Obligitory writing on phone and have fat fingers, I will be trying to remove typos but I make no promises as to getting all of them. Also this is the first prompt I am actually writing for, might suck.

Three Lights Festival, my latest novel, being handed out as material for our latest reading assignment. This wouldn't be so bad if not for two simple facts. Firstly, Mr. Harris has a slight tendancy to read too deep into anything written in a novel, and secondly, he doesn't know I wrote it.

The world renowned author Definite Human, no one knows their real identity, not even his publishers or editors. That's me, a junior in high school, reading my own novel for english class. I thought there was no god, let alone one with a sense of humor as strange as this.

"We will be reading this novel in class over the next few weeks," Mr. Harris stated with a grin on his face "I have never peronsally read it but some other teachers in the english department said it would be a good book for this class." of course he hadn't read it, that always helps with his the over-analization of these books. "For today, however, we will look into the author," and of course we will, researching myself, sounds like so much fun "your homework today will be to fill in this sheet, once you get it you can consider class dismissed".

He bagan to hand out a sheet of paper with a series of questions about the author, better known as myself, including "what genre of novel does Definite Human prefer writing?", fantasy of course, and "what does this signify about the author?". The expected answer is likely to be that I want to escape reality, don't feel like I fit in, et cetera. The real answer is that I don't know, it's just on of those things, a musician couldn't tell you why they picked a certain instrument, I couldn't tell you why I like fantasy, or why I don't tell anyone that I write, or even why I am making this diary, now of all times. It just feels, right, you know?

After that question sheet it was mostly short answer questions leading up to an essay at the end. The questions were never really that unexpected, always something I had intended to write, almost like he knew I inteded it. The real problem was during our class discussions of each chapter after we read it. Mr. Harris would butt in with things like, "what do you all think this line foreshadows", while pointing out a line that never once was meant as foreshadowing, "why did the author choose to describe the lights as 'heavenly columns'", the answer that I couldn't say, of course, is that there isn't a reason.

It wasn't until we reached the final chapter, "Of Whispers and Embers" that a broke. When Mr. Harris placed the comment "why do you think Definite Human chose to redeem the antagonist, and allow them to live in the end, was it because he had a similar struggle, seen as the villain of his story, no one listening to his side" he said in a more serious tone.

"Mr. Harris," I started, finally allowing myself to speak up "don't you think you are reading a bit too far into everything, just because it is written doesn't mean the author meant for it to meam something," I continued, "sure for this there may be a theme, but not everything ia written just because it has a connection to his life"

"How can we know it doesn't have a connection," he started, "the author has hidden his identity from everyone, the only way to find more out about them is to analyze their books".

"That doesn't mean you should overanalyze it." I retorted, "for all we know they may be writing just because they can, not to vent frustration with the world or try to prove a point".

"That is a very good thought, though it goes both ways".

"I doubt that", I responded.

"Sounds to me like you know something we don't," Mr. Harris stated, "just like your short response answers do," anxiety began to rise about whether he knew I was Definite Human, "why don't you tell us what that is".

Now in panic, I resond "I am a writer in my spare time, and I just understand that about 90% of the time, these things you claim to mean one thing, or say are intentional, really aren't.", with a silent sight of relief as I belive I have won.

"If you write, do you have any published books or other works?" Retorted Mr. Harris

Panic now returning I blurt out a respons, quite possibly the worst one I could have, "yes."

"Oh so you do," that sly smirk showing how Mr. Harris thinks he has won, he has, "what is it called?"

Panic increasing, I once again respond, this time not the worst response, but certainly bad, the name of the book I just sent to my editor "Glorious Dreams".

"Funny, Definite Human just submitted the same book to my editing firm, the book I am personally editing, I should be the only one other than him who knows the name." at this point I knew, I lost "unless you're him" he says while placing his hands on my desk and staring into my panic ridden soul.

I'm finishing my bachelor's degree in English literature. I want to be a professor. Teach others to love literature, to dissect novels with love and humanity not emotionless like my current professor. She loves to tear into novels and read deeper into them than what is there. This semester is about current literature. I should be safe, see she doesn't know that I'm a published author. 8 books in and no one has figured out my secret yet. My publisher is good that way. See being a professor is a dream but doesn't pay great. So novels went from a hobby to a career while I studied.

