fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about copycat killers, eyewitnesses testimony, what makes a murderer and more.
Herstory is Our Story
Alright, now breathe! In and out. In and out. My anxiety hasn’t gotten the better of me since law school, but I knew it would be back with a vengeance today. The incident in school lead to a midnight trip to the emergency room where an RN told me I was fine and just low on potassium. She sent me home with a banana and a large bill, but that is a story for a different day. Luckily, I invested in therapy and learned a couple tricks to come back to reality. The anticipation of today alone is shaking my heart and fogging up my lungs. Breathe in, breathe out, A – Anteaters, B-Bingo, C-Cantaloupe, D-Dynamite… I’m here, back in the court room.
By Katie Bolger5 years ago in Criminal
Digging Up Dirt
Twenty-thousand dollars and a little black notebook. That’s what was waiting for me inside a safety-deposit box in Williamsburg, Alabama less than a fortnight after the passing of my great-aunt Winnifred. She’d bequeathed it to me, her favorite nephew, even though she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of me in twenty-eight years.
By Michelle Jensen5 years ago in Criminal
FRAMED
Moonlight streamed in after Harper as the window clicked shut behind her. The shape of her body was outlined softly across the grey carpet, and she watched it disappear as she stepped into the shadow of the wall to her right. It was a bedroom, with an empty canopy bed set in the centre, gauzy white curtains catching in the grey light and puffing out slightly from the small breeze that had entered with her.
By Jules Sherwood5 years ago in Criminal
Breakfast in Bed
It’s Saturday, a day where I sleep in till noon, actually I kind of sleep in every day. It’s been like this since I graduated high school, depression, lack of motivation, who knows. There I am lounging on my bed scrolling through social media waiting till I get hungry enough to motivate me out of bed and fix something for myself. “Mucjisoo way dhacdaa!”, my grandmother shouts from the balcony. I toss my phone to the side and hop out of bed and head towards the living room where the balcony doors lead to. There they are her and grandpa all animated. I wouldn’t dare say they’re arguing about nothing. They’re the most educated people I have ever met. They met in one of the most prestigious universities in Somalia as they were pursuing their doctoral degrees. You can call their romance “love at first observation”. No…okay. Of course, this was before the civil war. After the civil war in Somalia broke out, they were one of millions who decided to pack up and leave as the situation got worse. Their journey for security and hope landed them across the continent over the Atlantic right to a place I call home, Toronto, Canada. Their ‘journey’ was far from glamorous. I’m talking forging passports and sleeping in toilets. Yup, they have quite the story to tell about how they got here. So yeah, I can’t dare say their arguing about NOTHING. In my culture, one of the worst things you can do is invite yourself into a conversation with elders. “Hey, what are you guys talking ab-?”. That’s equivalented to cussing with older folks. “Good morning Awowe and Ayeyo”, I cut them off. “subaax wanaagsan”, they replied in unison. Oh, and yeah, they hate the fact I can’t speak Somali, but of course I can understand “good morning”! I head over to the kitchen since I’m already up, I open the fridge NOT A GODDAMN THING, no eggs, bread, milk, nor cereal. Pretty much all the breakfast essentials. I know my frustration’s not on the food, it’s everything else. I really want to move out, everything at home just ticks me off. I’m turning twenty three this March and it’s about time I get up on my own two feet. But how am I going to accomplish that still in college with absolutely no savings to my name. Not being able to enjoy breakfast is an inconvenience I just can’t mentally handle at this point. What sets me all the way off actually is the voice of my mom saying “warya, did you clean your room?”, or “warya did you-”. The tone behind it is so draining it’s unbelievable. It’s not that I’m disrespectful, entitled, or lazy, okay maybe I am lazy, but as a young adult I don’t believe the conversation between me and my mom should be about chores. Not to sound cringy but what about goals, ideas, or even old stories? I slammed the fridge door so hard it almost fell over. I guess my grandparents were still arguing in the background, they didn’t hear a thing. I walked out of the kitchen towards the front door. Slipped on my shoes grabbed the car keys right off the counter and stepped out. Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing so I just jumped in the car and drove off. I crank the audio compartment up Drake plays, “Gotta watch the time cause it’s flyin right by like I’m outside in the A-M-G”. Usually, I sing along when I play music in the car. Today, I found myself thinking. Ringing in my head even with my music on the highest setting was “mucjisoo way dhacdaa!”, “mucjisoo way dhacdaa!”. What was grandma talking about and why was she saying, “miracles happen!”. I for one am in need of a miracle. A miracle breakfast that is. I turn into the McDonald’s drive thru, “I’ll have a medium ice coffee extra base, a breakfast sandwich... just egg and cheese, and an apple fritter donut… please”. I swipe my credit card, “Thank you!”