Short Story Contest II! [ENTRy THREAD]

[Sulkdodds]

Welcome to the second HL2.net story contest!

The Rules
- Entries must be between 1000 and 4000 words long (approx).
- Entries should be in prose form, though abberations are acceptable.
- Entries must be originally created for the Short Story Contest (tm)
- Contestants may write about anything they wish as long as it conforms to the stated topic.
- Closing date is midnight 15th June.
- NO discussion in this thread, only entries.
Discussion thread here.
You may vote here.

The Topic

The subject this week is: genre pastiche.

Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to adopt the conventions and mannerisms of a particular genre or style, and to do interesting things with it. 'Genre' may be as wide or as narrow as you like, encompassing entire historical eras (greek mythology) or merely the work of individual authors with distinctive styles of their own (like HP Lovecraft). Combining two or more genres for effect is perfectly valid. Your treatment of the originals can be loving, derisive, or deconstructive, but voters should give extra consideration and brownie points to those stories which manage to say something interesting about the genre which they are pretending to be, or which manage to deconstruct their own form.

This is a slightly simpler and more specific topic than the last one, so no quotes from obscure poets or reading lists: I'm afraid I haven't done my own research this time around, but you are welcome to. As, broadly, nerds, you are all familiar with very specific genre-forms, so this should be easy for you!

Get cracking, and if you have any questions, check out the discussion thread.

 

[theotherguy]

March 5th, 1853
Washington, D.C.

I sat down at my desk one rather dreary spring afternoon to open my latest of correspondences. As an assistant to the most honorable senator from Illinois, Stephen Arnold Douglas, I happened to be expecting a quite large pile of election-related letters regarding the inauguration of a certain Franklin Pierce to the presidency of the United States. Senator Douglas disliked, and perhaps even feared Pierce, so he was always receiving rather nasty correspondences regarding Mr. Pierce.

Therefore, I was quite surprised indeed to discover, among those most monotonous of letters regarding Mr. Pierce, a personal note from my friend and acquaintance, professor of social science, Mr. James Belfast. Now, Belfast and I had written at length to one another on the great slavery issue and upon the urbanization of the north, but he had not written me in perhaps three months time. I eagerly opened his letter first, quite nearly tearing the wax seal from the covering flaps in the process. I must say, what was contained in this letter astounded me greatly, and this shock and discomfort can best be conveyed to the reader by his letter, written (so much as I could bear to read), verbatim.

To Mr. Paisley, March 1st, 1853

Ah, Mr. Paisley, how I regret to not have written you in these past few months! I do admire your cunning wit in letter as well as speech, and hope that from this point on we shall have uninterrupted correspondence.

If you recall our conversation last, we were speculating upon the future of this country, and whether the race of man would continue upon his merry way upon this Earth for many years to come, and what forms he might take in the distant future. If you recall, Mr. Paisley, I had asserted that the urbanization of cities and the mechanization of labor would at large lead to the downfall of civilized man, and the re-population of the country-side.

Now, Mr. Paisley, we seemed to have struck a chord of disagreement on that note, and I simply wanted to apologize for such dissonance as was created by my foolish theories. I can now say with some authority that I was utterly wrong on that and all speculative points I have made in the past.

Unfortunately, you may think me a patent fool, or a loon, or some idiot vagabond or urchin, but I can testify, by the authority of mine own eyes, that I have seen the future. I have not merely had a revelation, Mr. Paisley, but I have quite literally traveled to the distant future. Please, I beg, do not jump to such hasty conclusions as to condemn me as mad just yet. I did not construct some fantastic machine, nor did I have some dream or vision by way of obscure smokes from the orient. I implore, please listen, and partake of my story, before passing judgment.

It was last night, one hot and windless evening, that I stepped out of the confines of my home in Kendall Green to meet an acquaintance near the capitol and found myself at least two hundred years in the future.

