Jim Blow 1

I sat, deathly ill, in my arctic home. Owning my attention was a blue file in very poor condition. There were wrinkles and tears in the folder, and the bottom right hand corner had been badly burned. Locking my doors via remote control, I switched on a desk lamp and forced its light onto my work. With a deep breath--and another quick check over my shoulder--I peeled the file open. The detective working this case before me, may he rest in peace, had found very little regarding project BioCoded. I owed it to Detective L. to finish the work he'd begun.

Releasing a stream of hot air out from between my lips, I watched it freeze in the cold air around me. My mind wasn't on the cold, though I wore a large furry coat, obviously too big for my slender frame. I tipped my stetson ripely downward, running my fingers along the grooves and tears in the front of the aged brown hat. Readjusting my specks, I drew an icy breath inward, pouring over the single sheet of paper in the file. Nothing was solidified in the file; only guesses and whispers of rumors.

There was a loud knock at the door. Either the pizza delivery guy had changed his mind about their delivery radius policy, or I was about to be attacked.

Reaching for my quill, I breathed hurriedly on my freezing ink. As the intruder entered my home--neglecting to wipe his feet on my snowy welcome rug--I penned a letter to my editors and friends. The man here to kill me for this file wouldn't make it through my bunker door, and into my arctic home. Probably.

Dear Editors, I wrote desperately, forgetting to dot my i's and cross my t's. Or at least I would've forgotten, had auto correct not chastised me.

It should be important to note that there is no excuse for poor grammar or gross illiteracy. Even when moments from death, one should be careful to mind their spelling and maintain manageable motion over the number of exclamation points punctuating their final words.

****

I remained motionless in my arctic home, waiting for my attacker to come. He never made it past the doors, as I'd predicted. Leaning back over the file, I discovered a small stain on the bottom right corner. But was this a stain? Or a clue! I felt the piece of paper. It was a thicker material; something like card stock. With a light touch--and several hundred attempts--I was able to peel the paper in two. I retrieved fingerprint dust from one of my secret hiding places behind a picture frame. Hoping I wasn't wrong, I spread the dust evenly over the botom paper. The dust revealed exactly what had been on the top paper, but also a word that the top page had hidden from me.

Dystopia?

I read it again. This was Detective L.'s handwriting. My first lead! But I didn't know a whole lot about dystopian works. I had a friend who did, though. In contacting him, I'd be putting him at risk, but the situation was dire.

I messaged Zakar, an expert in dystopian works. With a deep inhale, I encoded our conversation. Was it just my paranoia that created noises on the other side of my steel door?

Zakar, I wrote hurriedly--or at least as hurriedly as I could in the code I was using. The Huckleberry is not safe!! BC is compromised. I am fleeing my ~AC for a more secure location. Dispose of my pez dispensers, and eat at least five hundred thumbtacks.

INDEBTED,