R53

It looked as if someone finger flicked the air. Three fifths of eye blink after that move, almost out of thin air, trail of sparks appeared.

Air finger flicker was a bit shorter than roof of junk yellow Opel Astra. He wore thin autumn trench coat over unremarkable gray suit with thin black sweater instead of shirt. Someone would describe his head as round, others as square, because it was chubby and big like upholstered anvil.

Picking ends of his coat, so they don't get muddy, he squatted next to the story.

"Well you really did a nasty job on her", he murmured to himself almost ignoring a worried writer who stood nearby shivering in the wind.

Writer was silent for a several moments. He was thin and frail, clad in silk pajamas the color of Dijon mustard, wrapped in cloth that resembled lavish curtains more than anything else. We, of course, only provisionally call him the writer, considering the sad state of the story which inspector Pilsudski was examining.

You didn't have to be an expert to see that the story was dying, there was no need to call Literary Police to tell you that. What was confusing the inspector was question of how did it happen. Ian Pilsudski already encountered in his career many cases when story breaks off from a writer's reign. He saw many horrible examples of how story and writer can maim each other. But the pale apparition that was sprawled in the mud didn't look like a wild story. Quite the contrary. She had shiny fur, trimmed claws and exquisite feathers. Why was she dying in a pool of words, her beautiful nose broken, her hair torn, as pale as her writer, Pilsudski couldn't tell.

He stood up and waved to morgue technicians.

"Take her away..." he said and reached for his coat's pocket to fish another cigarette.