In the beginning, I thought that I was either simply disoriented, or the night was playing tricks upon my weary brain. You see, the street perpendicular was much wider and flatter than usual, and was paved with a uniform black stone rather than the masonry I had grown accustomed to. My clear view of the city below was obscured by a rather large, ugly building which seemed to be composed entirely of riveted metal.

Perhaps, I reasoned, I had merely exited out of another door in the building, but upon checking my whereabouts, I discovered that I was indeed standing just outside of the front door of my Kendall home, which now appeared aged. Her pristine exterior was now muddied by black soot. The front gate decayed with rust, and the windows were boarded up. They had not been boarded up when I entered earlier that evening.

Half-frightened, yet half-intrigued by the sheer peculiarity of my situation, I continued on, assuming that this black beast of a road ahead of me was really of the Kendall Green which I had known all my life, and not a mere phantom of my imagination. Perhaps, I reasoned, things would clear up as I went on to the capitol.

Things, unhappily, did not clear up. Though the fundamental layout of the city appeared unaltered, there were many additions and deletions which were not present in my memory. The road, and the sidewalks were of course totally altered to the point of insanity, and the sulfurous gas lamps of our lovely city were replaced by grossly tall, impossibly bright lamp-posts whose manufacture I could not decipher. The few scattered residences of Kendall green had all been replaced by the eerily lit, horrifyingly grotesque buildings of squat, rectangular design, and I could spot neither horses nor trolleys in the vacant streets. Though, I could recognize with a certain vague, animalistic instinct the ordinance of the roads, and at length was able to navigate myself to Old Blandenburg Road, though I was not sure of it. The road was neither old nor constructed of dirt any longer, but was now replaced by a colossal beast of a road which rose several feet above the Earth, and passed over the street on which I was currently walking by means of massive stone pillars, all of which seemed to be constructed of single, continuous pieces of stone. Upon the top of this land-bridge which used to be Blandenburg raced what appeared to be peculiarly quick mechanized carts, all of which sported bright lamps and which made noises quite like that of a steam engine.

I stood there, perplexed for several minutes, simply watching the spectacle as hundreds of these carts sped past over the raised bridge. It was at this point that I decided that I was most assuredly no longer in Kendall Green, and perhaps by some strange phenomenon, had passed into another world. Either that was the case, I reasoned, or I was merely dreaming.

After a few moments, I noticed a shadowy Negro man in odd clothing wandering under the bridge, holding what appeared to be a tin of whiskey. You must understand, Mr. Paisley, how happy I was at this moment to see some vestige of reality which I recognized in this strange land. A Negro with a tin of whiskey, as you must know, is a common sight in the great District of Columbia, and it appeared as a mitigating beacon to me at that hour of the night in such a strange state as I was.

I made my way to the Negro, my shadow appearing harsh in the strange blue light of the street lamps, as he watched me with an attentive eye while tilting his tin into his mouth.
"Excuse me, good Negro," I hailed, holding up a glove-clad hand in greeting, "could you tell me my whereabouts? I seem to have lost myself in the night, and have found myself totally unaware of my bearing and direction. Surely, you must understand, Mr. Negro, what has happened in the middle of the night to our city to make it so large and unpleasant?"

The Negro simply stared at me, and did not hail in response. I decided he must have either been a mute or simply stupid, as most city Negroes are these days, so I tried a more forceful approach.

"Come on now," I insisted, "be a good Negro and answer my questions. You would not want me to tell the police that you were wandering the streets at night like a common vagabond, would you? Come now, Negro."

He then gave me a distasteful look as though I were a rancid piece of meat, and then simply shook his head, chuckling to himself as though he had understood merely a joke in my speech, and walked past my person as if I had said nothing at all. I then really assumed that he must have been a deaf mute, the poor brute, and I thought nothing of him afterwards.

To shorten my tale I will hasten over the details of what I did afterwards, except for the fact that it contained wholly nothing but wandering about the rather vacant streets of what appeared to be a distorted version of the outer District of Columbia until I happened upon more hospitable souls.

