her big, curious eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"I'm a detective, Miss Hood," I said, flashing my badge. "I'm here because someone's been following you."

Her brow furrowed. "Following me? That's ridiculous. I've been here with Grandma all afternoon."

"Yeah?" I said, eyeing the old woman in the chair. Something wasn't right. The figure was hunched, but her arms seemed too muscular, her fingers too long. The shawl draped over her shoulders barely hid her coarse, gray fur.

"How about you, Grandma?" I asked, stepping closer. "Got anything to say for yourself?"

Grandma looked up, her face obscured by thick glasses and a bonnet pulled low over her head. "Oh, my, what a rude guest," she rasped, her voice shaky but off somehow. "Barging in without so much as a hello or by your leave! Isn't that right, dear?"

Riding Hood nodded. "He's just being silly, Grandma. Besides, why would anyone follow me? I'm just visiting."

"Exactly," the old woman said, her tone soothing. "Now, why don't you go and fetch us some of those cookies you brought? The ones you baked just for me."

I caught the slip but nobody else did. Riding Hood had a basket of goodies on the table, but I'd bet my badge she hadn't baked a thing in her life.

"Not so fast," I said, stepping between Riding Hood and the basket. "Let's take a closer look at Grandma first."

Riding Hood abruptly got to her feet. "Detective, this is ridiculous! That's my grandmother! She's been sick, and I've been taking care of her. You're wasting everyone's time."

"She's not wrong," Grandma said, her voice now carrying an edge. "Maybe you should leave, Detective, before you upset my little granddaughter any more."

I ignored her and leaned in, locking eyes with the old woman. That's when I saw it: the glint of yellow in those glasses, the faint curl of a lip that wasn't human.

"Tell me something, Grandma," I said, my voice low. "How'd you get such big teeth?"

Her grin widened, sharp and menacing. "All the better to eat you with, Detective."

She lunged, throwing off the shawl and bonnet. The Big Bad Wolf, in all his mangy glory, leapt from the chair, claws swiping for my throat.

Riding Hood screamed, frozen in shock.

"Grandma?!" she cried.

"She's not your grandma!" I shouted, sidestepping the wolf's claws and yanking my gun from its holster.

The wolf laughed as he circled me. "Took you long enough, Detective. Thought I'd have to go through this whole charade before you figured it out."

"You've got nowhere left to run, wolf," I said, keeping him in my sights. "Let her go, and maybe you'll make it out alive."

"Oh, Detective," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery and his yellow eyes burning with hatred. "You should know by now - I never run. You think this is over?" he hissed. "I'm the Big Bad Wolf. I'll always find a way."

He lunged again, but this time I was ready when he tried to grab me. I dodged away and levelled my gun but before I could line up a shot he was gone.

Riding Hood finally snapped out of her shock, her eyes darting around the room. "Wait, what's going on? That's wasn't Grandma?"

"No," I said. "Your grandma's probably tied up somewhere safe. We'll find her. This guy just thought he could play dress-up and get you all to himself."

She took a shaky step back, her face pale. "But... he looked like her. He sounded like her."

"That's the thing about wolves," I said. "They're good at pretending to be something they're not."

"Look!" Little Red Riding Hood pointed to a shiny key on the floor. "The wolf must have dropped that while you were fighting. It wasn't there before."

I held the house key in my hand, the address on the keychain etched into the metal. It was a long shot, but it was the only lead I had, and I knew that I had to follow it.

The woods were darker than they had any right to be, the kind of dark that swallowed sound and stretched shadows until they didn't look like yours anymore. I followed the trail deep into the trees, boots crunching on wet leaves, hand hovering over my gun. The wolf was good at disappearing, but everyone makes a mistake eventually. His was arrogance.

My boots crunched on the soft, damp earth as I made my way down a little-traveled path. The trees towered above me, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, casting eerie shadows on the ground below. The air was thick and oppressive, and the silence was deafening. But I pressed on, my senses on alert, my heart pounding with anticipation. I knew that I was close, and a feeling of dread and excitement built inside of me.

The house loomed ahead, crooked and mean, like the forest had grown it out of spite. The mailbox out front clinched it: "B.B. Wolf" scrawled in bold letters, underlined twice. He wasn't even trying to hide. That was the thing about predators. They didn't think anyone would dare come looking.

I stood behind a tree, hesitating for a moment, watching for any movement, my hand tightening around the house key.

I took a deep breath, stepped out onto the path and approached the house. I could feel the tension in the air, the sense of danger that came with being so close to a dangerous criminal like the Big Bad Wolf.

I approached the Big Bad Wolf's house, knowing that I was about to confront one of the most dangerous criminals in the forest.

I crept up to the house, my senses on high alert. I could hear the sound of movement inside, and I knew the wolf was there. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come.

I peered through the window.

I saw the wolf, sitting at a desk, writing a letter. I could see anger and frustration in his every movement, and I knew that he was planning his next move. I took a deep breath.

I slowly moved to the door and tested the handle. Locked. Figures. I could hear the wolf's footsteps inside. He was getting ready to leave. I had to act fast.

I carefully inserted the key into the door lock and twisted it ever so slowly until the lock opened with a tiny click and I let myself in.

The place smelled like wet fur and bad decisions.

The inside was a mess of contradictions. On one wall, there were mounted antlers and the kind of knives you don't buy unless you're planning to use them. On the other, a stack of books. Philosophy, poetry, even a dog-eared cookbook. A large bed in the corner was draped with what I hoped was fake fur.

Then I heard it - a floorboard creaked upstairs.

I drew my gun. "Wolf! You're busted! Come down here and make it easy on yourself!"

Silence. Then a growl, low and threatening, before the sound of a window shattering.

I ran up the stairs and caught up to the wolf just as he was scrambling through the window out onto the roof.

I ordered him to surrender. He knew he was trapped. But he was also cunning. He turned to me, his eyes cold and calculating.

"Detective," he sneered. "I see you've finally found me. But you've got nothin' on me. I'm the Big Bad Wolf, and I always get away."

