We were pressed against the back wall behind a tangle of dresses and hangers, the Boone’s Farm in our stomachs rising against the reek of moth balls. Blue and red flashing lights stabbed under the bifold doors, licking my guilty socks.
She took my hand, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
Chip Houser’s short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere. He’s a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop, has an MFA in Creative Writing from UMSL, and thinks cedar is the better option for closets.
The chief of detectives saw one of his precinct’s best undercover cops with the lower part of his face nearly covered with blood.
“What happened to you, Morrissey?”
“I was playing dead for a sting operation, Captain, and then my nose got caught in the zipper of a body bag.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
“Any progress on the kidnapping case?” the captain asked.
“No, sir. We can’t proceed until we have a consultation with Detective Eunice Murphy.”
“Why do you need her help? She’s been retired for years.”
“The ransom note is written in cursive, and nobody on the task force can read it.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.
Having appropriated a sturdy broom from a dockside warehouse, the constable now clung to the edge of the jetty, desperately jabbing downwards. Damned if he was going to let paperwork ruin his evening.
One final thrust and the swift current began tumbling the corpse downriver, the neighbouring precinct’s problem now…
O.L. Humphreys knows little or nothing of police work but considers himself above par in the practical application of brooms. He has previously been published in Terror Tree Pun Book of Horror Stories, Dark Lane Anthology Volume One, and, of course, 50-Word Stories. You can keep up to date with his work on Facebook
A drip from the ceiling splatters onto his forehead.
“His eyes… They open,” is heard in broken English.
A fuzzy recollection of the previous night arises.
A fight with burglars in the hotel room upstairs.
A knife flashed and bodies fell.
Another drip, blood… But whose, and why the handcuffs?
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
The Lime Bandit was finally in handcuffs.
As they tossed him in the police car, they struggled to discover the origin behind his namesake (his crimes were never lime-related at all) but he just laughed.
They would find out soon enough; the strategically hidden tick nests would be mature soon.
Brandon is an undergraduate student with no online presence whatsoever. He’ll start up a webcomic eventually, though. How’s that for dedication?
“One last thing, Officer Markham.”
“Look out for youths wearing baggy trousers. That’s the mark of the Hooligans’ Club!”
“Yes, sir!” Markham strode off on patrol.
The Captain chuckled. Rookies were so gullible!
He felt differently later, while processing the paperwork for seventeen wrongful arrests of baggy-trousered teenagers.
This story is based on the title suggested by Nicholas Barlow.