After rambling about for not over twenty minutes, I came upon a well-lighted shop which smelled strongly of cooked food. A sign, blazing as though it were filled with burning kerosene, read above the door the quizzical words, "Pizza Hut." I used this signage, along with the strong smell of the place and my travels in Italy not three years ago, to deduce that it must have been a shop for the purpose of selling fine Italian breads and meats. Though Italian immigrants are quite rare in the District of Columbia, I did not find it strange that an ethnic shop of such origins would exist in this strangely distorted image of our fine city.

Assuming that I should find a boisterous and friendly group of Italians inside, I proceeded up a stone walk towards what I thought to be the door, which I am astonished to say seemed to be constructed entirely of smooth plate glass, when a group of young men and women burst through it, laughing and bantering at one another as they exited the strange shop.

There were four of them, two loud and beardless young men and two lecherous young women, both of whom appeared to be wearing nothing but naughtily revealing cotton blouses and what appeared to be workman's trousers. The men wore wretched, un-tucked cotton undershirts and also sported ragged blue workman's trousers.

Attempting to stifle my disgust at the appearance of these abject young workmen, I hailed them, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Excuse me, but I seem to have found myself lost in these parts, and do not know my bearing or direction. Where, may I ask, are we currently located?"

The four of them ceased speaking for a few moments and stared at me with silly grins on their faces, and then burst out giggling and guffawing like a gaggle of idiots, apparently finding my predicament intensely amusing.

"Um," one of the lads began, his smooth-skinned face suppressing a smile, "you're at a Pizza Hut dude."

They all broke out laughing again, and I decided to clarify for these fools, "Yes yes, a 'Pizza Hut', that I have deduced -- but in which city? Is this not the District of Columbia?"

"D.C?" The boy chuckled, "Yeah dude, you?re in Washington D.C, capitol of the good old US of A."

Highly relieved that I was indeed still in our home city, I had only one more theory to test. "And the year," I asked, "is the current date 1853, the last of February?"

This, apparently, was the most chuckle-worthy of jokes, for the four of them guffawed more heartily than ever before, and one of the wench women exclaimed, "This guy is nuts!"

A reply came from one of the young men, "Yeah, or just faking it. It could be some kind of holiday, you know? One of these crazy performers from downtown or something, some kind of promotional deal, you know? I mean, just look at his clothes!"

I had no inkling as to what these foolish children were speaking of, but they had begun to mock me, and poke at my hat and coat as though they were Roman artifacts. When I protested, one of the boys said, ?You?re good, man. You've got a great show. Here, take a tip and buy yourself a pizza and a coke or something."

He forced upon my hand a crumple of paper notes and a few coins. Star-struck, I stood there in an utter stupor of confusion, until one of the girls pulled from the pocket of her workman?s trousers a glittering piece of metal which I immediately assumed to be a weapon of some sort. I cowered in fear, placing my hands in front of my face, and in a begging for mercy pleaded, "please, do not harm me, woman! I am merely a stranger; I mean not to cause injury to any of you!"

They all laughed at this, and the girl insisted, "I'm not going to hurt you. It's just my phone, I?m taking a picture of you, because you look just so darn cute in that outfit!"

I did not understand, and continued to cower. But then, the girl reached out and touched my arm, and, shoving this small metal device into my field of vision, proclaimed, "See? I got your picture!"

And there, I swear it Paisley, I swear it that I saw with my own eyes my own spitting image, clearer than any photograph or painting, illuminated in front of me as though she had captured me, chained me, and thrown me into a magic box. This device, I then presumed, was not a weapon, but merely a fantastical, extraordinary camera device, which had developed my photograph in mere fractions of a second, as opposed to the hours taken by Washington's best of photographers.

Staring at the image of my frightened figure upon the 'phone', I exclaimed, "My God, this is brilliant! What manner of device is this that can develop photographs in mere moments?"

