Mystery

Dark Blue Light
Dark Blue Light My elongated sip of coffee soothes my posture deeper into the abnormally comfortable, worn and cracked leather booth seating in the corner of the North Pines Diner. For whatever reason, paying extra to have your own coffee brewed outside of home tastes better than the diners, and more exclusive. Nothing against the diner’s coffee, I’m just settling in for a long night of writing a few college papers I’ve procrastinated on, and the strength of my roast is required. Being away from all home distractions, like my bed, TV, video games, etc. makes me precipitously productive. The inevitable yearning for home after hours of work in a public setting makes home even more satisfying. With a window behind me, and one to my left directly in front of my converted to street-safe, black and blue Yamaha dirt-bike, an economical choice I’m loving. I gaze behind me past an open field into a deep green wooded forest. The sun glares just above and in between the highest of treetops, dusk is on the horizon in a about two hours. A few other cars occupy the parking lot, all town folk, two of them sitting at the counter eating, another reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. A middle-aged woman reading a book with a slice of pie, sits in a booth to my right adjacent to the side door of the 24-hour establishment. One of my favorite things this diner does is when the weather too calm and warm to ignore, they’ll prop the side door open for a fresh gust of air throughout the diner, we are privileged with that tonight.
By Ryan J. Capper4 years ago in Fiction
The Masked Gunman
The bedroom door was forcefully opened and the lights were turned on! The teenager sleeping in bed, was startled and rolled out of bed, adjusting her eyes to the tall figure dressed all in black who walked into her room with a gun in hand pointing at her. “Get UP!” He yelled! Heart pumping and terrified, she gets out of bed. The intruder grabs her right shoulder and leads her through the upstairs corridor of her family’s mansion. She passes the big high ceiling windows only to notice a barn owl perched on the tree branch. For a moment, her mind wanders as she stares into the owl’s deep yellow eyes. It was as if she was looking for an answer to what was happening to her in the owl’s eyes. A rough nudge to her shoulder from the masked gunman brings her back to reality…a reality she wanted to flee from.
By Huda 4 years ago in Fiction
The Owl in the Porch
Laying down and confused, Sarah keeps staring at the ceiling. Frightened as the ceiling was separating, she sprung up and started running down the stairs.
By Alondra OLeary4 years ago in Fiction
The Voices in the Corners
The house was finally quiet, or at least quiet enough. Three months of family and friends all walking in and out of her door like a Lazy Susan filled with casseroles. She had woken up to people. She had fallen asleep to people.
By Tiz Moore4 years ago in Fiction
The Owls are Watching
There is a city in D—n which is older than any memory. It has come to be known as Olukhawa, the City of Owls. Few discoveries have sparked so much intrigue in the world of archaeology in recent years. But despite a flurry of research activity, Olukhawa’s people and culture still remain largely a mystery to us. What we have learned, however, shatters many of our preconceptions of our Bronze Age antecedents.
By Donal Flanagan4 years ago in Fiction
The Night Owl is back.
For many years, my sister, Rose, painted a picture with her imagination of the person she could’ve been. Or better yet, the person she should’ve been. She dreamt of storms washing her problems away, only to be faced with more rain in the next few days. She prayed to the Royals to help her find a way out. She even got down on her knees and asked for help. Only she seems to never make it out. The return was coming and she had plans to be free. Rose has never ever had real freedom, only dreams of the Peach Cream Lillied sky.
By Jehlani Taylor4 years ago in Fiction
Night Prowler
Legend has it, there was an odd old Barn Owl he lived up in the rafters of a barn that stood for over one hundred years in a small community of about 1,200 people, give or take a soul. My distance relatives owned that barn, along with a house that burnt down in 1956, same year I was born. The barn stood standing on the thirty-five acres, own by an Uncle Larry, that I only seen periodically every now and then, like at a family reunion or other gatherings.
By Cindy Perski4 years ago in Fiction
In the Night
The peaceful cadence of crickets and katydids was disturbed suddenly by the crunching of withered and decaying leaves beneath a slow and heavy gait, followed by the dragging of a burdensome... something. The trailing object digs into the soft forest floor, scattering the fall pattern that had collected in the weeks previous. A twig snaps loud and crisp through the night, sending a startled fox scrambling though the surrounding underbrush, desperate for safety.
By Alia McBroon4 years ago in Fiction
Little Britain
What I write is most true...I have a whole booke of cases lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. NASHE. IN the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of LITTLE BRITAIN. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade, creeping on at their eels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers; these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to increase and multiply even at the present day. But though thus falling into decline, Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into
By shiv4 years ago in Fiction
The Flame & The Wings
A figure looms over the window, gazing at any passerby that might be in their line of view. A quiet lady, whose nose was deep in her own word, stops in front of said house. She felt as though someone was watching her every move. She pulled down her brown book and looked straight into the eyes of the shadow. Her body could not move from the fear that encased her mind.
By Olivia Burton4 years ago in Fiction
Little
Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world: such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortunetelling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the
By shiv4 years ago in Fiction
smart briten
Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary; it is needless to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of churchyards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died of late; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half- moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old
By shiv4 years ago in Fiction