I rolled my eyes, not falling for his tricks. "Save it for the judge, wolf," I said. "You're under arrest."

"You can't do this to me, detective," he said. "I'

continued part 4...

[Frank Cox]

m the Big Bad Wolf. I'm powerful and rich. You can't touch me."

I shook my head, not falling for his lies. "That's as may be, wolf," I said. "But you are a criminal, and you will be brought to justice. You can't run forever, and you can't hide forever."

"Yes I can," he said, suddenly leaping backward through the window, scrambling across the roof of the house and dropping down behind it.

He was gone in the blink of an eye.

I bolted outside and around to the back and got there just in time to see him sprinting toward the cliffs, a gray streak against the black woods. He moved fast, but desperation made me faster.

The wolf ran like a beast possessed, winding through the forest and up the hills until we reached the top of a cliff. A swirling abyss of fog concealed the jagged rocks below.

As I ran along the cliff edge I could hear the roar of water ahead of me, and I knew that the wolf was just ahead of me. I raced towards the sound, my gun at the ready. And finally, I found him. He was standing on the edge, looking down at the water smashing against the rocks.

I crept up behind him, my gun at the ready.

The wolf turned, teeth bared, yellow eyes wild. "Stay back, Detective," he snarled, his voice ragged. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with," I said, keeping my gun steady. "A crook who thinks he's untouchable."

I could see the fear in his eyes, and I saw that he knew that he was trapped. I took a deep breath. I aimed my gun, and I fired.

He stood there, panting, one hand clutching his side where I'd shot him. Blood, red and angry, seeped through his matted fur, but his wild, yellow eyes were sharper than ever.

"It's over, wolf," I said, my gun steady in my hand. "You've run out of stories, and now you've run out of road. Turn yourself in."

He laughed, low and guttural, like gravel in a rusted engine. "Turn myself in? To you? You think you've won, Detective?"

I took a cautious step closer.

"You're bleeding out," I said. "You're cornered. What part of this looks like victory to you?"

"The part where you still don't get it," he growled, his grin widening to show rows of sharp, glinting teeth. "I'm not just some wolf in a fairy tale, Detective. I'm the Big Bad Wolf. The villain of villains. And you can't kill what's meant to last forever."

"Destiny's funny like that," I said. "Turns out, you make enough enemies, someone's bound to show up with a score to settle."

He stepped closer to the edge, the wind tugging at his fur. "They said nothing could stop me. Not bricks, not sticks, not straw. I was destined to rule the woods. And now look at me. Brought to bay by a washed-up gumshoe with a secondhand revolver."

"Is that so?" I asked, my voice even.

He nodded, his chest heaving with labored breaths. "You think this is about crime? You think I'm some petty thug? They've tried before, you know. The woodsman all those years ago, then the pigs, even that foolish girl with the red hood. But here I stand. Still hunting. Still winning."

I kept my gun trained on him, but something in his voice made me pause. It wasn't just bravado, it was belief. He genuinely believed he was untouchable, unstoppable.

"You know why, Detective?" he continued, stepping closer to the edge, the wind whipping his fur. "Because I'm not a creature. I'm an idea. Fear, hunger, survival. You shoot me, I get back up. You chain me, I break free. You think you're doing something noble here, but all you're doing is stalling the inevitable."

I tightened my grip on the gun. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just a scared little animal who talks big because he knows he's losing."

"You can't kill a legend."

I smiled at him, my gun still in my hand. "Good thing I don't believe in legends," I said.

Blood dripped on the ground.

The wolf grunted, his breath now coming in shallow gasps. "You just don't understand, detective. Evil isn't something you're born with. It's something you become. A choice."

I laughed, a cold, bitter sound. "A choice? You think the choice to eat a little girl is a choice? You think the choice to terrorize a town is a choice? You're a monster, wolf. You're not a man. You're not even human. And where has it got you? Bleeding in the woods, running from every story you tried to hijack."

The wolf looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and anger. "And you, detective, are just as much a monster. You hunt and kill, taking the lives of others to feel powerful. Is that not evil?"

I stared back at him, my gaze unflinching. "I'm a detective, wolf. It's my job to protect the innocent. If that makes me a monster, then so be it."

The wolf chuckled, a sound that was more a rattle than a laugh. "You may think you're doing good, detective, but you're just as much a part of this cycle of violence as I am. We're both monsters, feeding off the fear and pain of others. We're just different sides of the same coin.

"They tell you I'm the Big Bad Wolf, the predator, the one to fear. But you know what I am?" He straightened up, his chest heaved and blood appeared around his muzzle. "I'm a survivor. This world - it chews you up and spits you out unless you fight back. And I've been fighting my whole life. The pigs, the little red hoods, the woodsman? Nobody gives a damn about the wolf."

I looked away, the wind whipping around me as I contemplated his words. He had a point, I supposed. We were both monsters in our own way. But as long as I had a badge and a gun, I would continue to fight the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

He snarled again and his eyes flared with rage. He took one last step back, his heels teetering on the precipice, gasping. "Go ahead," he growled. "Pull the trigger. Let's see what happens."

The moment hung heavy in the air. For a second, I considered bringing him in alive, trying to prove him wrong. But then I thought of the trail of destruction he'd left behind, houses in ruins, lives shattered, innocents terrified.

I squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out, a clean, sharp sound that cracked through the cliffs and echoed across the water. The bullet struck him square in the chest, and he stumbled.

For a moment, he just stood there, his eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Then his grin returned, bloodied but defiant.

He looked down, then back at me. Blood dripped from his mouth. "You can't stop what I am," he said, his voice weaker now. "You think you've won, but there'll always be another Big Bad. The woods need me."

And then, he tipped backward.

The wolf tumbled over the edge, his dark form swallowed by the mist below. I rushed to the cliff but there was nothing to see. No body, no sound of impact. Just an empty void, as if the forest itself had swallowed him whole.

