Mystery
Punchbowl
Punchbowl John stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway on the fifth floor. The carpet was old and thin with brown stains here and there that break up the pattern of blue, gray, and red squares. It always reminded him of the hotel hallways in movies from the ‘70s. He turned down the hallway where his apartment sat near the end, between the fifty-something cat lady who never spoke to anyone and the young couple who don’t seem to understand what time decent people go to bed. Mrs. Beamon, who occupies the apartment across the hall with her thirty-five-year-old son, whom she swears will be famous one day, was sitting in the hall as usual.
By A. Scott Harlow5 years ago in Fiction
The Attic
“I think I regret this move. If this is how summer is going to be, I might just have a heat stroke one of these days,” I complained to my wife, Leigh-Anne, who was unbuckling her seat belt from the passenger side. She chuckled, “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Three months back, my wife and I decided that it would be good for us to move because we were bored in Minnesota and wanted a fresh start. She thought it would be a good idea to live in Nevada because there were many job opportunities at casinos, and with my background in Sales and Marketing, I would be a shoo-in. She found a nice, two-room rental house online for us to view. The landlord wanted to meet with us so we could take a look around — which leads us to the present time.
By Anisah Moss5 years ago in Fiction
Nowhere to Hide
It was Fall in Seattle. I gazed out my window, chugging down the last ounces of my coffee, breathing in and out, as I mentally prepared for my morning run. I walked out my door, shoes in hand, as is my morning routine. As I sat on my door sill, I beamed with pride. I had worked all summer on creating an oasis on this porch. My rocking chairs stained a dark Kona colored swayed ever so slightly in the wind. My hanging planters, pouring over with plants, were hard to get started but were now in full bloom. I took all this in, as I laced one shoe and then the other, popped my Air Pods in my ears, slowly stood and stretched. This warmup was important because I hated running but found that if I eased my mind and body in it became somewhat enjoyable. I trotted down the 3 short steps to my walkway before bouncing up and down warming my legs up and flailing my arms about. I wonder what the neighbors thought of my morning routine. Because I know they are watching. When you live in a neighborhood full of seniors and inquisitive children, you knew everyone was watching the single lady in the little yellow house. Especially Mr. Charles, who I wave at as I begin my journey to the right down my walkway. He edges his lawn every morning around the same time. And every morning I greet him with a quick wave and go about my run. I run half of mile down my street and turn right, where I run a full two miles before having to turn again. This two-mile stretch is my favorite. The streets are lined with trees that remind me of an ocean sunset. The colors of the leaves are perfect shades of crimson, buttery yellows and pumpkin. I run, taking deep breaths, inhaling the colors of Fall, getting lost in the beauty and the two miles is behind me in no time. I turn the corner run a little further and make a right for the hardest part of the run. Two miles, entirely uphill. I have to gather everything in me to make it. During this time, I make a mental check list of my day, mentally adding and scratching things off my to do list. Today is laundry day. I will go home, strip off my running clothes, throw them in the laundry. Ah! I need laundry detergent. As I recall my run on yesterday, throwing my clothes into the washing machine and reaching for an empty detergent container. I immediately add “go grocery shopping to the to do list”. These thoughts have distracted me as I climb the two miles and turn onto my street for the last quarter mile of my run. As I round the corner, I see Ms. Andrews out walking Mr. Andrews, her feisty and very cute yorkie. Yes, she named her dog Mr. Andrews. She vigorously waves me down, which is unusual. As I get closer to her, I pop one air pod out still jogging in place.
By C L Richardson5 years ago in Fiction
The Mystery of Christopher Topper's Head
The police were almost certain that the package contained the remains of Christopher Topper. Almost certain, because they never found his head and without that, the identification always had to remain slightly hazy. It was 1959 and there was no such thing as DNA testing, no means of linking one Topper with another, so they did the best they could with what they had, which proved to be a pair of legs, a torso, and a pair of arms, all dismembered and neatly arranged in a package that was then wrapped in brown paper and left at Warrington train station.
By Sophie Jackson5 years ago in Fiction
Big Boys Don't Cryo
“Did any of you guys order anything in the last few days?” yelled Saskia as she attempted to manoeuvre around the box in the hallway so she could reach the front door. Its presence made getting through a habitually cluttered space even more precarious, and she swore loudly as she whacked her ankle on the mudguard on Tom's bike. That would be another gripe to be added to Saskia's list at the flat meeting that evening. If she could be bothered to host it in this heat.
By Bryan Hallett5 years ago in Fiction
Spirits.
It was not the contents of the dream that haunted me; it was the familiarity of it all. Every crevice of the room felt to be lived-in, not just by its natural deterioration from years of neglect, but as though I’d been squatting in it for days on-end. The Sun slipping through the cracks of the ceiling made it all-the-more surreal; it was dusk and I didn’t want to be there. Perhaps this torn-up warehouse was never to be a final stopping-point, or even a pitstop, but nevertheless there was not an end in sight.
By J.C. Traverse5 years ago in Fiction
"Emancipation Of Uncle Samson"
R “Emancipation Of Uncle Samson” He suddenly jerked awake, sweating profusely. He sat still on the bed mopping at nothing in particular, even the walls opposite him, he was not seeing. 15 minutes later, after a cup of cold water and visit to the toilet, he went back to sleep.
By Philip Ebuluofor5 years ago in Fiction
