Another week, another prompt, another flight of fancy

Detective Postillion stood shoulder to shoulder with Constable Theodolite facing the ruin. He shook his head, allowing his coiffured quiff to quiver quixotically.

‘STOP THAT. THIS IS AN ALLITERATION FREE PARAGRAPH AND ANYWAY POSTILLION IS A TONSORIAL DESERT.’

The narrator coughed and addressed the scene. ‘I suggest…’

‘NO, THAT’S NO GOOD. YOU CAN’T BREAK THE FOURTH WALL SO EASILY.’

‘Will you can it?’

‘OH I’M SORRY. AND WHO SAYS YOU…?’

Postillion and Theodolite exchanged a look and headed back towards the cloud. Postillion spoke rapidly, ‘We’ll be in the saved documents until you’ve sorted yourselves out. Geez, save me from writers and their inflated egos. Fancy a game of dominoes? You can be the spots.’

‘SORRY!’ ‘Yes please come back. We won’t say another…’ ‘WORD.’

They stopped, but didn’t turn. Theodolite said after a beat, ‘This is a character-led piece. It’s clear in the contract.’

‘SURE.’ ‘Of course..’ ‘WE THOUGHT…’ ‘You know…’ ‘YOU MIGHT WELCOME…’ ‘Some direction.’ ‘JUST TO GET YOU GOING.’

The two policemen began to walk away.

‘RIGHT.’ ‘No. We get it.’ ‘WE’LL BE OVER HERE.’ ‘Watching.’ ‘ IN CASE YOU NEED ANY POINTERS.’ ‘Not that you will.’ ‘BUT IF YOU DID…’

Freed of writerly interference, the policemen, now dressed in jump suits of a fetching color …

Postillion spun, a furious expression above a double teapot. ‘Who did that?’

‘IT WASN’T US.’

The writer, looking terrified, nodded.

Theodolite joined his colleague. ‘Who was it? Come on, own up.’

Predictive Text cautiously raised a hand. ‘Sorry. I can’t help it. Just ignore me.’

‘WE WOULD ALL LIKE TO DO THAT, BUT YOU DON’T MAKE IT EASY, STICKING YOUR OAR IN.’

Everyone failed to make eye contact. Eventually Theodolite glared around the group. ‘Can we get on? This won’t tell itself.’

Everyone nodded, but no one dared speak.

Postillion and Theodolite retook their positions. Holding hands, the skipped towards the crime scene. Another dreadful attack by the notorious castle disemboweller. A man in a white forensic suit approached, a small trowel in his right hand. Theodolite took a step forward. ‘Another one?’

‘Fraid so.’ Doctor Trigpoint glanced back. ‘Completely gutted.’

‘Time of death?’

‘The state of decay suggests the seventeenth century but I’ll give you a better idea when I’ve got it back to the lab and run some tests.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘You’re people have begun seeing what they can dig up. It’ll take time.’

Postillion nodded. ‘Those archaeologists take an age.’

‘True. Let’s hope they can put together the bones of a case.’

‘Be too much to hope they’d put some flesh on those bones?’

‘After four hundred years, what do you think?’ The forensic scientist wandered away.

‘What do you think?’

‘My money’s on the Dutch.’

Meanwhile the writer, HIS EGO and Predictive Text opened their sandwiches. ‘How do you think it’s going?’

‘OH IT WILL BE DISASTROUS. IT COULD GO ANYWHERE.’

‘Should we interfere?’

‘NO POINT. JUST ENJOY THE TIME OFF. BY THE WAY, WHAT’S THIS FLAVOR?’

The writer looked at Predictive Text. ‘American?’

The Text nodded.

‘Peachy.’