How To Create Layered Metaphors In Fiction

I love metaphors. They’re fun, interesting, and at times, ridiculous.

They’re also an extremely useful communication tool, across most forms of communication.

As an aside, it’s important to note that not everyone understands metaphors—and that’s okay! As the communicator, it’s our responsibility to adjust our technique to the listener/reader. But, in many cases, metaphors can communicate a depth and complexity of ideas inaccessible through other communicative tools.

The best is when you are able to create layered metaphors that work on multiple levels and in a variety of ways.

What Are Layered Metaphors?

Let’s start with the basics.

A metaphor is when you compare two things that aren’t actually alike to show a shared concept or idea, but without using "like" or "as." (If you use “like” or “as,” it’s a simile.)

For example, you could say "Big Swede’s emotions were a flock of wild ducks," to help paint a vivid picture of the constant change and unpredictability of Big Swede’s emotions.

A layered metaphor is more than just a one-off comparison like, “His mind was a storm.” It’s a metaphor that builds over time, adding new meanings as the story progresses.

Side note: Big Swede is actually a duck! I don’t know if that makes this more or less of a metaphor. A duck’s emotions… are like a flock of ducks!

Think of it as a recurring symbol or motif that gains more depth every time it shows up, connecting different elements of your story.

Layered metaphors aren’t just about describing something; they’re about showing how that metaphor evolves alongside your characters, plot, or world. When done well, they can make your story feel richer and more cohesive.

For example, if you initially describe Big Swede’s emotions as “a flock of wild ducks,” and then later on, add, “The flock grew restless, scattering in every direction as the storm of doubt rolled in,” then that indicates that Big Swede’s already chaotic emotions are in upheaval.

And if you finish the story with “The ducks took flight, soaring into the peaceful, open sky,” to indicate some resolution of said emotions, then you’ve a.) given Big Swede’s emotions an arc, as well as b.) added complexity to the story with a layered metaphor.

Examples of Layered Metaphors

I hate it when posts on how-to topics don’t include examples. And not just one or two, but a bunch, to get a clear idea of what the writer is talking about.

So let’s have some examples.

I’ve structured these in three parts, but your story could refer to this metaphor repeatedly throughout the narrative. It doesn’t have to have any kind of movement or change if you don’t want, and in fact, if you’re using a flat character arc, you could easily do that by having a flat layered metaphor woven throughout your story.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

How about a few examples:

  1. His resolve was a sturdy oak with roots that sank deep into the soil.

    1. When the wind came, the branches bent, but the tree stood strong.

    2. When the sun came, new growth sprouted.

  2. Her focus was a hive of bees.

    1. As the day wore on, the bees burst into a frantic cloud.

    2. When the sun set, the swarm vanished into the night.

  3. His curiosity flickered like a lamp, sometimes bright and sometimes bored.

    1. The more questions he asked, the brighter the lamp grew.

    2. The lamp had finally grown so bright, it cast light on [insert thing he’d been looking for.]

  4. Their relationship was an elevator, rising steadily with every shared moment.

    1. But at times, it stalled between floors, the doors stuck shut, and no one knew how to get it moving again.

    2. Eventually, they learned to press the right buttons, guiding the elevator to new heights without fear of falling.

Okay, some of those are kind of campy, but hopefully, you get the gist.

What’s the difference between a layered metaphor and an extended metaphor?

You may have heard the term “extended metaphor.” And it might seem like a layered metaphor is, in fact, extended. So what’s the difference?

A layered metaphor is one that builds and evolves throughout the story, gaining new meanings and depth as the narrative progresses. It often reflects changes in characters, themes, or settings, with each new "layer" adding complexity to the original comparison.

For example, a metaphor that starts as a calm lake representing peace might later transform into stormy waves, symbolizing internal conflict.

An extended metaphor, on the other hand, is a single metaphor that is stretched out and elaborated on over a longer passage or even an entire story. It consistently refers back to the same core comparison, offering different facets of that one idea without necessarily changing the meaning.