"Today in class we will start reading 'The Destruction of Bobby Sue ' by Arizona T. We'll dive into the different meanings the author presents to the reader" said professor Mae Grumble

"Ah shit" I whispered under my breath. I guess I wasn't safe. Why did she pick that one. Why my book. I mean the whole book is obviously a fantasy allegory of my transition. I wrote it to help better understand my transition and grieve the past me that I never was.

"You'll read the first 10 chapters between now and class next week. After that we'll discuss the meanings of each chapter"

Well I guess I don't have any homework to do. Considering I wrote the damn thing. That frees up a few hours for my other classes. Trying to get this study finished for my biology class.

Class the following week started pretty basic. Professor Grumble asked everyone what they thought the story was about so far. She shot down a few people's responses even though they were actually correct, which is pretty funny. So I decided to screw with her a little.

"I think it's about the main character getting lost in a post-apocalyptic world and then having their dreams destroyed"

"Exactly Mr Meeks. You see how their dreams are discussed, and being build up, and we can see the foreshadowing of the destruction to come. Soon we should see who Bobby Sue really is to the main character"

I about choked I snorted so hard. She can't see that Bobby Sue is the character. Ah damn this will be fun.

I can't understand why our English teacher reads my books sooo much. It's not that good anyway.

But coming from the beginning, I think I started writing first when I was about 13 and at first it was just poems. Cringe, without rhyme, written during somewhat of depression poems, to be exact. They were just an outlet to my emotions, really. I tried publishing it, but didn't succeed.

I wasn't that much disappointed, since I didn't expect anything. Hope for better, be ready for worse.

Time went, and I switched to fanfiction. Which gave me an idea.

You see, there was this one fic, where MC travelled through dimension. And yeah, my world was born.

Soon enough I got a bit of backstory and characters to start. But even if the idea was good, the writing was...yeah.

And it brings us back to the question: Why my English teacher liked my book so much? Wait, no. Why does he analyses it so much?

It's like in that joke: "Why does author choose colour blue? Because he was sad" teacher says. "It's my favourite colour" was thinking author. And that's just like our English is behaving: "Why do you think they have one power, but not the other?" I would answer 'Because it was a fucking draft I decided to keep', then he would answer "Because the author was showing that we all are not all powered, we have something we miss" which is bullshit, thank you very much.

And questions like that goes and goes. Man, fuck off, you don't know shit about this. You can always ask, y'know? Honestly, I feel bad for all authors that died before people learnt meaning of their arts and works.

Maybe he just trying to get on my nerves, which means I'm not anonymous anymore. Oh joy. I was hoping at least somewhere I would be safe to be myself.

You have got to be kidding me.

​

I slowly scan the room, gazing at the desks of my friends and hoping they don't study the cover of the book Mrs. Dean is handing out. The worst possible outcome right now is them recognizing the doodles from my notebooks. They'd never let me hear the end of it if they found out I wrote books for fun. As the hardcover first-run copy of Jacksonville High hits my desk, my stomach turns. This had hardly hit store shelves, much less the 12th grade English classrooms of an underfunded school out in the sticks. Mrs. Dean must have cleaned out every Walmart this side of Delaware to get this many copies.

​

"Alright, guys. To wrap up the Postmodern unit, we're going to be studying this brand new book from Davinci." Mrs. Dean says, striding to the front of the room and standing behind her lectern. "A full book report is expected by the time the semester ends, 2000 words and properly MLA formatted. Rubrics are by the door, you can take one on your way out."

​

"Mrs. Dean, isn't that the author who refuses to identify themself that's been viral lately?" Serena raises her hand and asks. She's a bookworm and wicked smart, so she's always plugged into the online braniac scene. I twirl my pencil in my fingers. I'm nervous. If anyone could sniff me out, I'd bet money it's Serena.

​

"Yes! For the rest of you not initiated, Davinci is a mystery author that's been critically acclaimed and celebrated for their exemplary descriptive ability, wonderful world building, and humanistic characterization." Mrs. Dean's eyes twinkle with every new praise she heaps on me. It's suffocating. She turns to the whiteboard and starts writing the chapter list, with dates next to them. "These are the due dates for chapter analysis. We're doing this study more freeform, so we won't be reading aloud for this book. I want to hear every conclusion, prediction, and intrigue you have as you're reading."

​

I never wanted this scenario, for what it's worth. Being a mystery author is more lame than you'd think. Constant non-disclosure agreements to keep your team quiet, 4 different copy editors to remove any references that can be used to triangulate you, internet security out the wazoo to keep metadata divers from finding some geotag on a cover art you posted. It's a lot. I swear the clock is ticking slower than it was before.

