Suspected Artisan Attack

Rich people ruin everything. Normal people get by with their oysters, cobbled streets, brown bread, and Land Rovers. Then, privileged turds cotton on “this is tasty/healthy/quaint/convenient/whatever” and it all goes to shit.

This used to be a nice place. Bit grubby, maybe. David Quinn remembered many a kickabout in this street when he was a kid. Everyone knew everyone. Your street was family.

Now look at it. It was cleaner, sure. There was less crime. At least, less ordinary, honest crime. Nicking stuff, the odd scrap outside the pub, that sort of thing. Not exactly honest, but infinitely preferable, more human, to Quinn's mind, than poisoning the water table, or crashing an economy.

But there was no community anymore, unless you counted everybody commenting on everybody else's blog.

He turned from the window, and looked back at the crime scene. The thirty-six year old mother of two slumped over in her candle-making workshop. No weapon found. No prints.

This was the third this month. Last week, it had been the soap-maker, and before that, that guy with a manbun who made artisanal bread from his wife's... anyway, why were they all dropping like flies?

Quinn squashed the affinity he felt with the murderer in that moment, stepping back out on to that familiar-yet-not street. It had been transformed from “rundown” and “cramped” to “quaint” and “eccentric” by a sort of financial osmosis. Still, it was impossible to banish the memories, the yearning they brought on for a simpler time, and the griping resentment that gnawed from the inside like gut-ache at these Burberry-clad fools with ostentatious moustaches and ludicrously elaborate coffees.

Was it better? Have I got rose-tinted glasses on?

He forced himself to remember his mam, with no agency or resources, walking on eggshells around his angry father. Mr Sullivan breathing boozy fumes over his class, sending kids to the corner shop for cigarettes, and inviting girls into his office for tutoring.

His investigation uncovered an entire underbelly to this beautiful market town, a tangle of jealous rivalries, and all the artisanal traders trying to off each other.

Wouldn't have happened back in the day. Rich people are definitely the worst.

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Edited to add author's note:

Word count - 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and authors note.)

Submitted on Tuesday 10th September

Author's Note

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 254 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I will do my best to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Here is a recent Top Story of mine:

My new Dollar Challenge! Please give it a look:

A recent Runner Up placement for one of my Wanky Poems:

And now for something completely different!

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Thank you again!