For instance, an extended metaphor might describe a character’s life as a "journey" throughout the entire story, with each new chapter emphasizing the same metaphor through various aspects of travel, such as roadblocks, detours, and destinations.

In short, a layered metaphor grows and shifts meaning over time, while an extended metaphor stays focused on one comparison.

How to use layered metaphors

Layered metaphors are super versatile and can be woven into pretty much any part of your story.

Whether you’re developing characters, adding some subtext, building your world, or structuring your plot, layered metaphors can give everything a little extra depth. Let’s break it down into a few key areas where you can really make them work.

Layered Metaphors in Character Development

Characters grow and struggle throughout their narrative arc. And layered metaphors are a great way to demonstrate this shift.

For example, maybe you start with a character whose resolve is "a sturdy wall," but as things get tough, that wall starts "cracking," and by the end, it’s "crumbled to dust."

The metaphor evolves as they do, giving readers a sense of their internal journey without having to spell everything out.

It’s a great way to show rather than tell, and it helps make a character’s emotional arc feel more visual and impactful.

It’s also a great tool to reinforce unchanging elements of that character’s personality. If they are a stubborn goat, then you can use goat imagery throughout the entire story, saying things like “She butted heads” or “She really knew how to get his goat,” or “An old goat will never learn to dance.”

Certainly it can be overused, but at the right balance, it’s a great way to illustrate character and character development.

Layered Metaphors to Enhance Subtext

Metaphors are also perfect for adding some subtext to your story—those underlying emotions or tensions that you don’t want to say outright. By layering metaphors, you can hint at deeper stuff without being too obvious.

For example, maybe there’s "a glass wall" between two characters, suggesting they’re keeping things from each other. As the story goes on and their relationship gets more strained, that wall "gets thicker," and eventually, it "starts to crack."

You never have to directly say they’re drifting apart—the metaphor does that work for you.

If you want to take it further, you can use other types of barriers between other characters. Maybe they’re connected by cement or by nothing, by a thread, for example. And again, this can help do the heavy lifting of indicating the complexity of the relationship between two characters.

Layered Metaphors For Worldbuilding

When it comes to worldbuilding, especially in fantasy or sci-fi, layered metaphors can add texture and make everything feel more connected. They can help reflect the bigger themes of your world and add a sense of cohesion—or lack thereof.

Say your story takes place in a city built on a cliffside and its in the middle of a war or trying to free itself from some kind of autocratic ruler. You could describe the city as "clinging to life," and as things get more dangerous, the city could be "dangling by a thread." The metaphor doesn’t just describe the physical space, but also reflects what’s going on in the world and with the people who live there.

Alternatively, bug metaphors could be fun for a city that’s set on a cliff. Maybe you describe the city as a beetle, clinging to a rock. Or trying to take flight. Or perhaps the city is infested with corruption. Or the city is crawling with termites, eating it from the inside out.

Lotta options here.

Regardless of what you choose, layered metaphors like this can make your world feel more alive and meaningful without overloading your reader with exposition.

Layered Metaphors in Plot Structure

This might be my favorite one. Because weaving a layered metaphor throughout a plot can create a beautiful support system for structuring concepts, movement, growth, stagnancy, and any other concept you’re playing with in your story.

You can introduce a metaphor early on and allow it to grow and change as the story progresses, creating a symbolic thread that adds depth and cohesion to the narrative.

The key is to think of the metaphor as part of the plot’s backbone, something that subtly mirrors the rising tension, conflict, or resolution in your story.

Here’s how you can do it:

  1. Introduce the metaphor early: Start by planting the metaphor in the beginning, even in a subtle way. For instance, let’s say your story is about a character who’s slowly losing control over their life. You could introduce the metaphor of "walking a tightrope" early on, where everything seems balanced but fragile.

