Lightning flashed. It lit up an open windowsill. In it, a large walnut shell, with a scrap of fabric askew across it. A bed and blanket for someone no bigger than an old woman’s thumb. The bed was empty. I…
The day August Miller died was cold and bright. His three sons gathered at his bedside to hold the withered hands and hear the aged voice speak one last time.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful young girl. Her lips were full, her skin was soft and dark, and her hair floated around her head. People knew she was beautiful, but they did not realize she was a she.
Name’s Puss. Puss in Boots. I’m a cat who’s seen action. Scratched a few noses. Been scratched a few times. Never had my fur ruffled. Not until this one case.
See, one of the Admiral’s cronies, he’d been a missionary back in Utah, and then later around the world. Then he’d found money and lost his religion. But he’d met a lot of hard-luck kids in his time and adopted ’em all.
Twelve girls all in all, each as unlike and as beautiful as the next. At least by human standards. By circumstance, they were all the same age.
It was election season in the fine city of Neverwood — What state? What do I know or care? I’m a cat. I’m here to tell a story, not give a geography lesson — so Admiral Clintstock was going out to press the flesh. Mostly rich flesh, because donations kept the machine going, and his favours brought them in.
The name’s Puss in Boots. I’m one of the smartest cats you’ll ever meet. Can solve a case fast as you can put down a saucer of cream. That’s not bragging. That’s just facts.