Ralph woke up on the grass, fuzzy-headed. He recalled the old guy and his weird tale: a crazy dame, his missing kid – a babe-in-arms with sandy curls. He’d searched for years. Ralph had taken on the case.
Now Ralph found himself beside an overgrown tower – a ruin, like his memory. How had he come here?
He’d heard singing – a sad, slow song. Next thing, there beside him hung a heavy braid laced with green ribbon, just begging to be climbed, so he’d climbed it, right to the top. Then he’d blanked.
Ralph gazed up the mossy tower steps, and wondered.
This is Ralph’s second case. He’s taken up residence in my imagination, it seems, and I believe he might be finding himself tangled up in more impenetrable mysteries than he bargained for when he first hung out his shingle in the Friday Fictioneers office block. His first case nearly finished him, but he’s a tough one.
Here’s what happened to the original damsel in distress, in the original tower – which, incidentally, didn’t have steps. Maybe Ralph’s damsel has an altogether different agenda.
This piece of short fiction is for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers, where this week’s picture prompt is staying active for a fortnight, to allow for a more leisurely creative process over the holiday season. For a change, my creative processes have gone into overdrive, so I’m posting two stories for the wonderful prompt supplied by Bjorn.