  2. Let the metaphor evolve with the story: As the plot progresses and the character faces more challenges, that metaphorical tightrope can start to "fray" or "sag." Or maybe they stumble and lose their balance. Remember, a tightrope isn’t just a tightrope—it’s part of a circus, there’s a net underneath, a crowd watching. Each of these elements can be utilized within the layered metaphor as the stakes rise and the story moves through its various stages. Maybe the character’s grip on the rope becomes more desperate, or the rope starts "swinging wildly" as external forces add to the chaos. The circus is your oyster.

  3. Bring it to the climax: By the time you reach the story’s peak—whether it’s a confrontation, a decision, or a moment of realization—the metaphor should be fully developed. In our tightrope example, the moment of crisis could be when "the rope snaps," sending the character plunging into uncertainty. Or if the rope doesn’t snap, maybe the character loses their balance. Or they hit the net. This can mirror the plot’s turning point, where everything changes, and the character has to face the consequences of their choices or actions.

  4. Resolve or complicate the metaphor in the conclusion: After the climax, the metaphor can either reach a resolution or take on a new meaning. If the character manages to regain control, you might describe them "finding solid ground" after their fall, reflecting the resolution of their journey. Alternatively, if the character’s struggles continue or evolve into something new, the metaphor could shift—maybe they’re now "climbing a cliff," a new challenge ahead of them, but with the strength to face it.

The reason I love this concept so much is because there’s so much possibility inherent in it. You can align your story with anything you want and it will affect the tone, the vibe, the style, and more.

It also gives readers something familiar to latch onto, creating a sense of progression without the need to explain every internal or external shift.

Using layered metaphors in plot structure is especially useful when you want to emphasize themes or emotional arcs without being too direct. The metaphor acts as a stand-in for more abstract concepts like control, loss, or transformation, allowing you to show rather than tell.

Plus, when a metaphor is resolved alongside the plot, it gives the reader a sense of satisfaction, like seeing all the puzzle pieces come together.

Tying it all together

Creating layered metaphors in fiction is about adding depth and complexity while keeping your readers engaged, not overwhelmed.

Whether you’re using them to shape your characters’ journeys, add hidden meaning through subtext, build a more immersive world, or even tie your plot together, layered metaphors can elevate your storytelling.

They provide a subtle, yet powerful way to give your writing texture and leave lasting impressions.

So, if you want to take your metaphors to the next level, start layering them into your characters, plot, and world. With a little practice, you’ll create metaphors that not only add richness to your story but also stick with readers long after they’ve turned the last page.

Digging Up Trouble Part 4: Claw to Claw

Part 4: Claw to Claw

Millie rushed into the library, ducking behind the desk. I followed, huddling close to her, smelling the scent of fresh pine waft from her fur. I'd never met a badger like her, but now wasn't the time to be thinking about that. 

The sound of heavy boots echoed from the hallway—a deliberate, menacing tread that sent a chill down my spine. Rusty stepped into the doorway, filling it with his bulk, eyes gleaming with the kind of anger that doesn’t stop until something’s broken.

His flashlight cast a warm glow… directly onto my tail. I stood, meeting his gaze with a bold look.

“Well, look what the rain dragged in,” Rusty sneered, twirling his crowbar as if it were an extension of his paw. “Poking around your uncle's old house, Millie? And dragging along the town's worst private eye with you? Too bad you won’t be staying long. I've got business here, and I won't have you mucking it up.”

I stepped in front of Millie, claws flexing, but my nerves were taut. Rusty wasn’t just here to scare us off—he had work to do, and he wasn't going to let anyone get in his way. Certainly not us.

“Back off, Rusty,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You don’t want to do this.”

He laughed, a rough, gravelly sound that echoed off the walls. “Oh, but I do. I have other business here, but taking care of you will be a nice little detour.”

Millie hissed, key clenched in her paw and eyes defiant. “This doesn’t belong to you, Rusty. Whatever’s in that safe, it’s mine.”

