The Umbrella

The evening sun cast long shadows of rich amber across the park, and the heady, perfumed smell of late summer filled the air. But strewed across the well-kept grass were pieces of brown packaging, fluttering gently in the breeze. An empty envelope skittered into a flowerbed, and a scrap of white paper drifted along until it hit an upturned shoe. It strained for a moment against the polished black leather, then gave up and sank to the ground.

The river reflected the city of Northwilde. It fled the mountains and carved dark furrows across the land. It careened through bleak suburbs and crashed into downtown, gathering a scum of polluted refuse and depositing it on slimy banks of discarded fast food wrappers. The squat silhouette of the new bridge jutted out across the water, and the brightest lights in the city had gathered around a twinkling marquee on the shore.

It is an indisputable fact, that heroes and everyday life must never intertwine. However, in every lifetime, unavoidable circumstances conspire to place that fragile world in opposition to the towering ideal of a Venus or Adonis, just as the playwright dashes his doomed cast of players against the rocks of Fate.

The team made a hasty camp as thick, grey clouds advanced over the mountains. And then the murders began. Matthew was first to find the body, splayed awkwardly among its own entrails. Blood crept out of the tent and fled back down towards the valley.

It was a pleasant spring morning when Mysto the Munificent arrived at the orphanage. The children had probably seen him coming; the top of his pointed hat always bobbed up and down above the garden wall long before he reached the gate. He walked up the path, his heavy blue robes brushing past thickets of unkempt grass. Reaching the grand old doors, he raised a bony finger and rang the doorbell. A great din arose within.