​

"Dude, this looks like it blows. Who wants to read about...." Benny, my friend, peers at the back cover's synopsis as if unable to make out the words. From my angle with the window glare on the shiny cover sleeve, he looks like an old man hunched over a cellphone. I have to stifle a laugh. "A teenager photographing abandoned buildings?"

​

"Well, Mr. Erikson, enough people wanted to read it that it's sold in Walmart of all places." Called it. "And from what I hear, this book is a brilliant description of slowing down and taking in the small moments, something it seems you need a bit more practice at." Mrs. Dean says with a wink. She's poking fun at him, something she does often. Most students like her because she's so much more lively than the rest of the teachers, but it seems like Benny didn't find the humor this time, because he just huffed and reclined in his chair.

​

Wait. What was that?

​

"...brilliant description of slowing down and taking in the small moments." That's what she said, right? I rack my brain. Who would get that out of the book? I look confusedly at the cover. It's a fantasy novel about traveling through time with a Polaroid camera, just as I'd wrote it. I read the back synopsis and nope, it's still the same book. Where did she get that idea from? I lifted the book inspiration from eavesdropping on a couple of the theater kids. There's no overarching meaning here, it's just a regular ol' fantasy novel.

​

Serena raises her hand. Thank God, she'll probably get it sorted straight. "Mrs. Dean, I've also heard that it's a poignant criticism of foreign policy and how we've gone astray with bogging down the immigration system. How if we could just go back, we could fix modern-day America's problems!" Welp. I'm doomed. They're about to spend a whole unit overanalyzing a book I put out because I was bored as if it was some sort of statement piece.

​

"...huh?" I say, dumbfounded in my seat.

​

"Mr. Chambers, would you like to add something?" Mrs. Dean looks at me inquisitively. Great, now how do I get myself out of this one? I slink down into my chair.

​

"No, ma'am. Please continue." I croak out. God I can't wait until this class ends.

Tw/Swearing prob. Typos for sure.

And what if I am a young writer? What if I want to be an english mayor? No one cares.

Well I don't care, and that's the point.

Right now I am sitting in high school, the hell itself, and doodle some shapes for my next book's cover. My best friend is sitting beside me, paying attention to what the teacher has to say about something regarding the Romantic timeline or something boring like that.

I actually wrote a book with the characteristics of the romatic writings, highligting good and evil, freeform, all of that, only to twist it at the end. One of my best sellers to be honest. The title of it is...

"Constellation." The word rips me out of the comfort of my toughts, forcing me to concentrate. "It's a short book with the characteristics of the romantic age, however there is an interesting twist at the end. The author is unknown." I hear my friend snicker beside me. She was the one who gave me te author name idea. It was kinda stupid but I had no better choice at that moment.

Papers were handed out with a part of my book. It was where I wrote the picnick under the stars with the goddess wisiting her mortal lover. I am still proud of that chapter, I really grabbed the moment. It was actually inspired by the full moon when it shone into my window the night before.... Here I go once again, off track like every writer does.

After we had read the scene, we started going throught the building yada yada. It was quite strange, hearing my classmates toughts about Philip being a simp and that Kriselle was painfully formal. But I had fun.

"Now what can the black roses on the lady's hat symbolize?" I paused. Well I wrote the black silk roses because it was a cute accestory and it went with the outfit pretty well.

A classmate of mine, Jacob, raised his hand.

"Her connection with the night." He said, and the teacher nodded. I groaned and my dear friend held back her laughter. I swear to god she was enjoying this a bit too much.

"And what does the moonlight hitting the water of the pond mean?" Well I included that because I love how the full moon shines back from a body of water, it's mesmerizing.

Their endless love, came the answer. Sure man, whatever floats your boat.

"And why was the grass rotting?" Oh for fucks sake man, why. "Alex." I looked up, horryfied but ready to speak.

"It's because of the goddess' power. Because she's the guider of souls and bringer of the night, grass usually dies around her since she radiated death." I state matter of facktly. A headshake. The writer had other toughts when writing this.

But how would I know? It's not like I'm the writer!

No it was foreshadowing of Philip dying at the end.

But how could I know?

I'm just the writer after all.

The class was almost over, yet the tension in the room only seemed to intensify. As I packed my books away, I heard her voice behind me, as measured and crisp as a spring morning.