Rusty grinned, all teeth and menace. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

The air was thick with tension, like a rubber band right before it snaps. Rusty lunged, swinging the crowbar in a wide arc. I ducked, shoving Millie out of the weapon's path, and flinching as the metal whistled past my head. It smashed into the wall and sent chunks of plaster flying. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a rickety chair—and swung it, but Rusty was quicker. He knocked it aside like it was nothing.

“Clawson, watch out!” Millie shouted as Rusty lunged forward again. To my surprise, he lurched past me, grabbing at Millie. She skipped backward, barely evading his clutches, but the abrupt movement sent the key flying through the air. It skittered across the floor and Rusty leaped toward it, but I managed to grab his coat and yank him back, sending both of us crashing into the bookshelf.

Books rained down, and I caught a glimpse of Millie diving for the key, but Rusty was already back on his feet.

Tossing the books off me, I leaped up in a cacophony of cascading books, just as Rusty swung the crowbar toward me once more. I dodged, and twisting around, managed to land a clawed punch to his side.

Rusty barely even flinched. He shoved me hard. I stumbled into the table, sending papers and dust flying everywhere. He was back on Millie in a second, ripping the key from her grasp, but I tackled him and wrested the crowbar from his paws.

The struggle was raw and chaotic, two badgers locked in a fight that neither was willing to lose. The safe loomed behind us, a silent witness to the madness, but we were too caught up to care.

And then, just as Rusty yanked back the crowbar free and raised it high, the sound of a whistle cut through the noise, followed by the wail of sirens and the unmistakable flash of red and blue lights spilling in through the broken windows.

Rusty froze, his eyes widening in sudden panic. The police. Someone must have tipped them off, or maybe the noise was enough to draw attention. Either way, we were out of time.

“You brought the cops?” Rusty growled, shoving me back, his rage now mixed with desperation.

“Not me,” I snapped, backing away. “But I’m not sticking around to find out who did.”

Millie grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. “We have to go—now!”

Rusty hesitated, glancing at the safe, then at us, weighing his options. He growled in frustration, tossed the crowbar aside, and bolted down the hall. We followed, ducking through dark rooms and cluttered corridors as the sirens grew louder.

We burst out the back door, rain pelting us as we sprinted through the overgrown garden. I glanced back, catching a glimpse of Rusty disappearing into the trees as the flashing lights of police cars skidding to a halt at the front gate.

We didn’t stop until we were a couple blocks away, breathless and soaked, hiding in the shadows of an old shed that smelled like mold and neglect.

“That was too close,” she panted. Her fur was mussed and her jacket askew. “We almost had it.”

“Yeah,” I said, wiping rain from my eyes, heart still pounding. “But now it’s a crime scene. And Rusty’s not going to give up that easy.”

"And the key! I don't have it! It must still be on the floor in the library!" A dark rage simmered deep in her eyes, but she turned and stormed into the night before I could ask any questions. All I heard was her harsh voice call out, "The old railroad bridge, tomorrow night!" before she vanished into the darkness.

I slid my hand into my pocket, the adrenaline still buzzing under my skin even as the cool rain sank into my fur. My claws curled around a cold metal object in my pocket.

We were digging up trouble, all right, and the hole was only getting deeper.

But at least, I had the key.

Click here for Part 5: The Lock and the Lie!

Digging Up Trouble Part 3: Stripes & Shadows

Click here for Part 1!

Part 3: Stripes & Shadows

The Barrow estate loomed like a bad memory against the night sky, its jagged roofline cutting through the rain. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the sagging walls and shattered windows for a split second before plunging everything back into darkness. It was the kind of house that didn’t just keep secrets—it swallowed them whole.

I waited near the overgrown gate, my coat soaked through and my patience wearing thin. The estate had a way of making the hair on the back of your neck stand up, like something was watching from the shadows. The wind howled through the cracks in the stone, carrying whispers of long-forgotten things. The place reeked of mildew, rot, and the faintest hint of something metallic—like the scent of old coins or dried blood.