. As I begin to drive off, I notice I’m not at the McDonald’s I usually go to. Before I even begin to figure where I was, I decided I was going to enjoy my food first. I pull over into the parking lot. I take a long refreshing sip of my ice coffee. Knock…Knock I look up there’s a guy with a gun aimed at my window. Like what the fuck?! Am I really at gunpoint right now?! All masked up I can’t really see his face “roll the window”, he shouts with the gun still aimed at me through the glass. Do I know this person? I’ve had friends in high school that you can say are ‘about that life’, but this is a different level. If you don’t get the picture Toronto, Canada isn’t as it is portrayed. It actually is statistically, one of the most dangerous cities in North America. I roll down the window, “take me to a spot right off jane and finch”, he yelled at me. “You want me to drive you?” I said confused. Mind you my knees are shaking uncontrollably under the steering wheel. “YES!”, he shouts as he walks across the front of the car towards the passenger seat. I had this urge to drive off as he was about to open the door, it seemed too risky. He hops in and proceeds to yell giving me directions as where to go. I follow. The gun is now on his hip. I can’t help but stare at it with my peripheral. We’re headed down a main road, “turn right after these two lights! You’re gonna drop me off there!”. Police sirens go off in the distance from behind us, we’re cruising at about sixty kilometers per hour, all the cars including us clear the way and slow down to the right of the road, the sirens get louder and the cop car finally speeds past. I look over my shoulder for a split second and this guy franticly takes off his seat belt. Yeah, he was wearing a seat belt. What kind of person with a mask and a gun wears a seatbelt? “Fuck that I’m outta here”, he says as he grabs the duffle bag he came in with from under his feet. He Opens the door and casually walks down the sidewalk as if nothing had just happened. I suddenly felt so dizzy, was I holding my breath this whole time? I open the windows and take a deep breath; I drive off slowly as all the cars begin to merge as well. I was staring at the passenger seat from my peripheral for so long my eyes were locked in position and right where this guy was sitting was a black book. I already knew what I was going to do. I was going to be one of those people in movies that are too noisy to keep from harm’s way. I mean I just couldn’t get myself to toss it on the side of the road. It’s my business now, I just want to see what it’s about. I pull into my driveway and park the car; I grab my breakfast with one hand snatch the book from the seat and tuck it in my sweater pocket. I head inside. I stumble as I try to take off my shoes in a hurry. I don’t say a word. I had straight to my room. I put the food on my study desk and take a seat on my bed. I pull the book out of my pocket. “BOOM” “BOOM”, I throw the book in utter panic, it’s my little brother poking his head in my room after he just kicked the door, “can I play with your basketball?”. “Yes!”, I yelled all frustrated. I get up and pick up the book. I then anxiously asked myself what can this little black book contain that can be so interesting? This guy that was crazy enough to threaten me in broad daylight to get a ride after doing god knows what. I then humored myself, why would some thug from downtown Toronto carry a journal? I opened the book. There I was on my bed just another Saturday, holding some criminals hit list or something. As I shuffled through the pages, I noticed four one hundred-dollar bills taped to each one. I began to flip through quicker and quicker and I could feel my eyes getting wider. There was four hundred dollars attached to each page. I closed the book. It had about fifty pages. “fifty pages!”, “twenty thousand dollars!”, I never did multiplication faster. Not a single name not a location not a scribble on the book just twentythousand dollars. I can’t even begin to bother myself with the details. Who this belongs to, or what is the right thing to do with it? All I have in mind is school debt and a life away from home. I can get me a nice apartment. This is a change of scenery a breath of fresh air into adulthood and freedom. My grandmother knocks my door I hide the book behind me. Felt like I got in the act or something. She walks in “maxa u qaylinaysa?!”. Was I yelling? I didn’t even realize I was yelling. Before I can apologize or come up with an excuse as to what I was doing “make duaa for Awowe”, she said. “Pray for grandpa?”, I said to myself. “Why, what happened to him?”, I responded. He was feeling ill these past few weeks, but it didn’t seem that serious. “He has a brain aneurism that can take his life at any moment”, she said with the life sucked out of her face. I looked up brain aneurysms on my phone and soaked up any information I can gather on them. I found, the operation to cautiously remove them is twenty thousand dollars. I guess me getting a gun pointed at me today was the embodiment of “miracles do happen” you just have to keep it pushing. I hope that’s clear as day now. I already know what I need to do with the money it’s not even a question. It’s just a matter of making it seem random, I guess. like start a go-fund-me campaign for awowe or something. I reached behind my back for the book and put it at the top shelf of my closet. I will never forget this Saturday, ever. Goddamn!