"I have a theory," she said, her dark eyes inquisitive. I stopped in my tracks, my heart racing. What had I said or done to conjure such intrigue? "What if you didn't just write stories," she continued, "but actually experienced all of the sorcery you write about?"

If she revealed her theory to anyone, I could kiss my literary career goodbye.

But no one was prepared for what came next. She leaned in closer, her voice soft yet determined. "What if you were actually a wizard?"

All these years of keeping this secret, only for my English teacher to expose it all in one breath. Was this really the end? Would she out me to the world? My fear was quickly replaced by anger as she spoke more calmly, almost reassuringly. "I am not here to tell your secrets, I am here to protect them. I have known you were a wizard all along. I can sense the power in your words."

A few hours later, I heard knocks on my door. When I opened it, I saw a group of people from the school, dressed in black and carrying torches. I was speechless, unable to comprehend why they were there. But then, my teacher emerged from their midst. She walked towards me and coldly stated what drove them here.

"I have revealed your secret to the other wizards in town. They have come to take you away and make sure you are never able to cast a spell again."

In the moment of shock and fear, the one thing I could think was: Why? But it didn't matter anymore. I was exposed, and my magic was gone.

"The shade of blue represents depression, but the contrast of the green patterns shows us how we can find solace in nature!" Mr Thomas explained, tapping his pen on a whiteboard splattered with notes and illustrations.

"Uh... No it doesn't." I said, not bothering to raise my hand.

"Ah, enlighten me then, Samuel. What wondrous secret have you hidden in the passage?"

"Well, I don't want to freak you out with my genius-"

Mr Thomas leaned forward in anticipation like a football fan watching a penalty. His eyes gleamed with excitement. A student yawned.

"-but the blue actually represents blue, and the green patterns were inspired by my grandma's rug."

"A literal sense! Brilliant! I'm sure your grandma is a wonderful woman. Now, moving onto the next chapter..."

I glanced at the clock: this was going to be a long hour.

Sooooo... I became a best seller author at 14 years old, idk I'm good at writing I've been doing it since I could write. Surprisingly that hasn't made me a celebrity in my school at any point, guess it's because the only people that actually read books except me and the teachers are what people would call "nerds" but that's not the point, the point is that my writing has recently started being used in our school books.

That started like 2 years ago and now that I'm a senior high school student we are driving into some more "complex" literature and I was excited, because I thought we would be done with my writing, until a few weeks ago.

We started a new book, my book called "The ashes of knights" good little old medieval adventure fantasy, not something deep just a knight that lost his clan to magic users trying to get revenge by killing all magic users in the world but realizing that not all of them are bad because he fell in love with a witch. Good old love trope, big fights and a few twists here and there, spoiler warning: the end is our hero taking revenge for his dead knights by using the magic passed over from his dead love.

Well fuck me cause for some reason the teacher has made everything I've wrote into this book to an elaborate and as she calls it "beautiful" analogy for life and love and struggle of the normal man against the tyranny of the upper class and how women have to get empowerd and it goes on and on and on... I'm not saying that those messages are necessarily bad but... I didn't write that, not purposely at least, I just tried to write a fun and emotional experience for everyone. It's not my fault that using magic would make you most probably rich if you were a bad person, neither is it my problem that I like making a variety of characters so that my readers can relate. Woooo I'm so "bold" for making a female character have muscles and be strong, no fuckhead I have a crush on leanbeefpatty da fuck you mean I made it to empower women.

The worst part is that I can't say it wasn't purposely, it would make me look really bad in her eyes and probably most of my classmates eyes. I want an out and I'm trying to make her stop reading my stuff in the class just so it's "fair" homework wise because "I know what I've written", instead she told my I don't need to do homework for her class anymore (W) but instead I'll be giving tips to my classmates (L), the same classmates that haven't read a book in their life and the only thing they do is waste their day on the internet writing stupid shit in the comments of people also saying stupid shit.

I want out RIGHT NOW but I think I'm even going deeper.

I can't believe this is happening.

I figure I should explain before I go any further. Hello, I'm Ash. I'm 16, and I published my first book when I was thirteen. It wasn't my best work, and I knew that, but my mother convinced me to publish it anyway.

A few weeks ago in ELA my teacher announced that we'd be starting a new book at the beginning of the next semester. I was excited.

The one we had just read was incredibly boring, so I was hoping that the next one would be good. Maybe then I'd be motivated to do my homework!

Nope.

The class was being far more rowdy than usual that day. I was playing a game on my chromebook when the teacher started speaking.

