8 am Sunday, November 1st, 2015 in some small town in rural Michigan:

A detective and a police chief stand beside you staring at the empty pedestal where the largest, most precious diamond in the Midtown Museum once stood.

“I don’t get it,” the detective says. “We know this has to be the work of Ima Crimino. Why can’t you guys just arrest her?"

“This seems like a cookie-cutter case for her but Crimino’s alibis are just too tight,” the police chief says.

“She’d have to be a time traveler to have done all that stuff so quickly, though,” you say. “Or have teleportation powers or something.”

“I know,” the detective sighs. “She went from the North Quarter to Southside, the Eastern District, and Westland, then somehow back here in Midtown at this very museum, though each section of town has at least thirty minutes of travel time between them.”

“Fifteen in no traffic, but still,” the police chief interjects.

“These receipts. They’re proof, though. I guess we can’t question it,” the detective says, looking down.

“Are you sure it wasn’t another person using her name and credit card?” you ask.

“Nope,” the police chief assures you, “Her face was caught on camera at all the self-checkouts, and we tested each machine for her fingerprints. These receipts were found in the glovebox of her vehicle which was left in the museum parking lot, yet she and the diamond are nowhere to be seen.”

“I have to wonder, why are all these stores open past midnight?” you ask.

“Around the holiday season, they want to make sure everyone can buy gifts at any time of day,” the police chief chuckles. “A few people like to shop at night when there’s hardly anyone else out on the road.”

“Our town is weird, okay? Don’t judge us,” the detective says, a bit offended. “It’s all self-checkout machines at this time anyways, so there are no employees complaining about working late. They can spend time with their families.”

“Really?” you scrunch your nose. “Doesn’t that mean you see a lot of thefts?”

“Sometimes, but most people around here are honest,” the police chief says.

“Apparently Crimino’s not honest, so why wouldn’t a thief like that just steal the stuff? Why did she go through the process of actually purchasing the items?” you can’t help but wonder aloud. "And why did she skip back and forth like that? Is she usually this forgetful? And she's surely wasting a lot of gas--"

“We’re getting beside the point," the detective impatiently interrupts you. "Let’s check over the evidence again,”

Laying out the receipts in chronological order, they try to piece together the timeline in their heads:

North Quarter Sporting Goods

12:59 am Heavy-Duty Backpack

Eastern District Hardware

1:11 am Glass Cutter

North Quarter Sporting Goods

1:13 am Climbing Rope and Harness

Eastern District Hardware

1:14 am Double-Ended Pick Set

North Quarter Sporting Goods

1:15 am Black Hiking Boots

Eastern District Hardware

1:16 am Bright Flashlight

Westland Clothing

1:31 am Black Jumpsuit

Southside Gas Station

1:32 am Strawberry Snack Cake

Westland Clothing

1:35 am Black Gloves

Southside Gas Station

1:39 am 10 Gallons of Gas

Westland Clothing

1:44 am Black Balaclava

Southside Gas Station

1:55 am Root Beer Soda Pop

Then, you take a look at the Midtown Museum's security footage:

2:00 am A figure arrives, wearing a black jumpsuit, gloves, hiking boots, and balaclava. They use a climbing rope and harness to scale the building, a glass cutter to get into the window, a bright flashlight to see in the dark, a double-ended pick set to pick the lock on the diamond case, and a backpack to carry it away. No fingerprints were found, but traces of Strawberry Snack Cake were found on the window and sticky Root Beer was found on the pedestal.

“Our perp was wearing the stuff on the receipts. Isn’t that proof enough that it was Crimino?” you ask.

“Unfortunately not,” the police chief breathes. “It could be a coincidence, or another person might be trying to set her up. Either way, we need solid evidence to prove that it is possible for her to have gotten to the museum so quickly after leaving the last store. It would have taken her at least fifteen minutes, so that last receipt makes her innocent.”

You frown at these bumbling fools and shake your head. Their logic is so flawed, and they aren’t paying any attention to the details that actually matter. What really happened here?

Spoilers below...

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If it was really so impossible to jump all over town so fast, why was it hard for the police and detective to reason that something had to be amiss? If Crimino somehow leapt from the North Quarter to the Eastern District in mere minutes, what was to say she could not have simply appeared at the museum? Shouldn’t they be trying to figure out the HOW instead of the IF?

Refraining to bring up these facts, you calm your temper and clear your throat, reminding the pair that Daylight Savings Time just ended this morning. Then, you rearrange the receipts in the correct order and begin to explain yourself:

North Quarter Sporting Goods

12:59 am Heavy-Duty Backpack

1:13 am Climbing Rope and Harness

1:15 am Black Hiking Boots

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town.

Southside Gas Station

1:32 am Strawberry Snack Cake

1:39 am 10 Gallons of Gas

1:55 am Root Beer Soda Pop

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town but, since Daylight Savings Time is ending, the clocks fall back which causes the timestamps to change from 2 am back to 1 am again.

Eastern District Hardware

1:11 am Glass Cutter

1:14 am Double-Ended Pick Set

1:16 am Bright Flashlight

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town.

