Conditional Reality

A small bribe was usually all it took to keep a town off my maps. Sometimes less than a bribe. A simple request, coupled with a hard luck story about the need for secrecy, would often keep your town absent from all official charts. After my retirement I visited one of those ghost towns, a tiny fishing village on the rocky southern coast. People remembered me and took me into their homes. Their faces were blank. Their eyes were wide as children’s. They offered me bowls of fishy stew. The sea behind me boiled with the frenzy of living things.

Labels: Laborer's tales