"Quiet!" She yelled. "This is our new book, 'Masks of Solitude',"

My eyes widened. What?! I recognized that title. It was my book! I felt my heart thump like a motorcycle in my chest. I started panicking. I already have anxiety about being around people- I don't need my teacher reading my work on top of that!

She continued speaking, either ignoring or not noticing my obvious fear. "This book was written by your own peer, Ash Wood!"

Everyone (that was paying attention) looked over to me. My heart found a way to beat even faster. I started to sweat.

The teacher, still either ignoring or not noticing my pure panic, kept speaking about the book. She said that she had read it multiple times, and that it was "beautifully written" and had "amazing themes"

Huh?

If we forget my self esteem issues and ignore the "beautifully written" comment... themes?

The book had no themes. It was just a silly story about vampires. All the characters do is fight, sleep, and talk about random things. There's no moral or important lesson there.

The title was pure irony. It says "Masks of Solitude," but none of the characters have any masks up, mental or otherwise. They're all perfectly honest with eachother, and spend all their time together.

It was titled that just to throw people off. They're expecting to read about lonely people with deep feelings or whatever but instead they just get sleepy, rude vampires.

I took my chance to get out of the classroom just before the teacher started reading. I raised my hand and asked if I could go to the bathroom, and said yes.

Hopefully I can stay here all hour. Even better- stay all hour everyday until the teacher finally tires of my book.

"Melmon Landry Arnold! Hallway, now!" Mrs. Johnson led the way, gripping Melmon tightly by the elbow.

She flung open the manuscript she was helping edit. "What is this?" She spat in his face.

Melmon had not the time to read the trembling pages before they were yanked upward.

"You describe the teacher, Mrs. Helen, as curmudgeonly, frumpy, and curt, among plenty of other colorful slanders." Mrs. Johnson now drew herself up, stabbing her finger in Melmon's direction. "I am not curmudgeonly. Nor am I frumpy or curt. Needless to say, I will not be further editing this piece."

Melmon shrank into his Nike tennis shoes, feeling his heart rate rise. "But- But, ma'am. She's not- not you." The words were spoken to the ground, barely above a mumble.

Yet Mrs. Johnson knew better, beholding her own body, looking down at her belly, even ironically observing her own behavior at the moment. She had been slighted by this pathetic fallacy of a student. This eighth-grade boy, well renowned in the young adult science fiction world, bared his soul to Mrs. Johnson, who allowed her to read the treasured work that he himself felt utterly proud of.

Mrs. Johnson looked deep into Melmon's impressionable, young eyes. "I mean, it was okay." She spoke deliberately before turning on her heel to continue class.

No, no, no! This is all wrong! I screamed venomously at my professor; who, despite looking very intently into her student’s eyes, didn’t manage to hear the screaming match between the two of us happening in my head.

How DARE she take my book, the one I spent years writing; countless days and nights fawning over, and use it like this. How DARE she interpret my words, so rehearsed and poetic, to mean those foul things. How DARE she take my hard work, my life’s goal, and use it to fuel her vendetta. My work was NOT hers. My voice was NOT hers. And everything she said, with every puff and sarcastic stare, was wrong.

I didn’t write this book with hidden intent. There was no hidden meaning. Not underlying messages. The blue walls didn’t represent depression. The hero’s fight against the villain doesn’t represent the fight against addiction. Her constant battles, with various armies, didn’t stand for loss or grief or greed.

It was simply a book I’d dreamt up, years ago as a wide eyed high school senior with big dreams, and I brought that to life. That I put into words. Something that meant a lot to me. To my life. To my family.

And here it was, being discussed and degraded in my college Lit class. Being used for unnecessary metaphors, being dissected sentence for sentence, word for word; only for all of it, to be all wrong.

“Are you okay?” My friend whispered to me, clearly noticing the glare that I’m sure consumed my now, angry, wide eyed.

I shook my head, but I couldn’t tell her why. I couldn’t tell her that book was my book. No one in this class, in this school, knew it was mine - only my parents and younger brother, Zay. That was part of the deal my parents made with me, and our publisher. We could only go through it, if it was published anonymously. This was my parents’ way of protecting me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful. The book took off after a year or so, finding it’s audience amongst women my age (and even men) - the fantasy rom/com genre was the perfect fit; my perfect niche. And honestly, I don’t think I could’ve handled the pressure. The fame. Not at that age.

But I was older now.

I hoped I didn’t regret the decision I was about to make.

