Filmore's Double-Dose of Dark Urban Mythos

By W. C. filmore

Filmore delivers two unique tales of grim urban fantasy in this single e-book. First is 'safety off' a modern fable about a cursed object that circulates through an unsuspecting community causing havoc wherever it lands. The second story, 'The Money Tree' is what happens when a mystical tree, literally made of money, sprouts up in a backyard in the middle of the hood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. C. filmore
• Release date: Sep 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735794600

Book preview

Filmore’s Double-Dose of

Dark Urban Mythos

Willie Filmore

CONTENTS

SAFETY OFF

THE MONEY TREE

SAFETY OFF

by willie c. filmore

With nervous purpose and a muttering of curse words, Joe Morgan ascended the new Memorial Bridge. He restrained himself from fleeing in a panic back to his car which sat at the foot of the bridge, so with a much dreaded resolve he presses forward, tightening his grip on the object concealed in a brown paper bag under his moist arm pit. His bloodshot eyes darted back and forth, like black flies trying to find a landing place with-out getting swatted. Joe couldn't get rid of the package quick enough, and the river was the best place to hide a murder weapon.

From what Joe could see, he was the only one on the bridge at the un-godly hour of five in the morning, so when the headlights from an oncoming car caught him like a deer on the side of the highway, Joe froze. He drops his head and swings his body toward the black waters of the Halifax River.

From his vantage point, Joe could see a tropical city with its ever present palm trees bathed in dim lights and the tall shadows of condominiums on one side with bars and tourist traps on the other, split in two by the inter-coastal's dumping ground. The sea-breeze, a lot stronger than it would be during the blistering day, gave no relief from the humidity which hung in the night air like a country club sauna.

Maybe he should have thrown Janice into the river, a nice watery grave for that lesbionic bitch. She was an embarrassment to him and his family. How could he have not seen it before? Now that she was gone, her body left near a jogging trail where she like to run at night, Joe desperately wanted distance between himself and the only evidence that could link him to the notorious deed.

After one final car passed his post, Joe pressed on.

He couldn't tell if it was the weather or the fact that he had just killed his wife, but Joe's shirt was drenched in sweat, and his mouth was as dry as an old Dutch furnace. This was a bad thing he had done, but he couldn't live knowing that he married a woman who wanted to be with another woman.

Had to do it, Joe grumbled over and over to himself, trying to shake the image of the shock on Janice's face when he rose from his hiding place. Her eyes widen with horror, before her body hit the ground like a sack of dog food. So lifeless. So beautiful.

Joe went to wipe his forehead when the scent of gunpowder on his hand made his nose flare with a flash of recall that made the knots in his stomach pull tighter. Holding the railing for support, Joe gagged and dry heaved for what seemed like a very long episode.

Once he wiped the spittle from his mouth, Joe lifted his head to the downtown lights that lay on the opposite side of the river. They were a hazy aqua and pink neon, bright enough to pierce the muggy night air, a beacon to guide all to the debauchery that lay within its corrupt trajectory. Hell, it was in a bar, similar to one of many that sat under those beckoning auroras that Joe befriended Steve. He was a local patron at some dive that Joe crawled into after being sent home from work for his attitude, which was fueled by a pint of pre-shift vodka.

After the two had had far too many drinks in far too little time Joe found himself crying his new found friend a sink of tears; his job, his wife, and the other woman. They were all against him.

I got something that will solve all your problems, Joe could remember the hulking Steve slur. They stumbled to the back of the bar where Steve, after some difficulty, popped the trunk of his car. For the life of him Joe could not recall Steve's face but what remained in his booze-seared brain were those huge oven-mitt hands that dropped a brown bag in his arms. Joe opened it. A