I stood there for a long time, my gun still in hand, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air, waiting for some sign that he was gone for good. But deep down, I knew better. The Big Bad Wolf wasn't just a predator or a villain - he was a force of nature. And forces like that don't disappear quietly.

Still, for now, the woods were quiet, and the stories he'd haunted could rest.

But the echo of our conversation lingered in my mind, a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the world, there were still questions worth asking.

I holstered my gun and walked away, leaving the fog and the cliff behind.

I woke up in my office, my head pounding and my mind foggy. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of a strange dream. I didn't remember falling asleep, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

I sat up in my chair. My neck felt stiff and I had a terrible kink in my back. I tried to remember the details of the dream, but it was fading fast. All I could remember was a house made of bricks, and a monster with a wicked grin.

I shook my head. The world felt out of kilter, different somehow. I'm a detective, not a fairy tale character. I have real cases to solve, and real people to help. I don't have time for dreams and make-believe.

But then the phone rang, and my thoughts were interrupted. I answered automatically, my mind still fuzzy.

"Detective," the caller said, his voice urgent. "There's been a kidnapping. Two kids have been taken, and the suspect is a witch with a house made of candy."

I dropped the telephone receiver on my desk, pushed my chair back and slowly stood up. I could still hear the buzz of a tinny voice talking behind me as I walked out of my office into the hall and down the stairs onto the sidewalk.

The heatwave, a relentless, suffocating beast that had gripped the city for weeks, had finally relented. The city seemed to catch its breath as a cool rain washed over it. The streets, once sizzling and steaming, were now slick and wet, the asphalt cooled and soothed by the gentle precipitation.

The pavement, once baked and cracked, was now smooth and slick, reflecting the dim, neon lights that flickered along the sidewalk like dying fireflies. The air was crisp and cool, a refreshing change from the oppressive heat that had plagued the city for so long.

The laundromat next door and the diner down the street all looked to be doing their usual business.

A couple of guys were leaned up on the wall in front of the bar on the corner, smoking.

Some kid went by on a bicycle followed by a small dog.

I'm a big city detective. Concrete pavement and hard evidence are my beat, not forests and magical creatures. Facts. Things that can be seen, touched, and measured, not stories that exist only in the realm of the imagination.

Right?
------------------
end.

Ok, turned out to be four pieces instead of five.

[Frank Cox]

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.

[Frank Cox]

My last few stories have been pretty bleak, so I decided to write something a bit warmer.

The Hearth Sprite
by Frank Cox

In the dimly lit office of Detective Jack "Iceman" Frost, the frigid air hung heavy with the weight of unsolved cases and broken dreams. Jack, a hardboiled detective with a heart as cold as arctic ice, had seen more than his share of pain and suffering. But recently a case had gone south, leaving him feeling more alone and despondent than ever before.

The snow fell outside and Jack sat by the fireplace. The flames danced and flickered, but they lacked strength and warmth. The heat from the fire was faint, barely enough to take the chill off the air, and the ghosts of past failures haunted his every thought.

As the fire died down Jack felt the icy grip of despair tightening around his heart and he could feel the weight of his defeats pressing down on him.

Jack was lost in a cold and empty world with no hope of escape and the fire seemed to mirror his own distress, its flickering flames offering little heat or solace.

He could feel the world's pain like a boulder on his soul, and he was drowning in a sea of failure and regret. He longed for the days when he felt like he was leaving his mark, stirring the pot where it needed to be stirred, making a stand when the chips were down. When he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. But those days seemed like a distant memory, and Jack found himself struggling to find his way.

Suddenly, a small, glowing figure appeared beside him. Jack started and his heart skipped a beat. The figure was no more than a few inches tall, with glowing red eyes and skin that seemed to shimmer like fire. It was a hearth sprite.

The fire took on a new life. The flames grew stronger, casting a warm, golden glow over the room.

"You seem troubled, my friend," the hearth sprite said, its voice like the crackle of a fire. "I sense despair and sadness in your heart."

Jack chuckled bitterly. "I've cracked cases that left others stumped, stared down killers and lowlifes, but still, my efforts are for naught. One crook off the streets, three more step up to take his place. What's the point? I'm trying to make a difference in a world that never seems to change."

The hearth sprite cocked its head, its eyes full of empathy. "You are a warrior, a guardian of justice. But the fiercest flames need to be tended to, and the sturdiest of hearts can fracture under the weight of the world."

Jack stared into the hearth sprite's eyes, feeling a strange warmth spread through his chest. He had never been one for sentimental talk, but there was something about the presence of the hearth sprite that made him feel... different.

"It's a bleak world out there, pal. I've been kicked around by the cold winds of fortune, and I don't think I've got what it takes to keep going. I've lost my way, stumbled off the path," Jack sighed. "I'm just another cog in the machinery of this city."

The hearth sprite nodded. "All I can offer is an observation. The hearth is a symbol of warmth, light, and hope. It is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always a spark of light that can guide you through. You may gaze upon the concrete jungle, the filth, the grit – life's relentless facade. But don't be fooled. There's still a sliver of the good and the decent lurking in the shadows, waiting to be uncovered."

Jack watched the flickering flames, feeling a spreading warmth. He sat quietly for several minutes, then nodded slowly.

"I understand," he said, his voice stronger. "I will find my way again."

The hearth sprite smiled, its eyes glowing brighter. "I knew you would," it said, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

As the hearth sprite disappeared, the fire roared to life like never before. The flames leapt and danced, casting a golden glow over the room, creating patterns and shapes that seemed to shift and change before Jack's eyes.

The heat from the fire washed over Jack, filling him with a sense of warmth and comfort that he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt peace and clarity wash over him and the weight of his sorrow lifted from his shoulders, as if the fire was burning away his doubts and fears.

The fire grew more intense. It was no longer a symbol of the cold and darkness but a reminder of the dignity and light that could be found even in the darkest of times, now a symbol of the strength and resilience that lay within Jack, and within us all.

