When we found a body under the conservatory, my husband and I disagreed on what to do.
We should call the police (me).
No, definitely not (him).
We inherited the house from his parents. His dad, actually, who’s living in a care home.
Now I know why we don’t visit.
Laura Besley writes short fiction in the precious moments that her children are asleep. Her fiction has appeared online, in print and in various anthologies. She tweets at @laurabesley.
“Where’s your darling husband?” asked my neighbour, peeking above our shared hedge.
“Travelling,” I replied, juggling the parcels I held while struggling to open the boot of my car.
“Oh? Where to?”
I wiped one of the parcels that was slightly blood-stained and pushed it further into the boot. “Everywhere.”
AJ Joseph occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe and tweets very short stories as @sonobeus.
She emptied the contents of the tiny paper envelope into his coffee along with milk and sugar.
Repositioned the to-go cup by his packed lunch until it looked casual.
As he gathered up his things and pecked her cheek, she debated whether to say “I love you,” or maybe “Goodbye.”
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
Something wasn’t right.
Detective Tift examined his suspect. Newlywed Scott Blanchett scratched the dried blood flaking his wrists, sobbing all the while.
This case was clear-cut. They had enough evidence.
“Why don’t you just admit it?” Tift asked.
A pause. A sniffle.
“I can’t admit to what I can’t remember.”
Autumn Lala lives in Ohio, U.S.A. where she writes fiction and poetry while dabbling in nonfiction and screenwriting. While earning her M.A. in Rhetoric & Composition and teaching college sophomores English, she occasionally works as a freelance editor and graphic designer. See more at autumnlala.com.
The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
The search party had given up hope of finding any survivors of the crash. The island reeked of death and the heat was intolerable.
The only survivor had been following them for days, hunger gnawing at his belly. He attacked them that night.
Three weeks later, another search party arrived.
When not writing short fiction, Daniel teaches English in Poland.
See more at facebook.com/ponglish1.
Carolyn shows up agitated, out of kilter. We feign concern and lean in for what could possibly be a delicious story.
“Mother is in jail,” says Carolyn. “She shot the neighbor’s hamster.”
We gasp. “Jail? For that stupid hamster?”
“The problem is,” says Carolyn, “she was aiming for the neighbor.”
Linda Saldaña lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and would like to assure everyone that no actual hamsters were harmed in the creation of this story.
The knock at the door came sooner than she expected. Two police officers looking concerned. Seems her boyfriend Tommy was found dead in a ditch. With damage to her car and blood on the hood, they wanted to know her whereabouts last night.
“I wasn’t cheating” was all she said.
NT Franklin writes after his real job hoping one day to have it be his real job. He writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction. When not reading or writing short stories, you might find him fishing or solving crossword puzzles. His work has been published in Fiction on the Web, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, among others.
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.
Four AM, there’s the garbage truck. Every other morning it wakes me up. I wonder if he’s as tired as I am.
Hopefully he doesn’t notice how big that darn bag is. It’s heavier than I had expected. I always told her she should diet.
Then I forgot the T.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the early yet dark hills of West Virginia