I cleared my throat, “mhm,” I stood. “Ms.Stills,” I paused, making sure every eye in this room was on me. They were intrigued. “I don’t think that’s at all what the author intended.”

“Oh? And what makes you so certain?” Her eyebrows were raised, but she didn’t look angry, not yet. “No one knows this author, this author has only ever had ten interviews. And not once, we’re they asked these hard hitting investigative questions that we as journalists are expected to ask!”

That’s what she called her readers, her students, journalists.

“The author never intended those meanings, Ms.Stills. I know that, because I’m the author. I wrote Our Metal Heart. I’m P.A Lucas.”

Me.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

"Probably." Miss Winterbun said with a sigh. 'but that's the magic of the written word isn't it? Someone can come away with something you didn't intend."

I nodded. "I suppose it's just... annoying sometimes."

"Well, it's not like i'm asking you to tell me the secrets of your works." She winked. "See, this is an extreeme example of what you can do and what books can do for others; people can come to completely different conclusions then what you intended and fijnd ways to have them make sense... perhaps this is just human nature but it helps for people to grow and change and challenge themselves."

She looked me. "Write what you want, but once it's out in the public your audience will have a lot of fun."

"I'm already published." I pointed out and she laughed.

"I know, but you have more and more books to right, i hope. You're only ten."

The English Professor spun a web so convincing the policemen couldn’t help but pull out their handcuffs.

“Book him boys” Captain Crestwood commanded, and Clyde was led with hands behind his back to the police station, where he was set up in a small interview room.

Clyde held his baseball cap between his knees, counting to five between each stage of breathing. Twinges of gray filled his periphery.

"As I've said, officer, the similarity between the novella and the real events is simple. The novella is based on the murder of Courtney and Wilson Danvers, dramatized from the publicized account. Frankly, it is astonishing that my recounting of it should feel so genuine that I should be called in for questioning. It's almost a compliment, really." A faint smile danced on Clyde's lips, and the officer grimaced.

Yet the policeman continued again, baring down hard as he must on any suspect. Picking apart every aspect of the story, every little bit and piece, every nook and cranny, every apple and every orange, with oddly specific and seemingly meaningless questions.

The old lout clearly believed Clyde, thus Clyde relaxed, and allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair, largely droning out the bleating police captain, who was continuing to scrutinize Clyde's books.

Clyde gave occasional curt utterances, having already made his said, leaving the old, stupid oaf to do his routine police work. After a time he closed his eyes, leaving the old brute to ask his routine questions, to speculate and speak sentences that end with an upward inflection as if they were a question, though no question was spoken.

Police Captain Ashton Crestwood closely monitored the snakelike individual before him, buying none of his casual charm. The copy of Clyde Donavan's most popular book, Morning to Dawn, autographed by Clyde in front of Officer Wood, lay in the trash bin, its personalized message unread.

Captain Crestwood inwardly laughed at Clyde's gusto, the childlike way he leaned back in the seat and lazily closed his eyes. He had already decided the man must be guilty, long before he had met him personally. The evidence was damning, frankly, yet even more important matters were taking precedence.

An easy and quick win was needed.

The town was just coming off the tail end of a vicious streak of robberies, a few of which unfortunately turned poorly, resulting in fatalities and injuries. The police were of no help.

In one instance, an officer responding to a robbery in a particularly nasty part of town shamed the two folks for being so stupid to respond to an inquiry to buy their phone over craigslist. The phone was stolen, and the cop took the opportunity to shame the buyer for their stupidity.

The man gave hard glances around the neighborhood, at the little boys and girls playing on the old playground, at the groups of children with no toys to play with yet the strongest sense of neighborhood bond.

"Do you see where you are?"

The kids didn't know how to respond, and one of them tried to think of the city's name. The cop interrupted.

"No, look around you. Look at this place, does this look like where you live?" The cop gave them a hard stare.

The two teenage kids, with their recently lost phones, took in the scene of the rundown, crappy apartments. One of them noticed a little black boy, maybe six years old, soaking in every word the big police officer said, his face screwed up in sadness.

So after many incidents much like that one, with as much usefulness to the community as that one, the good Police Captain Ashton Crestwood wanted an easy dub.

Thus, Clyde was slapped behind bars, pending further evidence, as his house was ripped bar by bar, shred by shred, while the cops sprinkle cocaine, limbs, blood, whatever evidence is required.

It was not long before Clyde saw that blessed chair, and then his lord. Chief Crestwood received a moderate bonus.