“A little rain never hurt anybody.”
This end of the week is lookin' fun with my costuming club today, then my card game thing then my friend Jessica coming over on Sunday, as well as CJ sometime during this labor day weekend too. Hopefully I'm not interrupted by tea time with my evil twin. Anyway onto the flash fiction!
The True Killer
Detective James stood alone in a locked room looking at his dead body. He exists now as a ghost, wearing exactly what he wore when alive, even maintaining his handsome, sophisticated looks. However his short hair, eyes and skin lost their original color, replaced with brown color of old paper. He still wore the fancy, overly expensive suit from life but its blacks faded to grays and his boots appeared dusty. He didn't have the various stab wounds from his death on his ghost body, so he could consider that a strange blessing.
James couldn't piece together who could have possibly killed him. The door was locked and he faced it while he read a book. No windows or other means of entry existed. He he theorized maybe turned mad and committed suicide, but how he could he have possibly stabbed himself in the back in all those strange places? Nothing made sense. Who could his murderer possibly be?
The answer was that the author of this story killed him. Because in every murder mystery it is ultimately the author that is the killer no matter the circumstance no matter the means. And detective James lies dead merely because my words said so.