Jack would continue to fight for justice, to bring light to the darkest corners of the world, and he would never forget the hearth sprite and the warmth and the hope it represented.

So if you find yourself weighed down by the troubles of the world, take comfort in knowing that there are those who walk alongside you, bearing the same burden. Together we'll weather the storm and when the skies clear we'll stand tall, our spirits unbroken and our resolve unshaken. We may bear the weight of the world's sorrows but we don't break. We bend, and in bending we find a strength that could move mountains.

The world can be a tough place but we're tougher.

We're the hardboiled men and women of the city, and we'll always make it out the other side.

[Frank Cox]

The Park Bench
by Frank Cox

The park was a shoddy little place, a relic from a time when life was simpler, when the world was smaller, and the air was filled with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the sound of children laughing. It was a place where people came to walk their dogs, to play catch with their kids, to sit on a bench and watch the world go by.

The trees were old, their branches heavy with leaves, their roots deep in the earth, their trunks gnarled and weathered by the years. The grass was a patchwork of green and brown, the brown spots like scars that marked the places where dogs had relieved themselves. The paths were lined with weeds, the kind that grew up through the cracks in the sidewalk and wrapped themselves around your ankles if you weren't careful.

In the center of the park was a small pond, the water murky and green, the surface covered with a layer of scum. There were no ducks or geese, no fish to be seen. Just the occasional pigeon, pecking at the ground, hoping for a scrap of bread or a morsel of something else edible.

The air was thick with the smell of decaying leaves and moldy grass, a smell that made you sneeze and brought back memories of raking leaves as a kid. The sound of the city was distant, a low rumble that was almost drowned out by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional squawk of a pigeon bragging about its discovery.

The bench sat all by its lonesome in the middle of the park, a rusty artefact from a time when horses and buggies roamed the streets. It was a dinosaur from an age of black and white movies and two-bit dames with long cigarette holders. The metal frame was like a skeleton, all bent and twisted from years of abuse. The wooden planks that made up the seat had rotted away in places, and the ones that remained were as splintery as an old hag's temper.

A couple of the pigeons pecked at a discarded hot dog on the ground nearby, their beady eyes never leaving the prize.

It was a sad little bench in a sad little park, the kind of place where the ghosts of broken dreams lingered, waiting for someone who would take heed, and no one ever did.

The old man sat on the bench, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes closed. He wore a faded blue baseball cap, the brim pulled down low to shade his eyes. His face was rugged as a leather sack left out in the rain, weathered by the relentless wind of life, and his hands, calloused and scarred, told the tale of a man who spent his life toiling for others.

His mind was filled with memories of the good old days, the good times, the bad times, the times that had made him laugh, the times that made him cry. The times he'd been young and foolish, the times he'd been old and wise. The times he'd been scared, the times he'd been brave.

He saw the speakeasies and the flappers, the Ford Model Ts rumbling down the streets, the men in fedoras and the women in slinky dresses. He heard the music of the Roaring Twenties, the jazz and the blues, and he felt the energy of a time when anything seemed possible.

He was a young man then, full of dreams and ambition. He had a job at the docks, lugging cargo off of ships from Europe and South America. He was strong and tough, a man who could take on the world.

He could almost taste the salt air of the seashore, feel the sand between his toes as he strolled down the beach with his sweetheart, holding hands, her laughter echoing in his ears like the peal of a bell.

He remembered the night he proposed to her, under the stars, the moon shining down on them like a spotlight. He remembered the day they got married, the sun shining, the birds singing, the world at their feet. He remembered the birth of their children, the joy, the fear, the wonder.

But life had a way of kicking a guy when he was down. His sweetheart had died too young, leaving him to raise their children alone. The beach had changed, too, the boardwalk gone to seed, the once-bright lights dimmed, the laughter replaced by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore, a constant, relentless reminder of the passage of time.

He remembered the day his daughter had graduated from college, the pride he'd felt as she walked across the stage, the tears in her eyes as she looked up at him. He remembered the day his son had gotten married, the joy, the laughter, the love that had filled the room. He remembered the times he'd sat on this very bench, his sweetheart beside him, her hand in his, their hearts beating as one.

Those memories were his, and they were safe. They were the only things he had left, but they were enough. They were the anchor that held him to the past, the beacon that guided him through the storm. They were the compass that showed him the way home.

All he had were his memories, the ghosts of a time gone by. He sat on the bench and let them wash over him, feeling the weight of the years, the aches and pains, the regret. But he also felt the strength of the bonds he'd forged, the love that had carried him through the darkest times.

The old man's eyes flicked up as the two young hoodlums strolled by, fresh off a bender and looking for their next victim. They were young, probably no more than twenty, dressed in baggy jeans and heavy boots, their faces hidden behind dark glasses and baseball caps. They walked with a swagger, as if they owned the park, as if they could take on the world and come out on top.

The old man watched as they circled back, their eyes fixed on him, their bodies tense, their hands hidden in their pockets. He knew what was coming, the inevitable violence, the cold steel of a knife or a gun pressed against his belly, the demand for his wallet, his watch, his ring.

The old man sat tall on the bench, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving theirs.

"Hey, old timer," one of them said, his voice heavy with menace. "You got something for me?"

The old man smiled, a small, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Son, I don't own anything worth taking. I got no wallet, no jewelry, no watch... Take this bench," he said. "It's the only thing left of value around here."

The young thugs looked at each other, then at the bench, then back at the old man. They hesitated, then turned and wandered off, muttering about crazy old men and wondering where they could find a score.

The old man watched them go, then let out a long, slow breath. He knew there would be others, but he didn't care. He had his memories, and they could never take those away.

Now he was old and alone, his children grown and gone, his wife gone years ago, his friends... all gone. The world had changed too, the park no longer the place it had once been. He lived all his life in this city but it no longer felt like home.

He sat on the bench, his back straight, his shoulders hunched, his body aching with the weight of the years. He felt the hard edges of the bench beneath him, the rough wood of the planks, the splinters digging into his legs. He felt the wind on his face, the sun on his skin; the distant sound of a revving motor, unintelligible yelling followed by the bang of a slammed door the only sounds that he heard.

