Mystery
One Decision Different
Aaran opened his front door and saw that the sun had almost set completely. To the shadowy figure on his front step, he warmly welcomed him in, "Come on in. You can hang your coat here." The mysterious figure moved in like a phantom and hung his coat on the rack. He was wearing a black long sleeve shirt with black, ripped jeans. "Would you like tea or coffee?"
By Rowan Finley 4 years ago in Fiction
The World Beneath
“This number here, this is all I get after 20 years?” Caprice crumpled her Letter of Termination slowly in her tight fist. She knew exactly how much money she had made the company over the years. Being the first accountant hired came with its own hindsight. “Emilio, this can’t be. Tell me this is not how you thought things would end. You owe me that.”
By Mircea Andronescu4 years ago in Fiction
Plastic
Chapter 1. Albert waited quietly in the investigation room, seemingly studying the table in front of him. It was an ordinary table in many ways - white, a plastic of some description, probably a medium density polyethylene compound. Being heavily utilised by the public serving police community suggested to Albert that the table should have some kind of anti-microbial protective resin - on closer inspection of the table's constitution, Albert decided that it in fact did not.
By Luke Derham4 years ago in Fiction
The Corridor
Beams of golden light pierced the window and flooded the room of the loft revealing a cluttered mess of clothing and paperwork spread about. A serene quiet was shattered as sounds from an alarm clock shrieked in repetition. “Ugh…errgh… argh” was the muttering of a hung over 40 year old fed up with the responsibility of life. He reached over to recklessly swat at the alarm sound, eventually slapping a button on the clock that silenced it.
By Jermain Parker4 years ago in Fiction
The Siren of Red Summer
The night was warm and well-lit by the moon, which hung overhead like a glistening orb in a canopy of black and navy blue. Every few moments the warmth of the breeze would strengthen as the air forced its way around every solid object on the coast. He stood there under a red light, confused at what had just occurred only moments prior. It was supposed to be a memory that reflected a celebration of life, etched in the fabric of his mind for eternity. Somehow it was exactly that, but not quite as he expected.
By Jermain Parker4 years ago in Fiction
Murder at Silver Point
Tommy Mulhern’s Audi cruises the 30 minutes from Cork to East Ferry by way of Midleton. He reminisces the lazy afternoons spent in the swimming pool at Silver Point, June sunshine’s warmth juxtaposed with the cool breezes from the harbour. It was twenty years ago, or it was yesterday. The brain plays tricks with time. As he speeds south from Ballinacurra to Saleen, Tommy muses at how little has changed, a patchwork of farmettes and postage stamp lots with comfortable houses for Ireland’s prospering middle class. He makes the turn west. It is all nostalgia. He remembers the smell of her hair, that bed of seductive black curls that owned him for a summer. Likely, the scents he recalls are the sweet roses and bluebells peppered with the fresh saltwater air. But again, the brain has its own way of sorting. The gates with the oversized S and P are already open, he speculates, in anticipation of his arrival. He drives through and heads towards the Main House. The entire plot is less than five acres crowded against the water to maximize shoreline. Where there are not dwellings, there are lawns, the cabana, and that pool where, bikini-shod, she had, in not-so-subtle fashion, seduced his eighteen-year-old self. Today, all the activity is at the pool. As he approaches, there she is, still beautiful, sunlight glistening on the droplets in her black hair. It seems she is alight. She is much as he remembers her, floating on her back, eyes closed, ruminating some rumination. The too-tight bright orange bikini is iridescent against her alabaster skin. He would be transported back to those unhurried days if not for the man, face down in the water. Tommy, deep in his remembrances is brought back to the present by Philip Montclair. Philip yells, shaking his fists in Tommy’s face, “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt my angel, my Fiona?” Then, just as quickly as the rage flares, it subsides. Philip queries, “Don’t I know you? Sorry, can’t put a name to the face.”
By Alexander J. Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
Oedipus
The eternal clock ticked away the silence that soaked the room. He was desperately trying to look away from the disturbing white walls tainted by the yellow of a million smokes. Beside him laid a fully naked night paid in advance with her eyes shut. The curves that made her dissolved into the winter twilight peeking through the window.
By Mohammed Swalih4 years ago in Fiction
