Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Criminal.

"Little Black Book"
Little Black Book Written by Charlotte Simon
By Charlotte Simon5 years ago in Criminal
The Langston's
In the year 1961 $20,000 would make a world of difference to a newly made widow. Bills were piling on the kitchen counter of Mrs. Langston’s quaint cottage home on one of the quietest streets in Delroy, Mississippi. Mr. Langston left a line of debt in his place five months after his passing. His death was still a mystery to Mrs. Langston. One moment he was standing by her outside of their favorite diner on 3rd St., Willaminas. A split-second later Mrs. Langston’s scream rang out on the busy street as her husband, fell to the ground next to her feet gasping for air. Blood leaked from his mouth and covered his white tee-shirt as well as her periwinkle stilettos. He took his last breath on the way to the hospital, all alone. It hurt Mrs. Langston that she was unable to ride with her husband in the ambulance. She wanted to hold his hand, the same hand she held since she was fourteen. She wanted to let him know she was by his side, just as she promised. She took that vow over twenty years ago where I love you’s were exchanged, in front of that same diner. Most importantly, she wanted to ask if he saw who was responsible for putting him on his deathbed. He was all alone and now so was she.
By Ashley5 years ago in Criminal
Catspaw
Sometimes the teeth of the gift horse are rotten. But that doesn’t matter when you desperately need a ride. The thick, heavy envelope showed up one day, full of 100-dollar bills, a lifeline against the circling sharks. With the 20 grand, she could pay them off, move town, put a deposit on a small apartment for them. It would mean a fresh start. She thanked God and her daughter, and didn’t ask questions.
By Georgia Campbell5 years ago in Criminal
The Birder
I know I shouldn’t snoop, but nothing delights me more than peering into the private rituals of other people’s lives. Even a scribbled grocery list or water bill is exciting - it’s a secret simply in that it wasn’t meant for me. I like knowing what people do and how they function outside of the persona they project.
By Emily Gallant 5 years ago in Criminal
The Shadowed Past
Frank walked in the door, past their lonely fern, and immediately second-guessed all the funeral arrangements he’d just made. He was physically and emotionally exhausted, torn between calling it a night or downing a 5- hour Energy to get some work done. The last thing he needed was his wife starting in on him before he barely cleared the front door.
By Rayden Raines5 years ago in Criminal
Prophecy Girl
How much time has to pass for a crime to become less significant? A decade? More? How to you decide when murder, rape, assault, theft, is no longer worth investigating? Some people seem to be able to leave the past where they have buried it. I was never someone who could do that. The past is what makes us who we are both the good of it and the bad. Is it not the responsibility of those of us here on this earth now, to weed out the crimes of the past and hold those who committed them accountable, even if they too are gone? Of course, I suppose it could be argued that it's harder for a person like me to let go, when they are surrounded by the noise of other people’s pasts and by their secrets.
By Clara Elizabeth Hamilton Orr Burns5 years ago in Criminal
Albert Foundling
The man in the black coat had been sitting at the lamppost for over an hour. His body had grown tired of the bench, so now he stood, stretching the muscles in his legs to warm them up. His leather bag lay snug across his chest. With a single tap, he ashed his tobacco pipe, rolled it in its canvas pouch, and returned it to its spot within the bag. The leather was worn. The tooling at the edge had softened. The face of it was a darker shade of brown than the rest. But nothing on the man, the pouch, the pipe, the black coat, or the leather bag was as tattered and worn as what he brought forth next. From his bag, the man brought out a black book. It was the most faded version of black there was. Almost translucent in the man’s ashen hands. He pulled the band from its cover and opened the binding. His eyes studied the handwriting on the first page. His fingers traced old ink and water stains. It was a wonder the cover and page were still intact with the amount of obvious wear of this book. He fumbled a few pages over until only a few fresh lines sat on the page.
By Mark Apel5 years ago in Criminal
Kitty and the Colorado Cult.
While recuperating from a nasty automobile accident back in the mid-nineties I came across a physical manipulation therapy called Rolfing. My massage therapist at the time suggested I might try it so she gave me the number a colleague had forwarded to her of a couple who practiced Rolfing and were looking for clients. Now Rolfing has been called quackery by some and I will not vouch for it personally, but the woman and her partner who administered it were quite fascinating people, perhaps a bit too fascinating upon reflection.
By Grimm Culhane5 years ago in Criminal
Too Many Spy Movies
From the couch, I could hear the muted thunk of something colliding with my front door. It surprised me because I wasn’t expecting any packages; hadn’t ordered anything in quite a while. I was saving to move out of my depressing two-bedroom apartment. I often pictured a time, long before I moved in, where the paint was fresh on the once-white-walls and the appliances were new. Now, the walls were a sickly beige hue and my dishwasher worked only if I kicked it a few good times. My only reprieve was that the window in the living room faced a shallow wooded area, separating the building from a park. Instead of looking at parked cars, I sometimes watched the deer, birds and the occasional fox interact with nature while I had my morning coffee. So yeah, I cut back on my spending — i.e., no more Amazon shopping sprees.
By porshamj5 years ago in Criminal
Pleasantwood Valley
Pleasantwood Valley – could any area of this city have a more ironic name? For as long as you can remember, Pleasantwood Valley has been worthy of many other names, but not that one. Factory buildings, old and generally unused, as far as the eye can see; a layer of smog giving a grey hue to the sky, deceptively transparent from a distance; shady characters around every corner, from the large and burly to the demure and stealthy – all willing to either con their next victim out of time and money or threaten the poor fool outright.
By Dominic Morris5 years ago in Criminal
Vestus Virum Facit
I couldn’t believe this happened to me either, but bear with me ok? So it’s a completely regular Tuesday. It’s not especially hot outside, it’s jacket weather, there are clouds in the sky but they’re not remarkable; the sun is there, sometimes.
By Amelia Lane5 years ago in Criminal
The Man With No Name
As the grey light appeared in between the chimneys, The Man With No Name’s eyelids gently opened as the brightness targeted him like a sniper. London’s chimneys were dancing in the grey light, occupying the place where rays of light were supposed to be. The smell of soot and coal permeated the air aggressively, attacking the pleasurable smells, dispersing and suffocating them. The flight of a few seagulls in the distance, too far to distinguish, and the machinations of industry sounded out their groans and grunts, as they stretched their metallic limbs at the sight of their masters. The city was coming alive, and No Name was as well.
By Jaime Calle Moreno5 years ago in Criminal