A Coastal Town In New England Is Full Of Crazy Characters [FICTOID]

As the lady author weaved her way through town on her bicycle, mothers yanked their children out of the way.

“Evil eye!” they hissed at their broods, then spat on the ground where the bicycle passed, not at the lady author directly because nobody wanted her attention.

An infantile gesture, to be sure, but graveyards are filled with the bones of those who dare confront her directly.

As sunset drew near, the lobsterman with his three hooks for hands and the crabber with his two peg legs and the shrimper with his ornate hairdo all hurried to their boats, eager to sail away before night fell and the authors felt…”creative”.

She parked her light under a light bulb by the door leading to the stairs between the yoga studio and the used bookstore.  The two spinster sisters who ran the respective establishments glared at the lady author then at each other, sharply turning their backs on their sibling.

For forty years they had been feuding, and feud they would for another forty…unless death…or the lady author or her rival scribe decided different.

The male writer stood at the top of the stairs, leopard-like despite a balding head.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Oh, pooh!  I’m on time -- as always.”

The male author said nothing but bade her to enter.

It was a private tea room; at this time of day they were the only customers.

A waitress with webbed hands served them their tea -- she knew what they wanted, of course, oolong for her and darjeeling for him -- then scurried away.

“Well, what did you bring me?” asked the male author.

“Another murder mystery,” said the lady author.

The male arched an eyebrow.  “Really.  That’s all you ever write:  Murder mysteries.”

“I like murder mysteries.  Besides, all you write are horror stories.”

“There’s more variety in my horror stories,” said the male author.  “Sometimes a werewolf kills my victims, sometimes a demon, sometimes Cthulhu.”

“Who-loo?”

“Cthulhu, an ancient evil entity.”

“See? That’s what I don’t like about your stories, always some weird otherworldly monster.

“I prefer regular, normal flesh and blood killers, plain folk, not monsters.”

“Salt of the earth.”

“Yes!  Precisely!  Salt of the earth.”

“May I?”  The male author held out his hand.  She placed her manuscript in it.

He started to read.  She cleared her throat.

He smiled and reached into his jacket, pulling out a short story.

The lady author put on her glasses and started reading.  “Who are you going to kill this time?”

“The car salesman who sold me that lemon I drive.”

“Oh, good.  I never liked him.”

“And you?”

“The town librarian.  I’m tired of her always shushing me.  I’m going to blow her up with fireworks.”

© Buzz Dixon