Westland Clothing

1:31 am Black Jumpsuit

1:35 am Black Gloves

1:44 am Black Balaclava

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town and, since this is now considered the actual hour, time does not reset and 2 am is finally officially here.

Then, you direct their attention to the Midtown Museum (security footage) again:

2:00 am A figure arrives, wearing a black jumpsuit, gloves, hiking boots, and balaclava. They use a climbing rope and harness to scale the building, a glass cutter to get into the window, a bright flashlight to see in the dark, a double-ended pick set to pick the lock on the diamond case, and a backpack to carry it away. No fingerprints were found, but traces of Strawberry Snack Cake were found on the window and sticky Root Beer was found on the pedestal.

“Now, it all makes sense!” the detective exclaims. “How do we ever solve cases without you?”

“You don’t,” you mutter under your breath before turning and walking away. Dealing with these nincompoops is exhausting. You’re well deserving of a Strawberry Snack Cake and an ice-cold can of Root Beer right about now…

the rains fell and the floods came

and everything with it

and at some point it went away

but the flood lines remained

and the mudslides too

and all that was left of you

was a ragged teddy bear

washed up on a log

Recently, I had been realising a few things about myself. A friend of mine once told me that I lack a part of the hard drive every human is built with. Back then, he said that about romantic love, because as much as I spoke about love, they never found me in love. It wasn't a lone case. Over the course of my short life, many a friend of mine have shared their concerns as to something being different about me. How I don't function the way normal people do. It all made me believe I was beyond the trivialities, that I had already mastered how to be the zenith of peace and contentment. But again, I knew I was missing something. I knew I was wrong.

It was never that I was beyond any of these emotions. I had just convinced myself that feeling any of this wouldn't alter the tragic trajectory of my life. That I don't deserve, or that I was better off not giving in to hope, though I always professed about the same. But many places where I used to feel something's which dissipated soon into nothing's, recently, the dissolution has started leaving more residue than ever before. It used to linger like a clogged sinkhole, always bothering the regular flow of the sewage. But just like the domestic chaos, time had decayed and decomposed some of the sewage that lingered in the cracks and crevices of my heart. And the drain is returning back to a normal, and I have dishes to clean again, and the frustration and mundanity of a clog is slowly fading away. My futile attempts at clearing the drain has finally started showing results that could actually lead to something.

This morning, I missed Bill. I was never one to be excited for birthdays. I barely looked forward to them. But when I met Bill a couple years ago, he went on an effort to create a whole post, a massive tag line, comparing the time zones and weeks of waiting just to put up a few heartfelt words he was willing to repeat to me over and over again. I have no idea how many times I've read that post over the last few years. I couldn't bear to read it this morning. Part of me wanted to, but the grief within me was scared how it would affect me. I couldn't risk the drain to be clogged again too soon, I have years worth of problems to deal with while I still can. Of the past, the present and the future.

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"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."

~ Barbara Mary Ward

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.

Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.

But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.

Sighișoara, Romania

April 9th, 2005

That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.

Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.

The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.

July 1986

The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.

Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.

But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.

Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.

April 9th, 2005

The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.

"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.

Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."

As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.

But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.

But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.

Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.

#####

I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!

Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing

*****

Shoutout

[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!

*****

Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)

To whoever this may concern,

Life is short. And if I had continued lingering on my unsatisfactory, perpetual workdays and the weekends, which passed me by like a meteor, far in the night skies, quick and barely perceivable, I'm afraid I might transform into some lost spirit post my death, haunting old houses and creepy, dark woods. And I don't plan on being a nuisance after my death, which would only contribute to my mumbling paternal grandfather's distasteful prediction that I would be a massive waste of time and effort, given a chance. Also, I would be eternally grateful if you could hold back your irritable impulses to retrieve and establish me back into my mundane, tiresome, unimaginative life that I used to charter. Because if my calculations are not altered by any unexpected factors I forgot to consider, I will return on my own accord in around a year. Until then, I would be finally leading a life that I love and should have lived in this mortal, transient experience of being yet another human on this little blue planet, potentially insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe and everything in it. Thank you for reading and your patience-- see you in a year, hopefully not.

Hanging by a thread,

Hope Tulow

Sunday morn, skies that mourned,

wrinkled blankets, undone laundry,

notes that piled, lectures paused,

plates and bowls, last night meals.

Seasons changes, fall and rains,

falling apart, piece by piece.

Save me, please, screamed to the skies,

begged and hurt, lone in a crowd.

Deep inside, something changed,

life felt different, so did I.

What once was, what now is,

what would be, all blurred in one.

Barely human, days all same,

can't be machine, feelings clawed.

Bewitched in a maze, no way out,

dark that stayed, lights that frayed.

Would I leave, this game of hurt,

or would I stay, forever and frail?

Shall I try, when all things fail,

or just let go, as fate may plead?

But I will wake, to another day,

for dawn may break, and the sun may rise,

birds may sing, and the rains may pour,

nights may fall, and the cold may creep.

I will wake to another day.