fiction
Mystery, crime, murder, unsolved cases. Contribute your own tales of crime to Criminal.
The little black book short story
Blood was everywhere, scraped skin peeled from his weak, broken body onto the road. His wailing screams put me in a trance, the light reflecting off his motorcycle pierced my eyes, I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened right before my eyes.
By Anjali Kanda3 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter One
Chapter One Amsterdam, 1986 Killing Time. Red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Trim shivered in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosso. This was the evening of the third day. He watched and waited, smoking an hour away, waiting for The Six. Den, Pete, ‘Dog’, Mart, Kev and Ritchie; feral pack animals, careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, wrist-high on Mercedes lacquer.
By David Philip Ireland3 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Three
Chapter Three Seated in a dark corner of The Rode Leeuw, Trim removed his black kid gloves and folded them neatly and placed them upon the tabletop. He took the diary from his coat pocket and opened it at random. He read the familiar passages for several moments. No one had noticed him enter the bar. He knew he should wait, but he needed a drink.
By David Philip Ireland3 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Five
Chapter Five Amsterdam, December 7th Centraal Station was a lonely place at six thirty on a Sunday morning. The newspaper kiosks were not yet open. There were bundles of newspapers stacked against the aluminium security screens tied up with coloured twine. Piles of De Telegraaf, The Sunday Times, Das Welt and all the others. Trim slipped an Express from its stack and leaned back against a screen. He glanced at a few lines about the violence in Amsterdam at the bottom of the front page, before dropping the newspaper to the floor. He would wait for the Sun on Monday. The diary would suffice as reading matter for the journey.
By David Philip Ireland3 years ago in Criminal
The Royal Dressmaker
The Royal Dress Maker That Day Her dishevelled red locks flowed from her marron-coloured hooded cloak; her face almost completely covered. She leaped onto the train, tattered scarlet bag in hand, landing in a pile of hay. She was soaked from the rain and her breathing was so heavy it could weigh down her whole body. She opened the bag and manged to smirk a little despite her fatigue. It was almost bursting at the seams, full of gold. She clutched her stomach.
By Lauren Jane R3 years ago in Criminal
The Rose Room
The day began as any another day did. Beatrice woke up, did her hour and a half ritual of getting ready for work, and left before the clock struck 8:00 A.M. Her life as an editor’s assistant was what she called “puzzle version.” Words—big and small, common and uncommon—crossed her vision each and every day., connecting her to things, places, people and ideas she never thought she could be connected to. She learned that certain things fit snug against her, and others placed themselves at a distance. A rare few confront her and inflict pain, leaving scars that will test the will of time with their permanence. Her life was consumed by words and all the feelings and emotions they could cause. She preferred it that way. To feel instead of experience. She’s done enough of that in her past. She’s done enough experiencing. Now . . . she's ready to live, truly live.
By Samantha Heck3 years ago in Criminal
Mysterious Men & Thanksgiving Turkey
“Pass the potatoes please!” My sister called. I reached across the table to grab the warm bowl filled with mashed potatoes. It was Thanksgiving evening. My family was gathered around the table enjoying our Thanksgiving feast when we heard a soft knock at the door. My father looked to my mother quizzically as if to silently ask if she had invited anyone. She shook her head slightly in response. We all sat there quietly as she got up from the table to answer the door. Our curiosity was piqued. Who could it possibly be? We heard two voices as the door opened.
By Kaitlyn Softley3 years ago in Criminal
Memoir
I wish you would relax. I keep trying to tell you there’s no danger of me ever publishing a memoir, with or without you in it, because none of my memories are true. Never mind the little black notebook, please. Just ignore it. It’s not for publication because nothing in it ever happened.
By Doug Westendorp3 years ago in Criminal