As if two jobs and as much photography as I can possibly squeeze in wasn't enough, I thoroughly enjoy writing short stories. Creative writing. Though my style may not be to the liking of some people, as it's blunt and often from the dark side of humanity. But I don't write for other people. I write for my own pleasure and to maintain good mental health. Here is a sample for you.
THE BONE COLLECTOR
Dante had probably, one would suspect most likely, inherited a last name by his parents at some point, but they were long gone, under suspecious circumstances, and since their disappearance nobody had ever known Dante as anything but simply just...Dante. But he was certainly not a famous Italian poet. Dante was more into music. Heavy Metal, to be exact, and his hard-cover guitar case was a testament to his taste; plastered with stickers of all the greatest bands of his choice. Dante worshipped a guitar player - any guitar player - that could "make a shovel sing', as he put it. But Dante's own guitar case was different in one respect though, as Dante didn't have a guitar of his own. His guitar case contained instead a shovel of the very real kind. One of those you acquire for it's original purpose. To dig with. A genious disguise, Dante thought. I mean who wants to walk up and down the street with a shotgun in his hand? "Dissemble it and put it in a violin case, and people will actually think you are a musician" was Dante's train of thought. Except Dante didn't look like a member of the symphony orchestra and would likely never even be considered by the VSO. But a metal head or a head banger? Ya, Dante would fight right in and seeing him, nobody would ever suspect him of anything.
Dante and Sir Wilfred Laurrier - often just referred to as just "Sir" - lived...well, really just about anywhere they liked. "Anywhere I lay my hat is my home" Dante was fond of saying, quoting an old song. But fact was that they didn't really have a place to call home. But they did spend a lot of time down on Imperial Street, between Central Park and the cemetary. They would usually hang out in the park at daytime. It was also easy to burry evidence there. A fact that both raccoons and coyotes appriciated. At nightfall, they would emerge from their shelter, and in the cover of dark, they would make it across Imperial, to the cemetary side, guitar case in hand.
Once on the other side, even Sir Wilfred Laurrier knew the route. He just followed his nose, as all bloodhounds like to do. His nose told him exactly where to go, and it was an easy chase, 'cause nobody was running away from him...in the cemetary. It's not like in the days of slavery, where they would do anything to get away from him and try to "muddy the trail" he was on. These guys weren't moving an inch.
So, east on Imperial, south on Patterson and a quick right turn onto quiet Irmin Street, where he was out of view of virtually anybody. It was here that he, in cover of a handfull of trees, had cut hole in the fence, so he and Sir Wilfred Laurrier had easy access to the cemetary at night.
They would spend their days keeping an eye out for what was going in the cemetary, and once the grave diggers moved in, he know there would be weeping widows soon, and a good funeral could only mean one thing; there would be meat on the table again. Not so much for himself - unless he was really starving. But certainly for Sir Wilfred Laurrier. Sir Wilfred Laurrier liked a good beef tatare. Or make that a Humani tatari.
But it would have to be a fairly fresh grave, though. Freshly covered. Before the soil compacted too much, 'cause digging was hard work and there wasn't much Dante hated more than hard work and Sir Wilfred Laurrier wasn't worth much as a digger, either. He was outright a sniffer. A drooling, slobbering sniffer. But a good one at that. The best there is.
So in the middle of the dark night, with only the moonlight to help, Dante and Sir goes to work, and it doesn't take long before they get to the casket and once the lid is pried open, Sir Wilfred Laurrier has his pick of bones in the butcher shop. No more than an hour's work max, and they got the grave covered up again and are out of there through the hole in the fence, Sir Wilfred Laurrier with a bone in his mouth and Dante with the rest in the guitar case and nobody would ever know they were there or what just happened. Commercial dog food is just not on Dante's budget and who would turn down a free meal, anyway?
Fifteen minutes and they are back in Central Park where they set up camp in the cover of the trees and the thicket. A late night jogger almost surprises them, but when Sir Wilfred Laurrier bares his pearly whites and start growling, the jogger becomes in instant sprinter. "She doesn't like dogs" Dante thinks to himself as the sprinter looks over her shoulder...and stumbles over an exposed root from a tree in the park. This in turn really sets off Sir Wilfred Laurrier who now got a drool version of a small Niagara Falls coming out his mouth, as he sets out on a bloodhound's version of a full sprint after the jogger.
"Nooooo...." Dante cries out, as he watches the leash tied to Sir Wilfred Laurrier's dog collar disappearing from it's coiled up position faster than you can snap your fingers, and when the other end of the leash - the end that is securely tied around a large cedar - doesn't budge an inch, Sir Wilfred Laurrier is yanked back like a cannon that just fired and old-fashioned cannon ball and Sir Wilfred Laurrier lies dead on the ground with a broken neck.
*******
Dante sits leaned up against a tree, silently weeping. He looks up at the pale yellow moon, with tears in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, as if asking the heavens why? A cloud slowly sails past the moon, covering it for a moment, before the moon again peeks out on the other side of the cloud. He's holding the still warm Sir Wilfred Laurrier in his two arms, as tears drip from his chin down onto the head of his best friend and partner. He sits like that for a while, thinking about what to do next.
When the gardeners and lawn-care crew comes in a few hours later, to maintain the grounds of the cemetary, they find a dead dog lying on one of the graves, with a bone in it's mouth and a few others nearby. They think it a little weird, 'cause no graves look disturbed, but a bone with five fingers and an engraved gold ring, convinces them to do a little dig. "Just to make sure". After confirming their suspecions, they all agree: "We should probably call the police on this one".
Dante was never seen again. The joggers in Central Park have virtually disappeared as well. At least the late night ones. The owl high up in its tree seem to be the only one keeping an eye on the moon, these days, before it very, very stealthly dives down and picks up a little field mouse, only to head back up to its perch, to enjoy its meal. Few small bones in there, but nothing to really worry about.
So if you are driving down Imperial street one of these days, and you happen to see a sad and lonely guy with a guitar case, walking the sidewalk, pull over and stop for a moment. Have a casual chat with him. Try to cheer him up a little bit. He might just tell you about his dog, his best friend, his partner. Ask him what his dogs name was. He might just tell you "Sir Wilfred Laurrier".
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