A Case of Missing Wings
Ghost Hunters Mystery-Detective
Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Mystery & Suspense, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | S. H. Marpel, J. R. Kruze | ISBN: | 9781386847397 |
| Publisher: | Midwest Journal Press | Publication: | December 16, 2018 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | S. H. Marpel, J. R. Kruze |
| ISBN: | 9781386847397 |
| Publisher: | Midwest Journal Press |
| Publication: | December 16, 2018 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
You'd think that after a couple of thousand years, I'd be able to find my angel wings when I wanted them.
Pretty hard to misplace, if you think about it at all.
But when I woke up to go to work this morning, they weren't there. Not in my closet, not hanging on the bedpost, and certainly not on my shoulders where they always had been.
Sure, I was always able to appear to humans without them. But just because they couldn't see them, didn't mean they were gone.
Of course, that wasn't the bad part. Along with the wings, I'd lost all my "magic" powers. So I was basically stuck on earth like any other human.
But, no, I wasn't going to test whether I was still bascially immortal. I'm not stupid, even if maybe forgetful.
And there was something important I was supposed to remember. Something about saving the world - but of course, this was lost to me right now - too...
Excerpt:
When I woke up, they weren't there.
Not on my shoulders where they usually hung. Yes, they were attached when I fell asleep. No, I didn't take anything, didn't "tie one on."
Checked the free-standing oak wardrobe. Nothing. Hall closet. Nothing. Not hanging around anywhere in the apartment.
You'd think after a couple thousand years, I'd be pretty attached to them.
So I just...
Or...
No, I can't. That's gone, too.
All my powers. Gone with the wings. (Well, at least I still have my warped sense of humor.)
OK, then.
Time for Plan B.
- - - -
Six long blocks of walking in L. A.'s heated grime finally got me to the emergency outlet.
It was a pawn shop. On Santa Monica Boulevard - Hollywood end. One shop out of many - and that was the point. Kept it non-distinctive. This one had a particular red English phone box, a fixture in the place. Had an American coin-phone in it, though. A special one.
"Hey Bert!"
The cashier looked up from his racing form. "Angie! Long time. What's up?"
"Just needed to take a visit to old Ben. Got a token for me?"
Bert hit a key on the register and the cash drawer slid out with a ring of its bell. He reached into a back drawer of it and pulled out an odd coin. One with notches in its center, like an ancient subway token.
I held up my hand and he flipped it to me.
"Thanks."
Then I entered the phone box, closed its door, inserted the token, and dialed.
The small booth filled with a red smoke substance, about the same color as the phone box.
While I shimmered from there to somewhere else...
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You'd think that after a couple of thousand years, I'd be able to find my angel wings when I wanted them.
Pretty hard to misplace, if you think about it at all.
But when I woke up to go to work this morning, they weren't there. Not in my closet, not hanging on the bedpost, and certainly not on my shoulders where they always had been.
Sure, I was always able to appear to humans without them. But just because they couldn't see them, didn't mean they were gone.
Of course, that wasn't the bad part. Along with the wings, I'd lost all my "magic" powers. So I was basically stuck on earth like any other human.
But, no, I wasn't going to test whether I was still bascially immortal. I'm not stupid, even if maybe forgetful.
And there was something important I was supposed to remember. Something about saving the world - but of course, this was lost to me right now - too...
Excerpt:
When I woke up, they weren't there.
Not on my shoulders where they usually hung. Yes, they were attached when I fell asleep. No, I didn't take anything, didn't "tie one on."
Checked the free-standing oak wardrobe. Nothing. Hall closet. Nothing. Not hanging around anywhere in the apartment.
You'd think after a couple thousand years, I'd be pretty attached to them.
So I just...
Or...
No, I can't. That's gone, too.
All my powers. Gone with the wings. (Well, at least I still have my warped sense of humor.)
OK, then.
Time for Plan B.
- - - -
Six long blocks of walking in L. A.'s heated grime finally got me to the emergency outlet.
It was a pawn shop. On Santa Monica Boulevard - Hollywood end. One shop out of many - and that was the point. Kept it non-distinctive. This one had a particular red English phone box, a fixture in the place. Had an American coin-phone in it, though. A special one.
"Hey Bert!"
The cashier looked up from his racing form. "Angie! Long time. What's up?"
"Just needed to take a visit to old Ben. Got a token for me?"
Bert hit a key on the register and the cash drawer slid out with a ring of its bell. He reached into a back drawer of it and pulled out an odd coin. One with notches in its center, like an ancient subway token.
I held up my hand and he flipped it to me.
"Thanks."
Then I entered the phone box, closed its door, inserted the token, and dialed.
The small booth filled with a red smoke substance, about the same color as the phone box.
While I shimmered from there to somewhere else...
Scroll Up and Get Your Gopy Now