None of them gave an explanation, but merely laughed and mocked my manners. I do not know, Paisley, whether the people of the future are people of pure malicious jest, or simply fools. I have heard that colonists in Africa or the Orient have encountered tribes which found our civilized customs quite queer and humorous, and I suspected that these people had similar qualms. Perhaps they have become less civilized than we, or, should I put forth the open-minded proposition, merely saw me as a peculiar savage. These are unnerving thoughts, in the least.

In spite my protestations and demands for more information, the group of four left me after some time, pausing to glean one more photograph of me on the 'phone', and leaving me standing there, bewildered, still clutching the crumpled bills and clinking coins in my right hand which one of the boys had given me. The four of them proceeded to enter a resplendent yellow mechanical cart, which had pulled up to the side of the road, and which then sped off with considerable haste; faster even than a steam engine, and roaring like a piece of textile machinery.

I decided that, seeing as I had not yet received the current date, I would proceed to observe the money which had been handed to me for any markings conferring the date of their manufacture. I have included one of these pieces of currency in this very letter. It is a five dollar bill. I hope that it will provide some evidence as to the validity of my tale, as you may examine it closely to determine that it is not of contemporary origin.

You may notice that the figurehead portrait on the observe side of the dollar is none other than that of former Illinois senator Abraham Lincoln, though why his face would appear upon the dollar is open to speculation. His figure on the dollar, along with the corresponding inscriptions, indicates that he probably will serve as President of the United States at some point in the near future. It will be interesting to see if this prophecy holds true; for if it does, you can be sure it will lend some credibility to my statements in this letter.

 

[theotherguy]

In any case, I in short manner discovered the date of manufacture on this bill, and, to my surprise and alarm, determined it to be nineteen hundred and ninety-seven, some one hundred and forty-four years past the date from which I left my abode. Suspecting forgery, I checked the other bills and coins, and found their manufactures to be of no earlier than nineteen eighty-three and no later than the year two thousand and two.

Mr. Paisley, I hope you realize the weight of the discovery I had made that night. For, if these coins and bills were authentic in nature, it would place me in the early twenty-first century Anno Domini. The twenty-first century! Why, my heart beat with such rapidity that I nearly swooned!

My first order of business, I then determined, was to confirm these dates via less specious means, and my second order was to find a way to return to my own time, if it was at all possible to do so. At length, I proceeded to enter the eatery which called itself “Pizza Hut”, so that I may find a newspaper or other form of periodical by which to confirm the date provided by the coins and bills I now possessed.

When I entered the facility, I noted that it was lit neither by candle nor kerosene, but from the harsh glow of brilliant white light from some luminescent tubes in the ceiling. I could not determine how the tubes emanated such illumination, but I presumed they contained a heated gas, probably hydrogen. The eatery contained many tables, but all were vacant. At one end of the room was a counter and an illuminated menu, which listed all manner of foods and prices with brilliant color photographs of each food item as advertisement.

Behind the counter stood a single, young Negro wearing what looked like an outfit for golfing. He wore a black cap with a peculiar brim sticking out over the front of his face, and on it were inscribed the words “Pizza Hut”. The uniform made him appear rather ridiculous, but I assumed this Negro was an employee, (or slave, for I did not know the status of the slavery issue in the twenty-first century) of Pizza Hut.

“We getting ready to close,” the Negro announced upon my entry, “But if you order real quick you could get something. We could offer you the buffet...”

I cut the Negro off with a wave of my hand, “No no, I shalln’t be having anything today. I have merely come to ask if you know where I might find a newspaper or magazine in which I could determine the events of the day.”

The Negro shrugged, “What, you want the stocks or something?”

Presuming he meant the stocks and trades of industry, I declined, “No thank you. I am looking for the current news: politics, current events, things of that sort.”

“Uh, well…” he thought for a moment, “there are some newsstands a little down the block at the Chevron. I could turn on the TV for you if you want, I think we get CNN”
I didn’t understand. “The TV?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes, “right over there.” He pointed across the room to some sort of black box with a curved glass front.