He sat there, hour after hour, his mind filled with the ghosts of his past, the memories that kept him tethered to the world he'd once known.

The sun set slowly over the park, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink, the clouds aflame with the light. The air grew cool, the wind picked up, and the leaves rustled and whispered, as if they were telling secrets to the trees.

The old man sat on the bench, his eyes closed, his mind filled with the ghosts of his past. The memories were like a fire in his heart, burning bright and hot, filling him with a sense of warmth and comfort and love.

As the night closed in around him, the fire began to fade, the memories growing fainter, the ghosts drifting away. The temperature dropped rapidly while the wind blew harder. Thunder roared, lightning lit up the skies and the rain came down in sheets. The world became a blur of shadows and mystery.

And in the midst of the storm, the old man sat on the bench, his body still, his mind at rest, his spirit at peace.

[Frank Cox]

The Blue Ox
by Frank Cox

It was just another day in the office, the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke filling the air. I was going through the mail, my mind only about half-focused, when the phone rang.

I picked it up, the receiver cold in my hand. "Detective," I said, my voice weary.

"This is Paul Bunyan," the voice on the other end boomed. "I need your help."

Now that was the most interesting phone call I'd had all week. Paul Bunyan himself, a lumberjack of mythic proportions.

I sat up straighter. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bunyan?"

He explained that his blue ox, Babe, was missing, and he needed my help to track him down.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," I said.

I hung up the phone. I'd never heard of a blue ox before, but I was intrigued. I looked out the window.

The snow was painting the town in a cold icy blanket. I knew this case was going to take me out into the wilderness so I spent the rest of the day preparing for the trip, packing my bag with all the essentials.

The next day, I arrived at Paul Bunyan's cabin, the woods surrounding it dark and foreboding. I could hear the roar of chainsaws in the distance, the sound of lumberjacks at work.

I stepped inside the cabin, the smell of pine and sawdust filling my nostrils. Bunyan was a sight to behold, a mountain of a man with a thick, bushy beard that flowed down like a waterfall, cascading over his chest and falling onto the ground like a curtain of fur. His beard was as dark as the night, as thick as the forest, and it framed his face like a halo, giving him the appearance of a biblical prophet or a viking warrior.

"Detective," he growled, "Babe, my blue ox, is gone."

I lit up a smoke and let out a sigh. "Well, Bunyan, let's get to the bottom of this. Tell me what you know. Tell me more about the blue ox. What does it look like?"

Bunyan scratched his beard, "Well, it's blue. It's an ox. You got an ox of your own, Detective?"

I couldn't help but chuckle, "No, Mr. Bunyan, I've got a cat."

Bunyan scratched his beard again, "Huh. It's a big blue ox. That's what it is."

I wrote down the information in my notebook, "Alright, Mr. Bunyan, I'll need more to go on than that. Can you tell me about its coat, its size, anything that might help me identify it?"

Bunyan shook his head, "It's blue."

I sighed. "Ok, I'll do my best, Mr. Bunyan. I'll be in touch."

The woods were a cold, unforgiving place. The snow fell thick and heavy, covering the ground in a white blanket that seemed to go on forever. I trudged along, my boots sinking with each step.

I wrapped my coat tightly around me but the cold seeped through my clothes and chilled me to the bone. I pulled my hat down over my ears and pulled up the collar of my coat, but it didn't help much.

I followed a trail of footprints that led deeper and deeper into the woods. The snow grew thicker, and the trees grew closer together, blocking out the sun and leaving me in darkness.

The ice beneath the snow was slick and treacherous and I struggled to keep my footing. Slipping and sliding, my boots skidded out from under me several times, sending me tumbling to the ground.

I cursed under my breath, my teeth chattering with the cold. I knew I had to press on, but the woods seemed to be trying to hold me back. I was on a mission to find that blue ox, and I wasn't going to let the woods stand in my way.

I trudged on, my boots sinking deeper and deeper into the snow. I could feel the cold seeping into my bones.

Finally, after what felt like hours, I came to a clearing. I looked around, the snow falling gently from the trees. And there, tied to a tree, was the blue ox, Babe.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had found the blue ox, and I had conquered the woods.

I knew I had a long journey back to the cabin, but I couldn't wait to tell Paul Bunyan that Babe was safe and sound.

I untied the blue ox from the tree and patted him on the nose. He looked up at me with big, sad eyes, as if to say thank you.

I turned to the ox and said, "Alright, Babe, let's get out of here. I could use some help breaking this trail."

Babe nodded his head, and we set off, making our way through the woods. The snow was still thick, but with Babe's help, I was able to make better time.

We trudged on, the cold wind biting at our faces. I could feel the warmth of Babe's breath on my neck, and this time I knew I wasn't alone.

As we made our way back to the cabin, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. I had found the blue ox, and I had done it to help out a legend.

I reached the cabin, exhausted but triumphant. I could see Paul Bunyan sitting by the fire, a look of relief on his face.

"Detective," he said, "I can't thank you enough. You've saved Babe, and I owe you."

I shook my head, "Just doing my job, Mr. Bunyan. That's what I'm here for."

I turned to Babe and said, "Let's get you some food and warmth, buddy. You've had a long journey."

Babe followed me to the table, where I fed him a hearty meal. He ate with gusto, his tail wagging in excitement.

I perched by the fire, warming my hands. Paul Bunyan sat beside his blue ox, smiling like a sunrise breaking through stormy skies.

I had solved the case, found the missing blue ox, and helped a legend in the process. It was a job well done, and I knew I could take on whatever the world threw at me next.

[Frank Cox]

The Pickpocket
by Frank Cox

In the sultry, smoke-shrouded depths of the speakeasy, the tick-tock of an antique clock echoed off the weathered wooden walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the lingering smell of pipe and cigarette smoke. The dim light cast long, shadows that danced a sizzling tango with the reflections off the polished mahogany bar.

