I took his measure, as was my practise.
A calm demeanour, but behind that, an absence. A void where emotion or perhaps empathy should have been.
I sat down opposite him.
“Hello Detective.” He grinned. A predator, used to being in control.
It was going to be a long night.
Locating a missing stiletto was the key to solving a heinous crime.
The prime suspect had a closet dedicated exclusively to footwear.
Finally, the broody detective in charge found a pair of shoes that matched the bloody footprints in the parlor, but only after a great deal of sole searching.
I never expected this when I left work early.
Two black women’s shoes and a stained blouse create landmarks across a trail of red smears.
“Daddy! I was playing dress up and mommy made chicken’s fingers and I got my own ketchup.”
Smiling, I kiss my daughter’s precious, tomato-covered cheek.
Hot metal ripped through warm flesh and I shuddered and sank to the ground. Her beautiful steely blue eyes stared mockingly at me.
“That’s your last shot!” I warned.
She smiled and blew me a kiss with those sultry red lips of hers and said, “No sweetie, the last straw.”
Connell Wayne Regner was inspired by Chris Griglack’s “femme fatale” in Love At Last SIght. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“Hand it over,” he snarls again, the gun still leveled at me.
I stand firm, gripping the briefcase, a defiant smirk on my face. “No.” I can tell the gun is not loaded.
BLAM! Blood, a burning in my shoulder. The briefcase drops to the ground.
I’ve been wrong before.
Chris Burdett is a husband, father, writer, photographer, and college English instructor who lives in Loganville, GA.
Detective Cork eyed the plate of steak-and-mushroom pie, his stomach gurgling in anticipation. “Blarney, you havin’ sum?”
His partner shook his head, too preoccupied with the case.
Gold coins, a short man in green… What was the connection?
Outside, the sun broke through, painting the sky with a brilliant rainbow.
Jordan Sevenhuysen recently spent two months travelling through Europe. This story was inspired by his time in Ireland.
It wasn’t so much the ghastly smile that turned my stomach as the whiskey vapors souring the air in the filthy bedroom.
His eyes were locked in a vacant stare.
What did he see?
“Can we move the body, Detective?”
Eyes riveted to his, I stepped aside as death triumphed.
Cyndi Pauwels writes suspense novels, short stories and essays. Now if only she could sell something…
http://cpatlarge.blogspot.com/
It’s Friday. I hate Fridays.
Some Fridays I have nothing to do, so I sleep through lunch and gag down cheap booze at the diner all evening.
Today, I have a job. It’s a freebie. I hate myself.
She’s a brunette. Thinks her husband’s lying to her. She’s probably right.
It’s Thursday. I hate Thursdays.
Thursdays are when the dames come, sobbing, pleading, and looking for a pro-bono Private Eye.
On Thursdays, I say “know” more often than a philosophy student who just learned about epistemology, but without the “k” and the “w”.
Today, I surprise myself. I say yes.