“Shall that give me the news?” I asked, partly confused and party intrigued.

“Um… yeah? Just a second man,” he rummaged around under the counter and produced a strange black prism with all manner of numbers and inscriptions upon it, and , pressing his brown finger upon a button, instantaneously caused a moving image to appear behind the glass of the “TV”.

Now, I was shocked by my picture appearing on the “phone”, and I was even more shocked by the moving images which now appeared, illuminated as my own had been, behind the glass. The sight is indescribable, but it was a reasonable sight indeed. After all, if one could develop images within a fraction of a second, why not develop them continuously, and show the images one after the other? It was brilliant! Ah, but not only were there moving images on the screen, but the box reverberated with sound! It was as though a tiny orchestra was living inside the box, and conducting symphonies simply for the enjoyment of the listener outside.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, “TV, you say?”

The Negro appeared annoyed, and replied, “yeah, the television. Do you get CNN where you’re from?”

“Probably not,” said I, “considering I have never even heard of this television, I would not be surprised if I had not heard of this other cryptic acronym, ‘CNN’.”

He ignored my confusion, and advised me to watch the images on the screen and glean as much information as I desired before the eatery would close; and that I did. Ah, what things I learned, Mr. Paisley! I have so many observations to share, and so many pieces of advice to give our sad and primitive world; so many, in fact, that I will have to share them in many forthcoming letters. Suffice to say, I discovered that the true date was none other than February 28th, 2008.

From the handsome and boisterous faces upon the television, I learned that a new presidential election was to be held in the United States in November of that year, and that the contestants would be (and I do not jest, Mr. Paisley), a Negro, a woman, and an old man nearing eighty!

/////////////////////

I will now apologize to the reader, for at this point I crumpled up the letter, along with its forged five dollar bill, and threw it into the wastebasket. A Negro and a woman running for president! Why, I hadn’t heard anything more ridiculous in my life. The mechanical carts, the fantastic machines, and the rude young men I could all believe without much difficulty, but this sealed my suspicions that Mr. Belfast had simply been playing a colossal joke on me.

I made a note never to accept another letter from him again.

 

[Sheepo]

Incomplete Odyssey

Simon stared the bland white paint as he careened through space. He sighed. His journey was really only meant to last a half a minute. Yet here he lay 3 days into a trip at sub-lightspeed travel. He probably should have arrived a great number of years ago. His biological clock told him 3 days, relativity didn’t give a ****. So many things had been going on, he thought the hurry he used to get there was more than justified. The job, the baby, the visitors, and he was already half packed when he got the message. Who could blame him?

He did. It could’ve been a matter of days, he thought, and days for all of us! But of course, I had to be there in seconds. My selfishness covered by a veil of good intentions.

The statistics of interstellar travel were little known, but even Simon knew ships malfunctioned about as frequently as humans spontaneously combusted. As a matter of fact, the two events usually coincided.

Simon pushed himself up from his uncomfortable crouch against the wall and meandered through the ship. When did I resign myself to this fate? It’s been so quick, I hardly noticed. I suppose relativity doesn’t apply to sanity.

Realizing, again, the irritating and stupidly witty thoughts that his mind evidently never ran out of, he gritted his teeth and silenced his thoughts. Unintenionally he had ended up in the control room. Everything buzzed with the dimmest signs of life, yet did not actually live. The control panel glowed beneath it’s surface, but no interfaces worked.

After he removed a piece of his bedpost, several hours after his deep space odyssey had begun, and had desperately hammered through the metal panels in order to get to the wiring within. He had checked and rechecked every circuit and wire within until his hand grew numb from minor electrocutions. The controls simply no longer functioned.

The fuel gauge still remained blank but Simon knew he didn’t have much left. He rarely filled the ship to more than a quarter tank, as his trips were rarely more than a few days at manageable speed. Now though, his ship just shy of lightspeed, twenty seconds was his normal trip. He’d be lucky if the fuel lasted four more days.

