Mystery
Old Man Red's Barn
Edith and Rozelynne were two ordinary girls, living in the very ordinary town of Woodbury, Tennessee, where the leading cause of death among adolescents was boredom. As summer faded into a distant memory, the girls prepared to start junior high at the local middle school. They were neighbors on Hillcrest Lane, a quiet street tucked away in their sleepy little town. They loved to walk to the Five and Dime, wade in the creek, and watch movies at the cinema; the only place they were forbidden to go was Old Man Red’s barn.
By Katherine Nesbitt5 years ago in Fiction
Working from home
Working from home is all fun and games until it is what supports you and your family. Working from home isn’t as easy as people make it seem, they always say they get to work when they want, but people don’t realize that it is all the time, they are working all the time, they can never turn that clock off, and that’s okay with them because most people love and enjoy them.
By Audrey DeLong5 years ago in Fiction
Wrath
There was an old barn painted in new blood. It was reddish-black and bleeding, a bloody waterfall, flowing down along the dirt with gouts of gasoline. A fire rose in and around the barn, in a ring, from a singular match. There were cries coming from inside, but the hay sprinkled in the threshold acted as a bulwark of flames that blocked and burned the entrance, and muffled the clamor. A shadow formed from the back wall of the barn, of a hand, reaching upward, as if desperately gasping for air. The shadowed arm grew larger, reaching farther, and suddenly dropped and descended, sinking beneath the uprising of fire and smoke. The fire still bursting from the floor and smoke clouding over the roof through the loft window and sprouting out the cupola like a chimney. The cries have risen in pitch, still audible under the flapping of wading flames. A high wind roared that day, further waving the fire and ash toward the corn fields. The barnyard animals got burned alive, the ones that hadn’t yet were quiet now, of terror, of their home and neighbors being cooked; they would soon be next, no question about it.
By Octovo Libra 5 years ago in Fiction
shark bated.
Swimming in the depths, the shallow shore behind, standing on a rock the elementary divide. A woman hiding beneath, the blood not from the rock, did tell a tale of the shark, that would consume becoming her. Now the sea was god, the shores were shallow and mankind that caused all the fear. Not the vast seas I used to fear, she was going to eat the fish swimming in the sea but the fear that crippled, that stopped the child that day, was the vastness of the ocean and the light that filled her day.
By Jennifer orr5 years ago in Fiction
The Case at the Agra Hotel
In April 2018, Jeet Thakur Sahai had a few days of holidays so he went to Agra. His cousin Abhishek owned a hotel there called Hotel Grandeur. It was about 40 km from the Taj Mahal. Jeet had a good time in Agra for the first few days with his cousin and his family.
By Anshuman Kumar5 years ago in Fiction
The First Case
Jeet Thakur Sahai had waited for July 10th, 2017 for quite a while. Finally he had 3 weeks of vacation and was looking forward to spend it with his brother Ravi and his family in London, England. Jeet was working as a research analyst with the Delhi Police for over six years. He was originally from Lucknow and his parents still lived there. Both parents had retired. Jeet would visit them every 6 months and once a year they would visit him in Delhi as well.
By Anshuman Kumar5 years ago in Fiction
Thin Air
Not so long ago, an unkindness of infected pests invaded Joshing Town’s last cultivating farm, leaving site of no-good land. Since the loss of a handful of good farms, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food had decided to educate the farmers, improve farm security and provide protection to all major farms within the circumference. One of the MAFF protected farm was in the meadows of Old Man’s Land where the grazing grass was the thickest. This farm was a renewed form of another private farm which was recently sold and then renamed as Gemre Miri Farmhouse, named after the estate owner’s only living child, Miri P. Gemre.
By Lobna Kowsar5 years ago in Fiction
Another day another crisis
Another day, another crisis. What is normal? It all started so simply and slowly, a routine call from the mail room. A suspicious package wrapped in brown paper had arrived in the post, will I get it checked out? The fancy odour detectors had not shown anything, the x rays had not detected anything looking like explosives so the parcel had been put in the containment room but marked as low urgency. Nobody was rushing about in a panic, so I waited until I had dealt with the overnight paper work then went to the mail room carrying a cup of coffee. If this delivery had been in a modern bubble wrap container or a standard express delivery carton, it would probably never have been so carefully examined, it was the old fashion use of brown paper that had suggested a need for some caution. I initiated a full spectrum trace of poisons or bio-agents on the outer surface. It is surprisingly difficult to package up something like anthrax without leaving some minute trace on the outer wrapping but nothing was registered. I put on standard disposable gloves and picked up the package. Not heavy, in fact surprisingly light, about twelve inches cube, almost exactly regular in every dimension. A gentle shake did not seem to cause any loose movement inside it. The brown paper was creased as if it had been folded into other sized packs before being used on this one. The hand written address was in black ball point “ink” the postage stamp was correct for second class delivery and the post office had obviously fed it through automated sorting machines with no problems. The cancelling of the postage stamp showed it had been posted three days ago. As expected we found many differing sets of finger prints on the wrapping but we followed protocols and made a record of them all, for later feeding through the data base of prints. The brown paper was sealed with transparent sticky tape, the type available in every supermarket, corner shop and stationary outlet, all of the country, so not any use to me. I used a scalpel and sliced the sticky tape in a way that allowed me to unfold the brown paper. It had been used on another package before this one the inside clearly showed where a label had been previously stuck, then removed, I put this aside as forensics may come up with a clue to the sender, from this previous use. Thinking about the sender it had to be someone in the “business” to know this address. We are a secret organisation for good reason and our address is not public knowledge. The top layer of content were brand new clothes, sweat shirts from a very popular very cheap multi outlet chain. They appeared to be new and unused but were not individually wrapped. Under this top layer was the real content. Documents. Or rather parts of documents. They were roughly torn not cut, ragged edges showed they had been rather hastily torn up and shoved in the package. Under the paperwork were more clothes very similar to the top layer.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
The Package
My car pulled onto campus for the first time. I was "home" for the next several years. The long drive across Michigan, having gotten a late start, got me to campus at a fairly late hour. It took a couple of attempts but I finally elbowed my car door open and took my keys with me. My luggage could wait for a moment as I determined which apartment key would actually work the best.
By Kent Brindley5 years ago in Fiction