A slithering serpent of smoke coiled around the lithe figure of a woman. Her hair shimmered like ink in the half-light, a mane as dark as a raven's wing, her voice a velvet-wrapped razor blade. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, darted back and forth, scanning for the perfect mark, the one who wasn't paying attention, the one with his guard down. Her fingers moved nimbly, as if trained by the Devil himself, weaving a tapestry of theft and deception.

Her silk dress, a slithering thing of midnight blue, shimmered with the light of the single, flickering candle on the table before her. It was a dangerous, alluring dance she performed, a ballet of thievery that left the unsuspecting men around her none the wiser. She was the siren of the smoke-filled lounge, luring the unwitting into her web of deceit.

The jukebox crooned a melancholic tune, a lament of lost love and longing. The notes hung in the air, weighing down the hearts of the patrons. Yet, the woman continued her dance, a predator in a sea of prey, a shark in the waters of the speakeasy. The night wore on, and the woman continued her work, a master of riddles and intrigue.

The woman slinked through the smoky, dimly-lit lounge, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk hunting its prey. She moved with the grace of a panther, every step a calculated dance of danger and desire. She knew she could find a mark among the unsuspecting men who filled the room.

She approached a group of men seated at a table, her movements smooth and practiced. She glided up to the man whose pocket she had chosen, her eyes never leaving his face. She struck up a conversation, her voice sweet and seductive.

As the man leaned in to hear her words, the woman's nimble fingers moved, slipping into his pocket with the grace of a cat. With the precision of a surgeon, her fingers glided over the fabric of the unsuspecting mark's pocket. With a deft flick of her wrist, she maneuvered the wallet into her grasp, her fingers curling around it. But before she could make her escape, a hand closed around her wrist.

The woman's eyes widened in shock as she realized she had been caught. The man's grip was like a vise, crushing her wrist as he pulled her towards him. She struggled, but his grip was too strong.

The room fell silent, the other patrons turning to watch as the man pulled the woman towards the bar. The bartender, a grizzled old man with a face as weathered as the bar itself, looked on impassively. The woman knew she was in trouble, that her cover had been blown.

"You little snake," the man hissed, his voice like a rusty knife, "You dirty thief!" The room seemed to close in around the woman, the weight of a thousand eyes bearing down on her like a heavy, unseen burden.

She tried to explain herself, to plead her case.

"Shut up lady," the man snarled. He slammed her against the bar, his face contorted by wrath. The woman's mind raced as she tried to think of a way out. But it was too late, the damage was done. This guy was a wet cat in a rainstorm and past any kind of argument.

The man called the other patrons over, his voice vicious as he pointed at the woman. The crowd closed in around her, their eyes filled with hatred and anger. The woman knew she had to make a run for it, to find a way to escape.

She clenched her fists, feeling the knuckles turn white with the strain, and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the struggle that lay ahead. She would not surrender without a fight. She was a tiger, cornered and desperate, and she would not go quietly into the night.

Like a cat slipping out of a snare, she wriggled and squirmed, her movements a dance of defiance. She was a cobra, ready to strike. The man who had held her captive was a fool to underestimate her, for she was a force to be reckoned with. She let out a snarl and with a swift, swift movement, she twisted free from his grasp.

She charged forward, her movements a blur of fury and determination. The crowd was a sea of hostile faces but she plowed through them like a freight train, her eyes fixed on the door to the street. She knew they wanted to stop her, to bring her down, but she would not be deterred. She was a lioness, and she would not be tamed. She pushed and shoved and she would not be stopped.

She struggled against the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest as she rammed her way through the throng. She managed to break free, her legs carrying her through the door.

The woman sprinted down the dark deserted streets, her feet beating against the pavement, stinging in shoes that weren't made for running. She knew she had to get away, to leave town before the law caught up with her. She darted through alleys and back streets, her body aching from the exertion.

She ran and ran some more, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she would not stop. She had to get away, to escape. She was a bird, a spirit that would never be tamed, and she would not be caged again.

The woman limped, her legs cramping with every step she took. The cold wind whipped at her hair and blew down her back, a cruel reminder of the price she had paid for her transgression. The streetlights flickered like dying stars, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to taunt her.

She knew she had to get out of town, to find a place where she could leave the past behind, where no one would know her name. She had to find a new lounge, a new place to ply her trade. But she also knew that it would be a challenge, a gauntlet she would have to run to stay one step ahead of the law.

The woman reached the bus station, collapsing against the cold, unforgiving concrete wall. She knew she had to catch the next bus out of town, had to get as far away as possible. She looked around, her eyes scanning the station for the bus she needed.

She saw it waiting at the far end of the platform, its engine idling like a beast ready to pounce. The woman limped towards it, her body aching with every step. She knew she had to get there, had to catch the bus before they caught her.

She made it to the bus just as the doors were closing. She looked around, her eyes scanning the faces of the other passengers. She felt like they were all looking at her, judging her. She refused to let it bother her.

As the bus pulled away from the curb, the woman felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She knew she was leaving behind the life she had built, the life that had defined her for so long. But she also knew that she had to do it, had to start over if she wanted to survive.

She breathed a sigh of relief, her body slumping against the seat. She had made it, had escaped the clutches of the law.

She watched the city recede in the rearview mirror, a smoky, blurred image that seemed to fade away like a dream. The bus rode on, the engine's roar a constant soundtrack to the woman's thoughts. She knew she was heading towards an uncertain future, but she was determined to face it head-on.

The bus pulled into a new town, a place where no one knew her name. The woman stepped off the bus.

The next lounge was a nondescript building, a hole-in-the-wall that looked like it had seen better days. The neon sign flickered above the entrance, casting a sickly green glow on the pavement below. The woman hesitated for a moment but she knew she had no choice, that she had to move on if she wanted to survive.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside, the heat and noise of the lounge washing over her like a tidal wave. The patrons looked up, their eyes appraising her as she made her way to the bar. The bartender looked her up and down before pouring her a glass of whiskey.