Suddenly Simon charged across the room and slammed his head into the wall. Collapsed on the ground, sobbing as tears, blood, and blackness blurred his vision, unconsciousness overtook him.
---

(incomplete)

 

[Dekstar]

Crime. You see it everywhere. From corrupt politicians all over the news, to the petty back-alley thieves trying to make a living. Crime is my life. I make sure the bad men stay locked up, so your streets can stay clean and wholesome. No need to thank me, it's my job. I have a story to tell about one of the first cases I ever took. It all started early one Saturday morning, when I was sleeping in my office, recovering from the night before...

7:30a.m. I was awoken by strange sounds coming from the office section of my room. I slowly propped myself up on my elbow, and squinting, attempted to open my eyes. I couldn't make out any details of the silhouette figure going through the drawers, and I didn't know what he was after, so I watched. Slowly my eyes adjusted, but before they were fully open, the intruder opened the blinds, flooding the room with light, and further destroying my already ageing eyesight, causing me to squint again as my surroundings blurred.
?Get up? said the voice. I recognized it well. He was the main boss around these parts, not even the police could touch him, and whatever he said went. His hair was greying and thin, and he wore a suit. They called him the father. I heard he used to be a mild mannered office assistant. How he got into crime from there I have no idea. I also had no idea why he was looting my office, especially why he was doing it himself instead of sending round his hired goons, but I'm sure I was about to find out.
For safety, I went for the pistol under my pillow, but it was missing. Did he know I sleep with it under my pillow and remove it, or did I just leave it in my dressing gown pocket? Defenceless, I got up.
?Ah James, you're up. I need you to help me with a little... problem? rasped The Father. I was under the impression he had some sort of viral throat infection, but politeness was my middle name to a guy like him.
?It's Mr Stevens, and why do you need me to help you? Don't you have people for that?? I yawned, still wearing my Pink Panther pyjamas.
?I've lost something very important to me. Something... Something that you have to help me find.? he replied.
Usually I wouldn't agree, but it wasn't in my best interests to go against the Father in a place like this. Besides, I'm sure I would get some lucrative perks in return for this one little favour. I accepted, and asked him to wait outside my office while I got dressed.


After putting on my gown I asked him what he had lost, he informed me that last night, he lost his car keys. It certainly wasn't a great job ? usually I was hired for gruesome murders or cheating housewives - in fact it was then that I realised why he didn't hire anyone else for it in the first place, but I hadn't had work in quite a while (The last being weak tea ? literally) and my piggy bank was running low, so I thought I might as well take it. I made my way to where he had last seen his keys ? or as I called it ? the scene of the crime.


As we entered the crime scene, I saw the clock on the mantelpiece read 8:35, and the hands weren't moving. Two batteries were stood up on their ends next to the clock. This struck me as a little odd. I checked my digital watch, and it said 7:33. I thought about the reasons why someone would remove the batteries from a clock. I figured it was a clue, so I made a mental note. Upon inspection the room itself was very clean for a crime scene. No forced entry ? broken windows or locks damaged ? and under closer inspection, the carpet had been hoovered recently. Maybe something big went down here, but I couldn't tell ? all the potential evidence was expertly removed. That clock still played on my mind. There was something not quite right here. I grazed my dressing gown pocket just to make sure my pistol was still there in case I needed it.
?I think I've seen enough. I'll see what I can do.? I said, to which The Father replied
?I'll give you 10 minutes.?
I wondered if I could make it in time. I had to go see an old friend...