Millie arrived quietly, slipping through the gate with the kind of grace that comes from a life spent avoiding trouble, even if she was knee-deep in it. She wore a sleek black raincoat, and despite the weather, not a single tuft of fur was out of place. She nodded a silent acknowledgment and held up the brass key we’d found at the station.

“You sure about this?” I asked, more out of habit than caution. We were well past the point of backing out.

“The key goes to something in there,” she said, eyes locked on the house as she ignored my question. “We need to figure out what. Sooner than later.”

We approached the front door, a grand, warped thing with carvings that had faded into something unrecognizable. Time and rain had tarnished the brass of the ancient doorknob to a sickly green, but it was unlocked. With a soft click, the door creaked open, and the house exhaled a breath of stale, damp air that seemed to wrap around us.

As we entered, I flicked on my old flashlight, the weak beam barely cutting through the shadows.

Inside, the hallway stretched out like the throat of some great beast, lined with peeling wallpaper and dim sconces that reflected back the weakly flickering light from my flashlight. I’d been in plenty of bad places, but this one felt alive—like every shadow held a secret just waiting to pounce.

She stepped in first, her eyes darting to the faded paintings and shattered vases that littered the floor. The kind of things you’d see in a once-proud place, now brought low by time and neglect.

“Where do we start?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Wherever this leads,” she said, pulling out another map. It looked the same as the one from earlier—weathered beige paper covered with hastily scrawled markings that looked vaguely like the outline of a house. The top of the paper was labeled "Barrow House."

"Find that in your uncle's safety deposit box too?" I drawled.

"Mhmm." She didn't offer any more information than that.

Of course. She was exactly the kind of badger who would withhold key information from her hired detective until the last minute. I shouldn't be so surprised.

badger detective with a flashlight investigating inside an old house

She held it up to the light, tracing a path that led from the front hall to a room near the back of the house—a study or library, if I had to guess. “He marked this spot. Could be a hidden safe, or maybe just another piece of the puzzle.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, irritated. How many maps had her uncle left? But it was too late to back out now, and not worth picking a fight. Besides, my bank account was calling her money's name–and rent was calling mine. Not to mention, my curiosity had me itching to dig.

We moved cautiously, our footsteps muffled by ancient carpets layered with thick dust. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a warning. The walls seemed to close in, the dim light casting long, twitching shadows that danced like ghosts at the edge of our vision.

We reached the room marked on the map; its door hung half off its hinges. Inside, the remnants of an old study lay scattered—a broken desk, toppled bookshelves, papers strewn about as if someone had torn through it in a hurry. The windows were cracked, letting in just enough moonlight to make the mess look even worse.

“Looks like we weren’t the first ones here,” I muttered, nudging an overturned chair with one claw.

Millie moved to the fireplace, studying the soot-stained mantle. “Someone must have been looking for something,” she said, turning over a half-burned piece of paper. “But they didn’t find it.”

I was about to ask whether she knew this for a fact or whether it was just supposition, when a noise echoed from the hallway—a low, deliberate creak that wasn’t the wind. We both froze, like two badgers cornered in their den, and every one of my instincts screamed that we weren’t alone.

I glanced at her, and she nodded, her face set. We moved to the edge of the doorway, peering out into the darkened hall. There was a figure—a shadow slipping from room to room, searching.

“Who else knows about this place? About this treasure?” I whispered, gripping the doorframe. "Or those maps?" I sensed that if she wasn't lying about something, she had at least omitted some crucial details.

“No one!” she exclaimed with wide eyes. “But if they’re here, they’re not just sightseeing.”

We peered through the darkness, hoping to remain invisible, as the figure moved closer, each step slow and deliberate. It was a badger, big and burly, dressed in dark clothes that blended with the shadows. He carried a crowbar, his movements purposeful, like he was planning to tear the house apart one room at a time.

