Already Here, Already Watching

The duck was conspicuous.  For one thing, Hubert’s snorkel was clearly visible in the water beside it.  That it was construction-zone orange was just frosting.

“You know what?” I said, as Hubert sat in the shallows, dripping beneath his orange duck hat.  “I don’t even want to know.”

“It’s a camera,” he said.  “To watch when they come.”

“If they do, they’ll just catch you.  That thing is an eyesore.”

“It’s hunting season,” Hubert sniffed.  “Besides, aliens are colorblind.”

“Come home, Hubert.”  I tugged on his shoulder, and he rose reluctantly. 

Behind us, the ducks watched with dark, silent eyes.

Hunting for Sport

"Got a new one, eh?"

Robert angled the wheelbarrow just right in the stiff gnome's hands, then stepped back to survey his work. He nodded. "Finally gave up on the traps and went out like my grandfather did. Club and net. Traditional, like."

Todd plucked his pipe out of his mouth and scratched at his nose with the stem. "Looks a bit peaky, though. They're best in the fall, when their little bellies are round."

Robert gritted his teeth. He glanced at Todd's yard, where half a dozen store-bought plumpers stood with jaunty, frozen smiles. "At least I earned mine."

Flesh of Stone, Bones of Iron

A lot of murders don't ever get solved. It's just part of the cost of civilization and industry, the side effects of having so many people in one place at one time and accomplishing everything that we accomplish. The city is alive, in a way.

The city is killing them.

The others shrug it off. They can't stop it, and so they don't try. I tried to save people, for a while. Medicine, security, legislation; nothing addressed the underlying problems.

There is one way to achieve justice, an old way. The only problem is: how do you kill a city?