So I went to see Juliet. She was the Father's wife by law, but I'm sure there was something more sinister about their relationship. Either she's very clever, or very stupid to be with that man. She said she loved me more than I'd ever know, and I love her too, but it's not like that. I found her in the kitchen, making what seemed to be a peanut butter sandwich. The time was 7:38am.
?Juliet, where are The Father's keys?? I asked. I knew she'd make a run for it if she could, so I blocked the only exit.
?I don't know what you're talking about honey, and why are you wearing that gown?? She replied. I knew she was avoiding the question by changing the subject, so I continued.
?Your plan was flawed from the start. I don't know what your game is, but I know you had something to do with losing the keys. I just can't put my finger on it yet. Just answer me this one question; where were you last night between the hours of 6pm and 10pm??
?We had guests round yesterday, so I didn't really go anywhere. You remember, Bill and Mar-?
?Sure, the perfect alibi...? I interrupted.
I promptly left. She was holding a butter knife in what could have been a threatening manner, and I didn't want to have to spill anyone's blood today, even mine, at least not yet. Besides, there was someone I had to go talk to...


7:40am: The dining room. I found Joey two-eyes standing in an alcove, with a mischievous look on his face. I knew he had information about something ? He's my go-to guy when I need something finding for me. It's just a matter of how much.
Joey two-eyes was short, but not too short. He had brown, scruffy hair and blue eyes. Two of them. He was strange, there's no doubt about it. He seemed to like hiding in corners a lot and acting suspicious. He wasn't very old, in fact he was only a minute older than me. People say we're identical twins ? personally, I just don't see it.
?Joey, I heard you had some information about the location of a very important vacuum cleaner??
?I don't know what you're talking about,? he replied. I immediately knew he was hiding some information from me, so I reached in my pocket and drew out my pistol.
?Where's the hoover?? I shouted, pointing the fully loaded weapon at Joey's face.
?You wouldn't dare? he said. Obviously he was misguided, as my temper at that time in the morning is very limited. I pointed the pistol at Joey's leg, and pulled the trigger.
Joey squealed as a jet of stagnant, day-old water hit his leg.
?Ok, Ok! I'll talk, I'll talk!? He shouted. Sometimes in this line of work you have to get ugly.
He told me, wiping the water away from his leg, that the vacuum cleaner was last seen under the stairs. So I had the final piece of the puzzle. It was just a case of fitting it all together. My final explanation of the mystery called for everyone to be at the crime scene. I called them all, but not before getting the evidence.


7:42am. Everyone entered the living room. I noted how convenient it was that they were all so close to the crime scene. If I didn't already have all the facts and evidence, any one of them could have been guilty. My train of thought got interrupted:
?Have you found my keys?? asked The Father. I said I'd be getting to that, and began to unravel the disturbing disappearance of the car keys.
?Firstly, I went to the crime scene,? I said. The Father and Juliet looked confused. Joey stepped in; ?The living room?. I nodded, and continued.
?Even though your initial search for the keys disturbed the scene, it had already been tampered with, or to be more precise ? cleaned.? I built up the tension, by accusingly pointing at Juliet, who gasped, hands at mouth. Joey slid into the exit, in case she attempted to escape.
?That's right! That woman, the previous night, fully cleaned the living room, which is precisely when the keys went missing,? I exclaimed, still pointing,
?but what does it mean? How do you know?? Asked The Father, still sounding baffled by his wife's obvious deceit.
?I know that you had guests last night, which required the living room to be completely cleaned! Juliet did this at roughly 8:20pm. She even removed the batteries from the clock to clean it, and forgot to put them back! Her careless mistake cost her.?
?But how do you know it was her??
?I'll show you,? I said, as I pulled away the front of the vacuum cleaner, ripped out the bag, and poured the contents onto the floor.
?Oh my God? cried the Father, ?My keys!?
?The case was easy once I had all the facts,? I grinned, with a smug tone. ?My payment will be a weeks worth of pocket money, payable in coins or cash,? I added, hand outstretched.
?How about letting you off your weeks grounding for shooting Joey in the leg with your water pistol?? He laughed. I had to accept his ungrateful offer. After all, the Father was a very powerful figure in this household, and I was only 7 years old.