Mystery
Number 7
I listened for the beep of my car’s alarm before heading up the walk to the small house I now lived in alone. Usually, it was a nice neighborhood, but with the holiday season here robberies were on the rise. A woman a few houses down was the latest target. Her jewelry box was snagged so the chances of them returning to Oak Hurst were low, but I wasn’t ready to count them out.
By Katrina Thornley3 years ago in Fiction
Box of Dreams
Jane was one of many people in the world that had fallen victim to a cold society. Jane was raised in a broken home, fell in love with an abusive man who took everything from her and ended up homeless on the streets. Only a few days away from her thirtieth birthday, Jane was living in city streets, under overpasses, and on park benches. For a short period of time, Jane was living at a homeless camp with a small group, but several distasteful people took advantage of her, and she was back to spending nights alone, not staying in any place more than once. She longed to feel human again. She wanted a home where she would never be cold, a kitchen that would always be full, and companions that could protect and love her. Jane wanted a new life.
By David Dawsey3 years ago in Fiction
A Gift
She walks past the kitchen ducking under the low ceiling as she enters the family room. It may better be named living room she thinks wistfully, as she is now the sole occupant of the house. Her eyes dart around the room looking for a worn leather blue journal. “There it is”, she says aloud grabbing the small journal off the coffee table.
By Napoleon Forrest3 years ago in Fiction
Christmas Cup
Blades from the drone whirred overhead, mixing with the light snow. I noticed it ascend through the flakes. I looked down at the box on my doorstep. The gold and white “Merry Christmas!” mat with the tree and gifts dwarfed the miniature package. This parcel the size of a perfume box intrigued me. What is in this thing? I asked myself.
By Skyler Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
Cloudfall
It’s been like this for over a year, I’m in the house, windows all boarded up and the door as fast as I can make it. Luckily they just tried to kick it down but it’s too strong for that. A couple of times I think Molotov cocktails have been thrown but the planks on the windows are more than good enough for that.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 3 years ago in Fiction
Terrible, Horrible, Very Good Day
Waking up to the blaring alarm, I crawled out of bed. Shivering in the cold, I glanced outside at a blanket of snow. Shaking my head, cursing, and muttering, knowing this was going to be the start of a bad day. Stumbling through the kitchen calling Kane, my dog, as I go to let him out before I rush off to work. My toes found themselves slipping into a warm pile of something clearly made by an animal.
By joseph Comeau3 years ago in Fiction
The Serpent in the Garden
William Cooper was startled awake by the sound of his doorbell. He had fallen asleep in the parlor of his flat to the sound of the gently crackling fire in the room’s large fireplace. He noticed that it had since been reduced to smoldering embers. He had only meant to briefly rest his eyes, but the Society had been working him to the bone as of late.
By Christine Meush3 years ago in Fiction
Death, interrupted. Top Story - December 2022.
Kirn's death is rudely interrupted by a droning sound outside the house. Screwing her eyes shut tighter, she draws a labored breath. It doesn't matter, she reminds herself, there's nothing out there: as the last human on Earth, she's certain of this much. This sound must be an illusion, some auditory hallucination from dehydration. It means she's nearly there, finally one foot in the grave! Appeased, she pushes her hand over the bed sheets to squeeze Ashami's cold arm. She only manages a caress, but that's enough to draw them closer together: they were linked in life, and soon they shall be in death too.
By Claire Guérin3 years ago in Fiction
Left After Freedom Street
Cream-coloured paint covered peeling walls, walls that hadn't been cleaned in decades and walls that wouldn't be cleaned for decades more. At twenty-metre intervals, small windows rested below a lofty ceiling, windows that were barred and unable to be opened, their only purpose being to let a minimal amount of light in to save using electricity during the day. The floor was grey and industrial, and sported abhorrent, plastic panels that contributed to the shivering temperatures experienced in the corridor; it also needed to be cleaned.
By Alex Richardson3 years ago in Fiction
A Verdant Legacy. Runner-Up in The Mystery Box Challenge.
Bleak. Normally, Cheryl loved overcast weather like today; the soft tones of light, the crisp air—the perfect setting for a cozy read by the fire. Comparatively, today’s lighting was a harsh, tin gray, the air dull like a cold, gray office cubicle. She put the kettle on for what seemed like the umpteenth time that morning but could only have been the third and paced her kitchen—which was really her whole studio—arms crossed and tucked beneath her coziest sweater. This was not how she wanted to be spending her vacation.
By Taylor Malais3 years ago in Fiction