The woman took a deep breath, her body trembling with the weight of what she knew had been the very narrowest of narrow escapes. She knew she had to start fresh, to find a way to outrun the forces that pursued her. She took a long drink of the whiskey, the burn of it searing her throat. She would not let what had happened define her, would not let it drag her down.

She would keep dancing, keep moving, until she found a place where she could rest, where she could finally find peace. And she would continue her dance, her ballet of thievery, because that was all she knew. She was the siren of the smoky lounges, a master of shadows and secrets.

[Frank Cox]

No Trespassing
by Frank Cox

In a town where the sun never seemed to set and the shadows danced with the devil himself, there stood a house, a relic of a time long past. The old timers whispered tales of witches, ghosts, and curses that had befallen those who dared to trespass on its hallowed ground.

Now there's ol' Slim, a lanky fella with a heart as soft as a kitten's paw, and about as smart as a sack of hair. This here's a fellow who, if you asked him to find two and two, would probably come up with five, and be mighty proud of it.

One fine day, Slim, on a fool's errand for some old goat's lost goat, found himself at the very edge of the road leading onto the haunted property. The sign was as plain as day, its faded letters reading: "Trespassers will be toad."

Now you gotta understand, Slim is the type who'd ignore any red lights flashing, sirens wailing, or old ma's warnings about the hot stove.

"Huh," Slim spit on the ground. "Ain't nobody around an' they can't even spell."

So he sauntered on, the dusty ground crunching beneath his boots.

As he got closer to the house, the air grew thick with a chill that made his bones ache. Suddenly, a gust of wind knocked his hat off, sending it spiraling into the darkness. Slim cursed, and without a second thought, he leaped after it, landing headfirst into a puddle of who-knows-what.

The next thing he knew, he felt the sting of being turned into a toad. Slim, now hopping along, looked around at the strange, eerie land. The sun was setting, casting long, ghastly shadows that seemed to wriggle and writhe like snakes.

As he hopped along, Slim blinked his big bulbous eyes. "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," he said, his croaking voice a stark contrast to his former self. "Looks like I got what I deserved for not listening to that sign."

Slim spent the night hopping around the haunted property, feeling every bit as out of place as a bear in a beehive. By morning, he had come to a decision. No matter how much he'd like to blame the witch, he knew he couldn't. After all, the sign did say that trespassers would be toad.

And so, Slim made his way back to town, determined never to ignore a warning sign again.

Every now and then, on a quiet night, you can hear the faint sound of a croak echoing through the streets. It's probably just the wind but some folks say it's Slim , hopping along, reminding folks to always heed the warnings, lest they end up as toads themselves.

[Frank Cox]

I had a couple of not-very-busy matinees this weekend so I came up with this.

A Real Doll
By Frank Cox

In the heart of the city, under the neon glow and the smoky haze, there is a labyrinth of shadows, where the dim bulbs flicker like dying fireflies, casting long, elongated shadows on the worn-out floorboards. The air was thick with whiskey and secrets, a perfume of lies, broken dreams and illicit desires that had soaked into the very fabric of the building. The clock's hands crept around the dial, each tick a drumbeat in a symphony of anticipation.

The jukebox hummed softly in the background, a mournful serenade that echoed the sorrow of the souls within. Smoke coiled through the air, entwining itself with the orange glow of the ceiling lights, creating a murky tableau of mystery and intrigue.

At the entrance, a figure stood, silhouetted against the glow of the setting sun. She was a vision, a miracle, a sin, all wrapped in a scarlet dress that danced around her like a crimson serpent. Her long cigarette holder dangled from her hand, a slender black staff for a goddess who ruled over the hearts of men, commanding fear and passion in equal measure, a primal desire that was impossible to resist. This was no ordinary dame, this was a creature of dreams and fantasy.

A real doll - half Barbie, half voodoo.

Her eyes, the colour of molten gold, were like twin suns, casting a golden glow over the crowd. Each man in the bar was a moth, drawn to her flame, blinded by her beauty, ensnared in her web. She was a temptation, a promise, a danger - a woman who could break a man's heart or make his wildest dreams come true, all with a single glance.

In a sea of monochrome hues her dress was a burning rocket, bold as a sunset and vibrant as a pool of fresh blood.

As she stepped through the door, the restless atmosphere hung thick in the air, humming with tension like a live wire, pulsating like a heartbeat. The room fell silent, save for the clink of glasses and the steady tick of the clock. The world outside faded away; all that mattered was her, the woman who could charm a snake, enchant a king, and leave a man begging for more.

The barkeep, a grizzled old man who'd seen more than his fair share of sirens, angels, and devils, watched her approach. He knew better than to get caught up in her spell; he'd seen too many good men lose everything to her. But he couldn't help but admire her, to marvel at her beauty, to wonder what secrets lay hidden behind those golden eyes.

She took her seat, the bar stool creaking beneath her weight, and ordered a drink. The barkeep, a man who could make a martini as smooth as silk and as strong as a sledgehammer, mixed her drink with a flourish.

As she sipped her drink, the room slowly came alive. The music picked up, the laughter grew louder, and the air was charged with an energy that was almost tangible. The men in the bar, like moths to a flame, flocked to her side, offering her compliments and empty promises.

But she paid them no mind, her gaze locked on the door, her heart beating in time with the ticking clock. She was waiting for someone, someone she loved, someone she couldn't live without. The hours passed, and the crowd thinned, but she remained, her golden eyes a promise of things to come.

Through the night the clock struck the hours and the woman remained at the bar, her golden eyes filled with tears, her heart heavy with pain and regret. He was not here, her true love, her soulmate, the one man who could make her whole.

She waited there, her cigarette holder clutched tightly in her hand, her gaze locked on the door. But as the first light of dawn crept over the city, she realized that he was not coming. He had abandoned her, left her to face the world alone, to face the darkness that threatened to consume her.

