The Short Stories of Waldo


It was Spring in the Dolomites of Italy. I was able to supplement my meager meals of hare and pine nuts with some fresh trout from a nearby stream. It was a delicious change.

During one of those meals I heard the crack of twigs somewhere near me. It was the unmistakable sound of footsteps. How could anyone have traced me to this specific location? My train trips, bus routes and hiking should have confused anyone looking for me; even the international police.

It was too late to run. I sat there finishing a mouthful of pine nuts when he appeared. He was a small man with a backpack and a few days of growth on his face. He seemed startled to see me. He spoke first.

“Hello” he said with a clear Bostonian accent.

I became very agitated inside when I realized he was an American…

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