“That’s Rusty,” she hissed, barely audible. “He works for—”

“Yeah, I know who he works for,” I cut her off. Rusty was muscle for hire, and he didn’t do subtle. If he was here, that meant trouble was right on our heels.

We ducked back into the study, my mind racing. We had the key, but whatever it unlocked was still hidden. And now we had competition, someone who didn’t mind breaking things—or badgers—to get what he wanted.

“We need to get upstairs,” she said, voice urgent. “Whatever my uncle hid, it’s got to be here somewhere. I don't see anything in this room, but there might be one or two floors up.”

I nodded, scanning the room one last time before we slipped out and aimed toward the stairs. Rusty had vanished into a parlor a few doors down, but we still tiptoed. I desperately hoped not to run into him.

The stairs creaked under our weight, and every step felt like a countdown. The house was a maze of forgotten rooms and dead ends, and I knew Rusty wasn’t far behind, tearing through the place like a badger that had sniffed out fresh prey.

We reached the landing, pausing at a heavy wooden door that was locked, just like she’d said. It stood directly above the study, and exactly in the spot marked on the map.

Millie tried the key but it was too small for the lock, so I pulled out my lockpick set and carefully set to work while she kept watch. I found that even though I needed to hear the lock mechanism, I was instead listening for the sound of Rusty’s heavy steps.

With a final twist, the lock gave way, and the door swung open, revealing a small, hidden library that looked untouched by time or thieves. Books filled the shelves built on every wall, and a table and chairs filled the center of the room. And in this room, nestled in the back, was an old safe, its surface covered in dust but still intact.

She looked at me, hope and fear mingling in her eyes. “This has to be it.”

But before we could move, the sound of splintering wood echoed down the hall.

"I know you're here," Rusty's muffled voice growled as he stomped down the hall toward us. So much for remaining unseen.

Whatever was in that safe, it had better be worth it.

Click here for Part 4: Claw to Claw!

book cover image for digging up trouble with picture of a noir-style badger detective standing in the rain

Digging Up Trouble Part Two: Burrowed Clues

Click here to read Part 1: Trouble In Fur!

Part Two: Burrowed Clues

The old train station wasn’t the best spot to hang out at night, and it was a strange place to have a meeting any time of day. I'd just heard the midnight train rattle through, the last one until tomorrow morning. It wasn't in the safest neighborhood, and certainly wasn't a place I'd expect a whisker like her to visit. Rich dames usually had their own cars. Or used the station in the nice part of town.

My footsteps echoed in the empty platform, though the rain pounding on the roof created a soft, constant thrum that filled the silence. It was only punctuated by the occasional squeak of a critter or a gust of wind from outside. Overhead fluorescent lights flickered over empty benches, catching graffiti tags and the faint reflection of neon signs blinking outside. The bleach-smelling station was clean and orderly, but deserted, as if time had paused between the last train and the next.

I spotted Millie standing near the timetable board, her eyes fixed on the rafters high above. She didn’t turn when I approached, but her ears flicked at the sound of my wet paws padding across the floor. I gave my coat a quick shake, sending droplets scattering.

“You’re punctual,” she said, still staring at the ceiling.

“You’re lucky,” I replied, brushing the last of the rain off my hat. “So what are we doing in an empty station at midnight?”

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes as sharp as broken glass, and pulled a folded piece of paper from her crocodile skin clutch–stained burgundy, of course. “I found this when I emptied out my uncle’s old safety deposit box.” She turned to face me and held out the scrap of paper. “It’s an old map of the station. Hand-drawn. And see that mark?” She pointed to a small X scribbled roughly where we were standing. 

I studied the map, tracing the lines with a claw. But the X wasn’t just randomly placed—it was marked on a spot where the ceiling met the wall, almost hidden from view. And if the map was accurate, then I should be able to see the spot from where we stood.

