fiction
Mystery, crime, murder, unsolved cases. Contribute your own tales of crime to Criminal.
The Mailbox Memoirs
I. Wednesday, February 24th 2021 1200 Westmoreland Avenue, Apartment A I would like to write myself out of poverty. To create stories so profound they move the masses to empty the shelves and bleed the e-commerce giants. Stand back and watch my bank account double and triple overnight. Who can imagine that sort of direct deposit? I know I can’t. And I am finding myself again sitting at my desk and longing for that which I don’t have. A better life, more money, a nicer place, and an easier job. Yet I am cursed with the dream and not the reality. The never ending chase for some semblance of an existence. The bottles of beer on my coffee table have now transitioned to empty bottles of gin, and the consistent stain on my breath and clothes reeks of disappointment and failure. Worst of all, my eyes always seem to be bloodshot when I look in the mirror.
By Louis Hartzog5 years ago in Criminal
Sinuous Parameter
"Hey pal, watch where you're going. You nearly knocked me to the ground," Harper yelled as a man he had never seen before ran into him. Disheveled and sweating profusely, the man grabbed Harper by both sides of his jacket. "Please, make sure it gets to Interpol," he said in a panic. Noticing the blood dripping from the top of his head along with the cracked lens in his glasses, Harper realized that the man was terribly afraid of something, or someone.
By Shalanda Doria5 years ago in Criminal
WHAT ARE THE ODDS?
The odds seem to have been stacked against me from a young age. My friends call me Shy, I was born on a hot July morning 1983 in The Bronx, New York to a Puerto Rican couple, Marisol and Sergio. They were high school sweethearts and although we didn't have much, my dad always seemed to make it work. We lived on the second floor in a six floor walk up apartment building, there were several similar buildings on that street, a few vacant lots and a corner store that everyone went to. We were always well-dressed and put together because that's how my dad liked it and Mom wouldn't have it any other way. Dad also loved jewelry so we always had gold chains, earrings, bracelets and rings. My mom was a beauty, light skinned, petite, with big brown eyes and a smile that would light up a stadium; a natural life of the party type. My dad was a serious character, tall, dark and handsome and the ladies loved him but never dared to step on my momma's toes. She was as fierce as she was beautiful and could throw down like a professional MMA fighter. Plus, my dad wasn't giving any of them the time of day. My parents were well respected on the block and everyone loved them. Sergio was no drug dealer but he dabbled in it from time to time when he needed to make ends meet, it was easy for him since the entire neighborhood was infested with drugs and addicts alike; otherwise he was hard working and sometimes held down two and three jobs at a time. Marisol stayed home with me and threw the best parties; dinner parties, dominoes parties, birthday parties, block parties, no matter what type of party it was, you were bound to have a great time. She was a great cook and Sergio had the biggest speaker system, the whole block could hear the music when we had parties. Sergio didn't smoke, drink or do any drugs, Marisol on the other hand, indulged in all of it; sometimes enough for the both of them. I loved both my parents but I was a daddy's girl.
By Vanessa Rodriguez5 years ago in Criminal
The Unmasking of Hannah Nguyen
“Pushhh!” the midwife shouted, as if screaming would help get this baby out of my vagina. I had been pushing for two hours after a 30-hour labour, most of which was in a private waiting room, with nothing more than a desk, computer, and a less than comfortable chair. The nurses said it was Valentine’s Day baby season. With only seven birthing rooms at the public hospital, many labouring women (including myself) had the pleasure of barring our labour in rooms, with what felt like paper thin walls, side by side, with no pain relief.
By Diana Pereira5 years ago in Criminal
A Really Good Friend
My family keeps me in drink and I appreciate it. I am not an alcoholic, but I truly enjoy a cold beer or a good single malt. Years ago I implored family and friends to forego the gag gifts, puzzles, and clothing items that I invariably returned to their stores of origin and instead surprise me with a dark ale or scotch. They complied and every time I drink a dark Becks or sip a Laphroaig from a Waterford tumbler I think well of the givers. And of the Laphroaig I also think well of Dick Francis whose character kept saying "Ahaaa, Laphroaig" when tracing counterfeit single malts in one of his books. His appreciation for the peaty brand inspired me to try the brand for myself. I daresay the distillery should have given Francis a commission.
By Cleve Taylor 5 years ago in Criminal
The List
John, woke up tired, hungover, and alone. "Here we go again," he thinks. Wiping the sleep from his eyes he stumbled his way to the kitchen, searching for a clean glass to fill with water, trying to still the pounding headache he acquired from the night before. "Why do I keep doing this to myself? I'm never drinking again," he says aloud.
By Jared Long5 years ago in Criminal
Coordinates of Life
For most seventy six year olds, routine dulls the terror and excitement of life, and that much could certainly be said for a man named Albert. Every single day was always the same for Albert. Alarm shrieks life into Albert at five A.M. Slowly, he hobbles into the kitchen and makes himself two scrambled eggs and pours a steaming mug of black coffee. While he eats, the morning news blares a serenade of background noise into his quiet and dusty little kitchen. He takes a shower and shaves until his face is smooth as a baby's bottom. And with that, he is ready to leave the house for the day in his cream colored fleece and baseball cap.
By Luke J Picchioni5 years ago in Criminal
