Mystery
Terror always tiptoes around
It all started the day Claudia finished her wolf rug. It was a beautiful little rug, just the right size to put on the floor in front of her television set. Start to finish the project had taken her a bit over two months to complete because she had never before done latchhook. It took awhile to master the correct way to hold the hook and to grab the yarn and pull it through the mesh without shredding the yarn. It was a good thing she had purchased extra yarn. But once she got the hang of it, it was fun to watch the image come to life. The completed rug had two wolves on it, one of which was baying at the moon.
By Linda C Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Running Against Time
The windshield wipers screeched at every pass and she was nearly blinded by the glare of the stop lights that reflected off of the wet road. She glanced briefly at the dash. 10 minutes was all she had. She looked at the tightly bundled brown paper box on the passenger seat. A light sweat broke out all over her body as her heart began to thunder in beat with the rain pounding on her car. Her shoulders and legs tensed as her hands gripped the wheel. Damn the red lights.
By Lauren Lovan5 years ago in Fiction
Anxiety
Henry preferred tea in the mornings. Most would think him a coffee drinker like any other person in his profession, needing the caffeine to rouse him properly. But, Henry preferred a nice cup of black tea, plain, without any cream or sugar, as he read the morning newspaper.
By Kayla Crowell5 years ago in Fiction
Brown Paper Packages
Chuck Babcock was not a popular guy. In high school he had been bullied and avoided by practically everyone. He had one friend, Louis Green, but Louis’s family had moved away when they were sophomores. Chuck had some skills though. He was a member of a group of young men who had come to occupy a kind of clichéd niche in modern America. He was now twenty-one and still lived with his mom. His domain was the garage and the basement. The garage was full of tools of all types and the basement was filled with computers and gaming equipment. Chuck’s dad died when he was ten. His mom, Ginny, had given up on Chuck and let him exist in his own domains. For a while she had tried to stay connected with him emotionally by being a ‘nice’ mom, cooking the things he liked to eat, and making sure he had the tools and computer gear he craved, a kind of retail bribery. But Chuck became more and more truculent and sometimes Ginny was scared he would hurt her physically.
By Nancy Brisson5 years ago in Fiction
Before I wake
Am I saying this right?' Her forehead creased as she rubbed her right temple above the dense plastic of her transition glasses. The thick dark brown curls growing in again after she had cut it for the third time this month. She pushed back the teal braids she had gotten two weeks ago. 'They're loose,' she thought as she caught the braid that dangled in front of her lenses. 'Was there something missing?' She wrinkled her nose. The silver stud of her right nose ring tightened against her smoked caramel skin as it was tugged inward. She glanced down at the half-finished entry on a loose piece of lined paper; 'No date...no name; no future,' she sighed exasperated.
By Elaine Barnes 5 years ago in Fiction
The Brown Paper Box
I saw her every Tuesday. I watched her shuffle into my diner exactly at noon, her cool grey, short hair curled in place, same blue argyle knitted sweater. Her orthopedic, bright white sneakers squeaking in every other step. She sat in the same booth, against the east side wall windows, overlooking the prairie. I always gave her a water and cup of black coffee. And I always saw the box.
By Macy Rains5 years ago in Fiction
The Church
You squint as the sun's low rays reflect off the recently fallen snow. You look around and see that you are in a forest, but you are confused about exactly where you are. You look down at your aged hands and your worn clothes. Well, you say clothes, but they are more like rags. Torn and restitched dozens of times over. Your shoes are no better, with the soles, long worn out, and your big toe sticking out of a small hole in the top of the left shoe. The old and tattered leather gloves, the right of which no longer has a thumb, do little to keep your hands warm. Your old, wrinkled hands shake slightly as you bring them up to your face and exhale loudly. A large puff of hot steamy air fogs up the thick bifocal glasses that currently adorn your weathered face. You sigh and remove the spectacles from your face and wipe the moisture away with your scarf. You look at it fondly as you remember your wife’s aged face. Her smile creating even more wrinkles on her beautiful features as she twirls one of her long grey curls. She had given the scarf to you before she passed last year. You sigh once more and place your glasses back on your face. After a moment you relocate the path and begin to walk, trudging through the snow slowly as you breathe heavily. You are tired and your body feels heavy and numb. You want to lay down and fall asleep but something inside you is telling you to keep moving. It urges you forward like the hands of a small child on your back telling you to keep going. It is cold and is getting dark quickly. You urge your legs to move faster, pushing forward toward the town that lay less than a mile away.
By Shannon Murphy5 years ago in Fiction
Someone Shot the Messenger
After a gruelling day at work that left all his muscles tense, even behind his eyes, Daymond returned home. It was a chore to even get out of the soft tan leather of his car. With a slow groan and while using the car door for support, he lifted himself up and shuffled his way to his front door.
By Jeremy McLean5 years ago in Fiction
Middleburg
The murder had been easy, surprisingly so. Adam whistled tunelessly as he puttered around the shop. He refilled the brass holder with business cards and straightened out the stack of “Visit Middleburg” brochures. Outside the antique shop, the light was starting to fail. The days were so short in November. They’d be short in Puerto Rico, too, but they’d also be warm. He hated the cold.
By Diane Helentjaris5 years ago in Fiction