"There," Millie said. She pointed up toward the ceiling where a small piece of plywood had been nailed to the wall exactly the map indicated.

“So what’s the big deal?” I asked, handing it back. "It's a piece of plywood. An old repair. Nothing more."

“That X marks something my uncle hid,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “I think it’s a clue to whatever’s buried at the Barrow estate, but it’s out of my reach.”

I followed her gaze to the rafters, where the plywood blended in with the station around it, a long-forgotten repair now dusty and tattered with age. It was a good twenty feet up, just out of reach unless you had a ladder—or claws and a knack for climbing.

“How can you be sure something’s still up there?” I asked, keeping my voice casual, though the gears in my head spun. "What if someone took it already?"

“Because no one else knows about this map,” she said, tucking it back into her coat. “My uncle was careful—paranoid, even. Whatever he stashed up there, he didn’t want it found easily.”

“You sure about this? Could be nothing.” I was reluctant to make the climb without some reassurance this wasn't a wild goose chase. 

Mille looked at me, eyes dark and determined. “Or it could be everything.”

I shrugged, but my gut told me she was right. There was something hidden there. The map with the X and the plywood in exactly the same spot—it was too much of a coincidence.

I found a narrow support column, slick but sturdy, and hoisted myself up. My claws gripped the metal, and I moved carefully along the beam until I reached the plywood. It was rotted around the edges and gave way with a bit of force, revealing a small metal box wedged inside a small gap in the wall.

She'd been right.

Slipping the box into my pocket, I carefully climbed back down. "There was something there," I told her. Her eyes widened as I handed her the box, no bigger than a pocket watch case, tarnished and sealed tight.

She pressed the button latch and it clicked open, revealing a single object inside: a small, brass key, ancient and worn, with an intricate design etched along the shaft. It was the kind of key that opened more than just a door—it unlocked secrets.

“That what you were hoping for?" I asked, trying to gauge her reaction.

She held it up in the light, a spark of excitement flashing in her eyes before she buried it beneath a cool, calculating gaze. “This is it. The key to whatever my uncle hid at the estate. If we get there first, we get it all.”

The word "first" rang in my ears. Did that mean someone else was looking for this treasure? What exactly was I getting myself into?

I watched her, trying to read the truth behind her eyes. She’d gotten me this far, but now we had a key, a map, and more questions than answers. And if the next stop was the Barrow estate, the real trouble was just beginning.

“Meet me at the estate tomorrow night,” she said, slipping the key into her coat. “Same time. And bring your penchant for sniffing out clues, Detective. We’ve got work to do.”

She started to walk away but I held out a paw. "Payment first, whisker. A train station is one thing, but a haunted house at midnight is something else entirely." 

A silky laugh echoed in the empty train station as she slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew an envelope stuffed with cash. 

"Just be there," she said.

I watched her walk away, the sound of her steps fading into the empty station. I’d been hired for jobs before, but this one had a feeling I couldn’t shake—a mix of desperation, mystery, and the kind of danger that felt like tufts of fur being yanked out of your tail. 

We weren't just digging up valuables. 

We were digging up trouble.

Click here for Part 3: Stripes & Shadows!

The Fog: A Poem

I like to go for walks, and while I know people are afraid of the woods and trees and whatnot (???), I am not and have never been. I love the woods, even in the dark, even in storms. The woods are familiar and comfortable and safe to me.

That said, the wood does have dangers. Just like cities and small towns and outer space.

Humans are fragile. Gotta take care of yourself, right?

I wrote this poem about the branches of trees stretching out without leaves, the sound of the wind, the feeling that something could be there—you just can’t see it.

Happy October!

The Fog

Who knows what hides in the fog?
Maybe nothing.
But the naked arms of a tree
reaching out to touch
your golden curls.
Maybe nothing.
But a warm breath
on the back of your neck
from a friendly breeze.
Maybe nothing.
But the eerie whining
of the wind
through a rocky crevice.

Maybe nothing…