Where the dandelions grow

"Get in the chair."

He refused to move. The guard at the door pushed him forcefully, and he stumbled into the seat. His eyes narrowed when the light shone in his face.

"Are you ready to talk today?"
               
The man across the table was glaring at him, he knew. The one with a sandy face and walrus wrinkles, the one who wore sunglasses at night. Langs said it was because he was lazy in the left eye and he wouldn't be quite as intimidating that way, now would he? His awkward laugh still rang in his ears.

"Gee I don't know," he replied pleasantly. "I heard the suffocated can't recall things clearly, now can they?"

 His hands clattered when he motioned to the iron band around his neck.

"Now here I was, thinking the Dark Ages were over, mister like the fool I am."

A wave of silence washed over the room. He must not be very amused. He contemplated for a few minutes before he spoke in a gruff voice,

"Boy, we can make this place a hellhole of dungeon if we wanted too. Feel lucky, 'bout it. If you'd gotten Finley, he'd have you chained to the wall playing Russian roulette by now I reckon."

"Oh really, mister? I didn't know innocent were treated so nicely around here."

A chair skidded across the floor. He found a finger jabbed at his nose.

"L-lookie here boy. You're in no place to talk right now. We know it was you."

His voice was trembling as much as his hands. He imagined how the man's puffy face was handling all this; him, innocence, audacity all in the same helping. The man sat back down with as much abruptness as when he stood. A mask of composure was regained.

"Name."

He smiled.

"Aren't we past this already Detective?"

"Name."

"Fine, have it your way. Lysander. Lysander Jones."

"Where do you live?"

"Where the dandelions grow, sir. Where the mulberry bushes heave heavy in the summer months and stories are whispered of the forest folk. Where there is nothing sweeter than a dandelion wish mister, and the story goes-."

"Sounds pretty. Where do you live?"

He gave the man a rueful shake of the head.

"Pity, I don't think you've ever learned the meaning of the word 'pretty', Detective. You've never been to my home."

He paid the comment no heed.

"Friends?"

"One. But Langs is probably dead now anywho so I don't think he counts. Mother always told me to make more friends."

His chained arms spread as far as they could.

The Detective sighed and ran his fingers through his rapidly balding head. Lysander noticed him creeping closer to the table edge ever so silently until he was in full perspective. His lip was a chapped, hard line. He must be contemplating again. Lysander was not quite so endearing to the man.

"Look, Mr. Detective. I think we both know why were here. Just cut to the chase already, 'kay?"

The walrus flaps hardened then, into a gnarled giant grimace. It wasn't like everyone didn't know. The whispers followed him like locusts in a daisy field, from the market to the tavern to the recesses of his own home. Even he knew it wasn't going to be long before they brought him to this wretched place.

---

Three weeks ago, Detective Josephine Rootshed received a letter in the mail. You will die in seven days time, it read. Being a detective, it wasn't hard for the obnoxious fool to ignore it. Apparently, they get these type of things every second Tuesday over at the office. A dumb teenager here, a crackpot there, no worries though since detectives are invincible to every threat, in immune to every jest. Robots aren't supposed to die.









She was found in her office, a bloody book over the center of her heart. Fina Rootshed was my neighbor.
---

"Y-y-you... Jones..."

"Yes, sir?"

The giant was falling, falling into an abyss. The rough callused hands were grappling the rocky cliff side.

"S-s-son. Confess. Please just confess."

There was a pleading in his eyes; the desperate, hopeless pleading. Lysander couldn't help but laugh then. You can try to save your own hide but I know you have it Detective. It's all in your eyes, your sightless eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"It's today, isn't it sir?"

A hand whipped out of a corner and dragged the detective into the shadows. The Detective had tears running down his face. He thought of the dandelions in summertime and of a long forgotten wish.