“Good news, Mr. Sloane. I’ve just discovered some fingerprints we originally missed. Once I get these back to the lab, we should be able to positively identify your daughter’s killer.”
The man locked the door, drew his pistol, and said, “Bad news, Detective. I lied about being the victim’s father.”
Alexander Key teaches high school when not leaping tall buildings in a single bound.
I wandered out of the house, naked beneath the leather jacket imbued with your musky scent. Wet footsteps followed me down the path to the pond. I settled on our boulder and sipped the coffee you refused to drink.
When the sun rose, I dialed 911 to report your murder.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
I didn’t tell my latest wife Mary about my previous wives until after we were married. Sooner would have tainted the mood of our nuptials.
My previous wives all died in tragic accidents.
Mary was upset. She had a tragic accident too. Her gun went off while pointing at me.
Joe Malone is living in a mud hut in South Sudan. Read more from him at http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.
It would eventually come up after a few dates, the women wanting to know family details.
“You poor thing, so sad your mother died during childbirth.”
“Yes, sad,” I’d reply, and save the sadder story that my father is in jail for blowing her head off in the delivery room.
Jerri Clayton is a freelance writer/editor and also works full time at Southern New Hampshire University as a copywriter and editor of fundraising communications. Jerri received her MFA in nonfiction from Southern New Hampshire University. She is concurrently dabbling in fiction, working on a series of essays about runners, and continues revising her memoir, In the Long Run. Visit her website: JerriClayton.com.
Cutting flesh was not as easy as he had thought it would be. It dragged. But there was another hand guiding his, and a voice
whispering; telling him what to do. He listened carefully to that other as the rain dripped from the rafters of the warehouse
onto his sins.
Anya Carpzov read English Literature and Drama at Exeter University. She also has a degree in Law from London University. Her first novel, The Mental Hospital, was published in 2008. She writes for Ether Books and has recently produced a book of short stories entitled Ten Minute Tales. She is a member of the Society of Authors.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of your husband,” said the cop.
“But it was all his fault!”
“What did your husband say to you when you woke him up this morning?”
He said, “Where am I, Trixie?”
“And that upset you enough to shoot him?”
“My name is Margo.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has nearly 60 short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
The key suspect in the case was Mrs. Kee, an old granny, always angry and grumpy. Homicide had taken place; an innocent sunflower had been stepped on. She had the perfect motive: she hated anything happy and colourful.
The foot smashing had a perfect imprint of her silk slippers, size 6.
Today’s story was submitted by Jason Wiradharma.
“It was the gardener! J’accuse!”
“Uh huh,” said the unimpressed homicide detective. “On what grounds, ma’am?”
“My husband was killed with a garden hoe last night, was he not?”
“Uh huh. But the gardener says you just hired him this morning. Off a street corner.”
“The filthy beggar lies! J’accuse!”
This story was based on the prompt “the gardener” at TypeTrigger.
He came in the night and had his way, leaving evidence in the trunk. Yet, by popped tire and flipped car, he woke to find her gone.
Through the trees he ran, catching fleeting sight of pale gown. Swallowed by the dark, he found only silence, and her cold embrace.
Born in the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia, J. Chris Lawrence spent much of his life traveling, exploring the various cultural facets of American life. With a love for dark fiction, he fancies himself a writer, and hopes to make a profession of it. He currently lives in Georgia with his wife and two sons. Find out more at jchrislawrence.com or follow him on Facebook at facebook.com/JCLFiction
It had been snowing for hours, days, weeks. I stood in the window, gazing out at my quiet suburban neighbourhood, a world set on Mute.
I could still hear his last breath inside my head, even from beneath the snow. By the time it melted, I’d be far, far away.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “on mute.”