With a heavy heart she stood up from the bar stool, the sound echoing through the emptying bar. She took one last look around, her eyes taking in the sights, the sounds, the memories of the night before. And then, with a grace that belied the pain in her heart, she turned and walked away.

The streets were empty, the air cold and still, the sky tinged with the first light of dawn. She walked, her steps slow and heavy, her heart aching with every beat. She didn't know where she was going, what she was going to do, but she knew that she couldn't stay in the city, in the bar, in the world that had betrayed her.

She walked for hours, her red dress a beacon in the shadows, her golden eyes filled with tears. The city, the buildings, the people, the noise all melted into the darkness that surrounded her. She could feel the cold seeping into her bones, the pain spreading through her heart, closing in around her.

But still she walked, her steps slow and steady, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew that she couldn't go back, couldn't face the world that had betrayed her, couldn't face the darkness that threatened to consume her.

As the sun began to rise, the first light of dawn breaking through the darkness, she stopped. She stood there, on the edge of the city, her red dress a splash of colour against the gray sky, her golden eyes filled with tears. She looked out over the horizon, her heart heavy with pain, her soul aching with loss.

She took one last deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her tears, her heart beating in time with the ticking clock. And then, with a final, heart-wrenching sigh, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the dawn, leaving behind only the echo of her footsteps. And the memory of her golden eyes.

[Frank Cox]

The Fried Egg
by Frank Cox

In the hazy, neon-lit haze of the city that never sleeps, a hard-boiled gumshoe named Trenchcoat Tommy, with a jawline chiseled from granite and a gaze as cold as an Arctic wind, stood before his humble abode's ancient stove, a relic of a bygone era, like some prehistoric beast that had somehow found its way into the heart of the concrete jungle. He was no stranger to the underbelly of the city, but today, he was squaring off against a formidable foe - a humble egg.

He had faced down the most dangerous mobsters, solved the most confounding mysteries, and survived the meanest streets, but none of that had prepared him for the culinary gauntlet that lay before him. The egg, a round, brownish orb of life, sat innocently upon the worn surface of his kitchen counter. It was a deceptive facade filled with hidden pitfalls.

He set the frying pan on the gas burner, the flame hissing and spitting as it embraced the cold metal. With a flourish, he cracked the egg, the yolk and white spilling forth like a golden waterfall, a cascade of hope and despair. The heat licked at the egg, eager to claim its prize.

The yolk was as yellow as the sun setting on a gangster's heart, and the white, as pure as a dame's heart in a city where such things were hard to come by. Tommy had been burnin' for a good breakfast since the break of dawn, but the egg proved to be a slippery customer, darting and dodging like a alley cat on a moonlit night.

Tommy grasped the pan, his knuckles white from the grip, and thus began the dance of fire and steel, a ballet of sweat and sizzle.

He grabbed a spatula and swung it at the egg, attempting to corral it into the hot steel pan. But the egg, with a cunning that could put any contemptible crook to shame, eluded Tommy's grasp. It was a battle as old as time, a clash of iron resolve and egg, a duel of wills between man and nature.

The egg slid this way and that, weaving through Tommy's attempts to pin it down. It was like trying to catch a bar of soap in a bathtub, and Tommy was beginning to sweat. But a tough guy never backed down, never showed fear. He gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.

The egg was absolutely not eager to oblige. It danced and jived in the pan, a jittery, panicked creature, refusing to submit to the fiery embrace. Tommy, a man who had never known defeat, found himself growing frustrated, his patience wearing thin. He gave the pan a shake, a harsh, unyielding movement that sent the egg spinning wildly across the pan. It splattered against the side, the yolk and white flying like a golden rain, a cascade of despair.

The egg exploded, the yolk and white flying across the room like shrapnel from a grenade. Tommy, caught unawares, let out a yelp of surprise, the sound echoing through the empty apartment like a gunshot in the night.

He surveyed the carnage, the pieces of yolk and egg white littering the worn linoleum like a crime scene. He stood there, his jaw set in a grim line, and vowed that he would not be defeated by this simple task, determined to see this culinary challenge through to the end.

Continuing the epic battle, Tommy found himself standing before his refrigerator, a cold, sterile fortress of foodstuffs. He reached inside, his fingers brushing against the cool, slick surface of the eggs, the remnants of his previous struggle still fresh in his mind, not to mention the floor.

He selected another egg, a fresh, unblemished orb of promise, and placed it gently in the pan and once more lowered it onto the burner.

This time, the egg did not resist. It cooked, slowly, patiently, submitting to the will of the fire. The sizzle of the cooking egg filled the kitchen, a symphony of satisfaction. Tommy watched as the yolk set, the white fluffed and puffed, transforming from a fragile, vulnerable creature into a resilient, edible hero.

Tommy let out a sigh, a weary smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The egg was beaten, just like the lowlifes he usually chased.

With a final flip, the egg was done, its journey from humble orb to golden, fried delight complete. Tommy picked up the pan, his hands steady, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a man who had faced down the impossible and emerged victorious.

Tommy scooped the egg onto a plate, his prize, his trophy. He took a bite, the yolk rich and creamy, the white crisp and tender, the flavors dancing upon his tongue like a symphony of taste. The reward of victory was sweet, like the triumph of justice after a long, hard case. The kitchen fell silent, save for the sound of Tommy chewing, savoring his hard-won breakfast.

He leaned back against the counter and took a long drag from his cigarette. The city outside, with its never-ending cacophony of sounds, seemed to fade away, as if the world had conspired to give him this moment of peace and quiet.

But as he closed his eyes and savored his hard-earned victory, he couldn't help but wonder: what other secrets does the culinary world hold, what other challenges await him in the kitchen? For a man like Trenchcoat Tommy, the search for answers, the quest for knowledge, was a never-ending one. And as he finished off his egg, he knew that he was ready to face whatever came next, whether it be a cunning criminal or a recalcitrant omelette. For a hard-boiled gumshoe like Tommy, there was no challenge too great, no mystery too deep, and no egg too stubborn. The city was his beat, and he was ready to crack it wide open.