• Jabe Stafford

One Page Worlds - Stealth On The Farm

A whole world on a single page!

The short story morsels of One Page Worlds are flash fiction adventures of all flavors. Every Wednesday will feature a complete story in one page, or the first page of what could be a novel or novelette.

Sharing the fun and geekery is the best part of writing! Please tweet or comment with your guesses on what genre, character, and job is central to each tale. Enjoy touring new universes each week with One Page Worlds!

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If it was me running this bastard's job, I’d want the fewest ways to trace a murder as possible.

A car no global positioning satellite could queue in on. An easily disposed murder weapon. The last place anyone would look—or could look—for buried bodies.

I wrap my camo jacket around my shoulders and trudge through the crisp autumnal north woods, ignoring the “No Trespassing” signs I pass along the way toward a tree stand. Two or three of the trees even have cameras hidden among the foliage near head level. Making sure my body language is that of a tired, wealthy landowner is a survival skill. One of many that one acquires in a world where even the farmers and hunters have the same technological watch dogs as inner-city police precincts.

Springing up the ladder to the tree stand, I draw two switchblades from the jacket pockets and ready them for throwing.

Seconds pass and I savor the dying leaves on the air. While I let my quarry believe he is tracking me, I spot the mounds of soil dug by his hands in the forest floor.

A man strides through the fall sunlight below me, following the trail I allowed him to see me making. His camo jacket looks strikingly similar to my own.

That had been my intention when obtaining my own jacket.

“Hey,” the man shouts up at the stand I’m crouching in. A rifle cocks and I see him direct the barrel at me. “I’m Jeremiah Jenkins and I’m the rightful owner of this property. I’m well within my rights to shoot you dead for trespassing this deep into my property. Come down from there nice—”

I whip the first switchblade at the man’s exposed throat.

He ducks his head between his shoulders and the blade sinks into his shoulder instead.

While he cries out, I drop from above and land nimbly on the leaves, the second blade held against his collarbone. “Your rights do not include disposing of activists who do not agree with your political views. Submit to me or be buried among your own victims.”

“What the hell are you, some kind of ninja?”

I hiss, “Detective. The combat skills are a side effect of my profession.”

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