By Yasir Yahya Sheiknur5 years ago in Criminal
DEADWOOD
From the diary of Alice Tubbs. August 2, 1876. Deadwood, Black Hills Dear Mother, I'd come in on the stage, less than a week ago, but I was desperate for money. I was now a widow, and there weren’t a lot of employment options available for women in the town of Deadwood—if town wasn’t too fancy a name for the meager sprawl of unpainted false-fronted frame buildings along the single rutted muddy street.
By R. E. Perry5 years ago in Criminal
Sleeping Operative
Days like today are when Daniel likes to think back to his youth when he served in the Marines, the friends he made, the lessons he learned and the experiences he had; unlike most ex-service men who would do anything to forget the horrors they saw. He was on target to make Sergeant by the end of his third year of service, this however was too good to be true. A bad motorcycle accident spelled the end of his career and was discharged in 2012 at the age of 24.
By Edward Richardson5 years ago in Criminal
The Route Back
A door swings quietly open, whisking in a stranger from the black hole he draws shut behind him. Autumn leaves rush the airlock. One in one out, caressing the cobble stone floor. The dogs eyes rise from his silent dance with the fire and back again. Gravy overflows from plates. Drinks are spilled. Laughter can be heard from the front half of the bar. Towards the back they become disgruntled and hard to make out.
By Tor Sanderson5 years ago in Criminal
The Cleanup Kid
The feelings of shame plunge into the souls of the unlearned telling them “Your ill-fortune is incurable and makes you less than your peers”. There is no hiding the fact that illiteracy is a growing problem in America, especially when you consider the number of everyday activities associated with being able to read and write. Sometimes, though, when an indefatigable safeguard believes in a dark horse more than they believe in themselves anything is possible, despite a few secrets. My name is Michael Quinton Chester, and this is what happened in 8th grade. “I do not want to assign your son to suspension again Mr. Chester. Incarceration rates seem to be higher for students who are constantly being removed from the classrooms, especially young men. I know Michael is a good kid and I think our new 2-week OST (Out-of-School Time) program will serve him well, free of charge,” said James Booker Sr, Principal of Big Peach Middle School. My father responded sarcastically, “Aww thank you so kindly sir. While you are at it you may want to consider disciplining your own seed so that he stops bullying my son all the time. Entitlement is a pandemic you know!” as we exited the room. My father taught me to never put my hands on a woman even when she decided to put hers on me unless my life depended on it. As for guys, he told me to always get the last lick, so it was no surprise that he never really gave me a hard time about defending myself at school. Still, it was frustrating getting on the bus every morning knowing that I had one more strike before getting expelled. Next, came the day when I would first meet my OST mentor, Pamela Lee, also better known as Ms. Mesia. She was small but undeniably strong, which became apparent when my hand was just about crushed when we greeted one another. Her leathery skin had a pale Nordic tone that was covered in freckles along with a head full of corkscrew curls that were dyed jet black. You could tell that this was an old lady who was trying to maintain her youth! She would often use trendy slang when talking to me and was always checking her cell phone to appear as if she were busy. As bougie as ole Pamela appeared it was hard to believe that she was the Big Peach Middle School custodian. My OST daily routine for the next couple of weeks consisted of three task: Complete a goal-oriented check-in with Ms. Mesia, Takeout/replace all trash bins, and do an outer premises walkthrough to report any damages found. Sounds like exhausting work for a fourteen-year-old right? Well, it wasn’t for me because afterwards I always had the black book to look forward to! Since I lived on the edge of our school district coupled with the heavy traffic in Atlanta, I had about an hour of free time before my dad would arrive. Ms. Mesia would keep repeating: “Pick a date between 1971 and present day,” until I blurted out an answer. That little black book of hers was a fictionalized memoir about a kid who was illiterate, or so I was told, that held over 17,000 stories. A story for each day beginning with Tuesday, January 26th,1971. Ms. Mesia made an effort to read to me every day once I told her why I kept getting into trouble. The aggravating pest that I continued to let get under my skin was none other than James Booker Jr., aka “J.J.”, the principal’s son. He was an awkward lanky shaped guy that towered over everyone that he came across. You could always find the basketball standout leaned up against a wall twirling his blonde dreadlocks with his entourage surrounding him. Other than sports I am sure his favorite pastime was teasing me about not knowing how to read or write, which wasn’t even a big problem until he started getting physical with his shenanigans. Have you ever started off as the victim of a situation but ended up being the attacker? Yes, that was me every time. Ms. Mesia wanted to make sure I no longer had to deal with nonsense from any tormentors ever again, so she vowed to me that when I completed the OST program, she would work with me to become fully literate in a matter of months! She even gave me her black book as collateral until she had fulfilled her promise. Her only rule was that I did not open the book. Then came the unexpected bad news along with some good news too. The good news is that I finished the 2-week program, and I did not have to deal with J.J. since he supposedly transferred to another school across town to play for a better basketball