Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Criminal.
Mailbox #36
The wind blew the yellow stained curtains, letting in spots of sunlight into the small, hazily lit, loft. She rolled over on her floor-ridden mattress to face the broken window. The children across the street had sent a baseball through it while waiting for the bus a few days ago. She was thankful that it was summer, giving her more time to find the money to pay for the expenses before it became too cold. The light danced across her sheets as it created a rainbow-reflected spectacle. She sighed, sitting up, stretching, and with hesitation, the girl glanced around her apartment. Clothes were thrown around the room, the only furniture spotted was a mattress, a small table, a lamp, and she could still hear the water tap down from the leaky faucet in the bathroom. A younger woman she was, on her own, with nothing to her name but somehow still found the courage to carry on every day. A light yawn woke her up slightly as she rose out of bed and into the kitchen for a glass of water. The kitchen, not spaced out further than a few feet in an open square shape, gave her a sense of accomplishment. She didn't have much, but it was hers. She looked out her perch of a window onto the bright Manhattan streets. Children were running up the street playing hopscotch or jump rope while parents chatted on building steps about the neighborhood gossip. The mailman waved at her from down below, and she gave a kind smile in return. Stepping towards the door, she slipped on her shoes and pulled on a sweatshirt over her messy hair. She grabbed the doorknob to pull but tripped over a small object on the floor. Out of slight frustration, she closed her eyes and hung her head low expecting much worse than the little black book she found lying between her feet. With an inquisitive look on her face, the girl bent down to pick it up. She rubbed her hand over the cover and turned it over a couple of times. It couldn’t have been bigger than a small notepad like the ones she found at the bodega down the street. “Peculiar, “ she whispered to herself. Gently, she opened the book to the first page. It read:
By Elizabeth Staie5 years ago in Criminal
Another sad, happy ending.
"What did he do this time" she asked. My only response was mumbled words as I was struggling to breath. All I could think was "how, how could he do this to me again".. I asked "Mommy I love him, why does he do this to me?".. All she did was stroke her fingers through my hair in silence. How could she respond? Her only advice was to leave him and obviously that never worked before hence the reason I'm still in this predicament. I couldn't bare to leave him, he’s the one who stole my heart but apparently that doesn’t stop him from using my love disguised as forgiveness to hit me again, and again.
By Catelynn West5 years ago in Criminal
The Old Man and The Book
You can tell a great deal about a person by listening to them work on a typewriter. The pace and force with which they strike the keys reveals much about their mood, disposition–even their view of the world. One particularly cold night, slow and steady ticks from a weathered Electromatic bounced around in the dark recesses of a cavernous home library, their dying echoes making the large room feel somehow lonelier than if it were empty.
By Derek Hollenberg5 years ago in Criminal
The Journal of Morrison James
I found it. Well, that’s what I call it when I take things. After years of having my head shrunk, I understood growing up on the cusp of poverty makes you want to hoard things. It makes you turn every little precious thing into a plug for that hole in your heart. So, when I was a teenager, I got hooked on the “five-finger-discount,” as my friend Ben called it. I liked the rush. As I got older, I honed it, part entertainment, part therapy. There is a strange honor in doing it well. I only mark the most deserving people; That guy, the one who spends too much time on his hair, or that woman who spends more money on her nails than she does on her kids. It never felt fair to be the smartest person, the most talented, and yet I could never catch a break. I see all of these gray people passing me with better cars, better houses, stumbling into perfect lives. I know life isn’t fair, but somehow taking a little piece back was all I needed to set the numbers straight.
By Sean Wells5 years ago in Criminal
The Black Book Keeper
Black Book Keeper During the pandemic of 2020, many people lost jobs and businesses lost the ability to sustain themselves. In Brooklyn, Joe was no different times were tough for a 22-year-old living in an apartment with his best friend. Joe and Chris had known each other since they were in diapers and remained close friends their entire lives. Joe was tall and skinny Caucasian man with brown hair and brown eyes. Chris was a short skinny African American man with an adventurous personality.
By heath noble5 years ago in Criminal
The little black book short story
Blood was everywhere, scraped skin peeled from his weak, broken body onto the road. His wailing screams put me in a trance, the light reflecting off his motorcycle pierced my eyes, I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened right before my eyes.
By Anjali Kanda5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter One
Chapter One Amsterdam, 1986 Killing Time. Red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Trim shivered in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosso. This was the evening of the third day. He watched and waited, smoking an hour away, waiting for The Six. Den, Pete, ‘Dog’, Mart, Kev and Ritchie; feral pack animals, careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, wrist-high on Mercedes lacquer.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Three
Chapter Three Seated in a dark corner of The Rode Leeuw, Trim removed his black kid gloves and folded them neatly and placed them upon the tabletop. He took the diary from his coat pocket and opened it at random. He read the familiar passages for several moments. No one had noticed him enter the bar. He knew he should wait, but he needed a drink.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Five
Chapter Five Amsterdam, December 7th Centraal Station was a lonely place at six thirty on a Sunday morning. The newspaper kiosks were not yet open. There were bundles of newspapers stacked against the aluminium security screens tied up with coloured twine. Piles of De Telegraaf, The Sunday Times, Das Welt and all the others. Trim slipped an Express from its stack and leaned back against a screen. He glanced at a few lines about the violence in Amsterdam at the bottom of the front page, before dropping the newspaper to the floor. He would wait for the Sun on Monday. The diary would suffice as reading matter for the journey.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
