Mr. Ulysses seemed an ordinary man pushing the far end of his fifties. He waved to his neighbours on his way to the grocer’s, read his newspaper on the porch in the mornings, and fished in the afternoons.
You could almost overlook the bullet holes in the door of the seaplane if you didn’t know they were there. The guns in the library and the cultural artifacts–Egyptian, Mayan, Mesopotamian–lining the halls seemed the harmless trinkets of a collector.
But on dark autumn nights, when he told his stories, everyone remembered that Mr. Ulysses was far from ordinary.
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Ted Strutz for providing the prompt photo!
Word Count: 99