program. The bad news was… well, I was told by Principal James that Ms. Mesia had taken medical leave due to viral pneumonia. Poof! Just like that I had lost my biggest support. My father would say, “She’ll get better shortly so no tears in this house Mikey. Tears make your skin soft.” He promoted stereotypical masculinity often. During my mentor’s absence, the principal went from being a disciplinarian who seem to always have it out for me, to becoming the most freehearted person I had ever met! I come from humble beginnings, so I was not use to such treatment. While in class one day, the principal’s voice came over the intercom telling me to report to him. I can just about remember every single word that came out of his mouth when I sat down in his office. He said something along the lines of: “First and foremost I want to apologize on my son’s behalf for all of the torment that he put you through. Secondly, I admit my wrongdoing because I should have done something sooner. The truth is I love my son so much that I have unknowingly enabled him his entire life. I want to make things right and I have already gotten permission from your dad if you choose to accept this offer. Starting next week, I want to pay for you to have a private tutor that will teach you the necessary skills needed to read and write. Perry Dunn is the most sought out private tutor in the nation and he just so happens to live 35 miles away.” Did I mention that Principal James was weeping hysterically throughout this entire interaction? It was weird but of course I said, “Yes”! This was a blessing considering that our public school system did not offer any tutoring services which meant that the only people who could even get that extra help were those who could afford private sessions. Next week came and I could not wait to meet Mr. Dunn after school! The principal was out-front where the car-rider pickup was waiting for me in his 1960 Jaguar E-Type ready to take me to the Dunn residence. As we pulled into the driveway, I was handed an envelope. Principal James then emphasizes that, “There is $20,000 dollars inside here. It will cover your 3-month tutoring term. He charges roughly $225.00 a session. Hand this to Perry upon greeting him because I can’t go pass the gate with you.” Apparently, Mr. Dunn was a paranoid individual who would not let more than one person approach his doorstep. It felt surreal to have that much money in my hand and scary at the same time. I guess miracles do happen because within 90 days I had learned how to read, write in print, and write in cursive! My father could not have been prouder that his son broke the generational curse. I could not even go to sleep the night I graduated 8th grade, so I stayed up watching television with the subtitles on to show off a bit. I started flipping the channels during a commercial break and I saw it. “We are following the breaking news in Peachville, Georgia where a 60-year-old woman by the name of Pamela Lee is in custody after a desperate police search inside her apartment leads officers to finding a fourteen-year-old male who had been held captive for several months. Lee is now serving a life sentence for kidnapping,” reported by Glendale Thomas on Channel 7 Action News. I could not believe it, but it was true. Eventually Ms. Mesia called from prison to explain everything and I was to never hear from her again. It turns out that she had been holding J.J. for ransom until Principal James found a way to get me the private tutoring that I needed to become fully literate. Why would she go through all that trouble though if she could have just taught me herself, I wondered? She instructed me to open the black book to explain. To my surprise all the pages were empty. You see there was a reason that she did not go by Pamela. Her mother nicknamed her Mesia because it was short for hyperthymesia. This is a real and rare condition that gives a person the ability to remember just about every event of their life in detail. That so called “fictionalized memoir” inside the black book was her story beginning when she was just 10 years old. She simply used the book to give off the impression that she was in fact reading. That is why she was always able to show empathy to what I was going through. Before we hung up the phone she concluded, “I am so immensely proud of you kid. You did it! I want you to take that black book and use your new skills. You always had so many creative ideas, so I encourage you to put them all down in that book! Cherish every page. Lastly, always remember to never trade your own authenticity for someone else’s approval.” Wow, crazy right? I have mixed feelings about this entire experience. The true definition of nostalgia in my opinion.
By Dwayne Ellis5 years ago in Criminal
Just Another Day in Bangkok
The driver pulled to the curb so that the sole passenger could exit. Ray Crews handed the man cash for the fare, then opened the door of the vintage VW and stepped onto the street. Water gushed along the curb spilling over his shoes. He strained to hear the cab driver muttering something that sounded like "cheap bastard," followed by an obscene laugh. He shrugged, then looked at the sign above his head. A large yellow neon read; "American Chick Bar." Crew's shook his head from side to side and thought, "Just another day in Bangkok."
By Mark E Stripling5 years ago in Criminal
The Mailman
Chapter One: Spoiled Milk The floor was a disheveled pile of memories. A trail of time-worn photos and crumpled drawings pointed to the center of the room where the ghost of a woman sat limply on her knees, staring at the ceiling hopelessly. Paralyzed by pain, Stephanie Briggs barely had enough strength to open her eyes, let alone sit up straight. With each slow, rhythmic circle of the ceiling fan, a new thought interrupted her sanity: What kind of mother am I? How could I not know? Why did he do this?
By Mandy Berry5 years ago in Criminal
