"Small" writing challenges for my small writing talent. Hotel note pads are the only space allowed. Let's see if I can strip it down and tighten it up to learn something. Improving my skill of weird fiction.
I finally adjusted to details and happenings after a logic defying six months. I reminded myself how green and unaccustomed I used to be over a breakfast burrito I ate on the way to Mr. Henderson’s apartment. An event happened next door, discovered this morning by first responders. Once on site, their sensors and general sweep of the apartment confirmed a lack of devices, projectile debris or additional room damage. Other telltale clues brought the call to my radio and not a normal patrol. My long ago green and new self would have sought the station counselor right away with what happened last night. Today, I’m okay with what is now a normal thing. I have to talk to Mr. Henderson who last night caused his neighbors to explode.
“Mr. Henderson,” I began from a soft grey second or third-hand couch, “Did you get on well with next door?”
Henderson sat at his beat up and used breakfast table, obviously having sobbed all morning probably since the first knock on the door of the responders. They stood in the room under numbered orange helmets energized by belt worn batteries.
“Yes. Y’ Yes, we got along great. They’re good friends,” he sobbed into the recording, realizing they were not any longer. His strange hazel eyes welled. The responders adjusted containing equipment. None of my questioning revealed anything more than good friends living in a valley area apartment building. No red flags came up. No ill will or political activity. Only the obvious mistake.
“Mr. Henderson, where is your cage? I don’t see any evidence of your walls having proper treatment.” I let that sink in for a bit and watched his mannerisms. His sobbing slowed while he looked up and then turned to his bedroom.
“I always wear my PSH at night.” He went to go get it and the responders urged him to stay put while I went in. It was an older style, basic psi-hat. Definitely cheaper than lining the bedroom with a properly done to code cage but it’s still not an ideal device. Besides, revealing it as a knockoff black market item meant it was entirely his own fault for blowing up his neighbors. His crying and apologies reached a new level.
I looked at the responders who nodded and adjusted almost every control on hand to contain the energy. He was a strong contractor or he wouldn’t be working in the valley with other top minds. A cheap knockoff would never contain him at full strength. He had been unaware of his black-market sleeping hat; he thought it was the real deal. It lacked every certification sticker and instruction booklet a user must have on hand, something a license to practice dictates. I wrote decisions on my tablet.
P-degree unintentional manslaughter along with careless self-discipline. What work remains is to determine why the neighbors didn’t energize their own cage at night to keep Mr. Henderson’s thoughts out. I called for the orange truck to take Mr. Henderson down town.
Psych detectives have to have a strong stomach and strong mind, something hard to recruit. Since the valley became a hotbed for psychic pros, things never get old and are never normal. If you think you’re strong enough for the work, give it a shot. You might not believe what you see, or think.
Duke Ming, Thought Detective.
San Jose, California Police Department.
(Author’s notes) 1 December 2016.
Another random concept leaked into my mind. What happens to all of these people with mind powers at night? Are things flying around the room at random and breaking? Sleep walking is a real thing, so what about sleep thinking among the unusually talented? I gave it a go.