fiction
Mystery, crime, murder, unsolved cases. Contribute your own tales of crime to Criminal.
The Black Book and the Commissary Kings
In 1960, Mississippi’s per capita annual income was $967 - the lowest in the United States and the District of Columbia.. As you can imagine, the average income for inmates at Mississippi Penitentiary was... much less than $967 that year.
By Brandon Lam6 years ago in Criminal
Fortune
The snap of the estate lawyers briefcase felt so final. The definitive signal to end our meeting and the brief intertwining of our fates. It echoed through the small, stuffy office decorated with outdated, elaborate furniture, deep reds and honey oaks. I held in my hand the very last ties to my mother and the last chance to answers about my past. A full lifetime was reduced to the tiny package in my hand. I twisted it in my hands with knitted brows. I searched for words, some way to seek clarification, but I could speak none without seeming callous and greedy in my current circumstance.
By Kyra Pfennig6 years ago in Criminal
Eighty-Year Atonement
The year was 2031, and the little town of Eston, Saskatchewan, despite its penchant for gossip and minding everyone's business but its own, knew nothing of the momentousness of this day, the day when she would reveal to the young, aspiring journalist the hitherto unknown story of her life. She was now 102 years, but she could remember with absolute precision and clarity the day that her life story had been cast. It was precisely eighty years ago on this very date-when she was a fresh-faced, gorgeous twenty-two-year-old - that her fiance had careened down the precipitous slope of a back-road in the Saskatchewan badlands, and left her with a $20,000 life insurance policy. Now she was about to reveal to a young journalist her true account, the story of a life-long spinster who had never replace the love of her life whom she had so tragically lost.
By Patrick Curley6 years ago in Criminal
The Holy Light Of The Cardboard Box
It began in a small corner of a cardboard box painted iridescent white. It belonged to Mr. Anaheim of Montague, and was situated under a bridge which always caught the sunlight. He was the local eccentric, who led everyone to smile with his outlandish ways. His stories were convincingly rich and relevant, as if he had lived many lifetimes. Though no one was sure if any of them were true.
By Katharina Knoll6 years ago in Criminal
Delivery Driver
The countdown was on – if I didn’t get this notebook across town soon, who knows what the consequences would be. About 2 years ago I dropped out of a university program I worked my ass off to get into. Not only was it draining my bank account, but it was draining my soul and I needed out. At that point I decided to take a completely different direction with my life, and I got a job as a bike delivery driver in the one of the busiest cities in the world – New York City. Usually this means I’m biking from one side of Manhattan to the next with time sensitive documents, but one spring day in 2020 proved to be more of a surprised. During a regular, less time-sensitive delivery, I decided to take a detour and stumbled upon an abandoned warehouse I had never seen before. I had some time to kill so I decided to check it out – I’ve watched Ghost Adventures since I was in the womb, I figured, I’d be fine. As I wandered the rubble-filled corridors (wheezing from the dust), I heard a moaning in the distance. It was either a ghost or a person and either way this was not the place I wanted to find out, so I reluctantly backed away. At that point it became clear that what I was hearing was someone severely injured, as their weak voice echoed “help” through the halls. I rushed in their direction to find them barely clinging to life. It was a man that had been stabbed multiple times, once in the heart. Horrified, I grabbed my cellphone to immediately dial 9-1-1. To my horror, my cellphone had no connection (being in the middle of an abandoned warehouse can do that). I walked a few feet to the left and to the right trying to find a position where my phone would pick up signal, but I had no success.
By Amanda Phillips6 years ago in Criminal
Bookstore Ownership Is Not for the Faint-Hearted
Martin opened the little book and immediately flung it shut again. With a venomous glare at the finely embossed cover, he issued a silent demand for the volume to sort itself. After a moment, he cautiously pinched the lid of the book and slowly lifted it.
By Amanda Alden6 years ago in Criminal
Escape
CHARLIE The day began like most others, a slow, resentful emergence from the blissful respite of sleep into the harsh reality of his lonely existence. The old man stretched out his weary limbs and left the shelter of the broken-down Chevy he currently called home. A labored stroll down to the sheltering trees along the river gave his arthritic joints a chance to limber up. Once there, he relieved his aching bladder. It was then that he spied the little black book. The book’s sleek black finish stood out against the greys, browns, and greens along the riverbank, so much that even the old man’s fading vision was able to pick it out.
By Gregg George Stallings6 years ago in Criminal
The Temptation
I was just notified there was a homicide of one of our brothers in blue in our jurisdiction. Everybody that was present was assigned to this case. My little black notebook with numbered pages, radio, and evidence kit were all in tow. Homicide detectives were on their way out to the scene as well. Supervisor Garcia glanced my direction, “Hey do you want to ride together?” “Of course!”
By Trysha Parker6 years ago in Criminal
Blackout
This isn't a complicated story. It's a human story, filled with senseless errors. I planned the evening a month in advance. My military days had ended ten years ago, but once a Marine always a Marine, and we don't miss the opportunity to celebrate November 10, the U.S. Marine's birthday. I took the longest shower and skipped cologne; preferring the scent of a light clean soap. I gave myself the once-over in the mirror- starched jeans, pressed polo, shiny shoes, fresh fade. I checked my phone to see if my baby brother had texted. He hadn't. Communication was not his forte. Aside from both of us being ex-Marines and functioning alcoholics, we have nothing else in common. I am four years older, married with a daughter, and the more level-headed of the two. He's a hothead with no fuse who loves to fight because... well he's good at it. I'm a talker and can distinctly remember talking my way out of an ass whoopin from him. But, that Cat knows how to have a good time and it's our tradition to celebrate this night together. I text him:
By Mischia Farrer6 years ago in Criminal
Little Black Book
Anaesthetised. The word I would use when talking to my paediatric patients – explaining how I would be using a needle to numb their nerves, creating an invisible shield between my surgical tools and their delicate outer casing. Anaesthetised. The word I would use to describe how I felt at that very moment – the catch - there were no needles in sight. My body was creating this feeling all on its own. My brain was releasing chemicals, all as a reaction to what I had just read, with my now water filled eyes. I was numb. Cold even. The blistering heat couldn’t distract me from the cold I was feeling. The sensation continued down the length of my tall, dainty spine. One would assume that the bolts in my back would discourage me from feeling anything. However, after countless spinal surgeries my nerves remained intact. My body was in shock, perspiration left every crevasse within my exterior, with scents of terror and disgust. I looked ahead to see the lines of naked, stolen children; their terrified stares puncturing my numbing frame. One girl, a small, lanky, dark creature; stood staring at me. Looked about nine. The lanky nine-year-old frame hid the aged mind of the mature woman she was within. After all she’d seen and experienced, she had the right to be regarded as a woman. Her thin, malnourished, four fingered hand, slowly swept up, past her bony hips. Moving alongside her exposed, skin lacking, rib cage. Her hand came to a halt at the height of her shoulder. She waved. My body heaved, releasing the eggs benedict I’d eaten earlier that morning, onto my freshly manicured toes and faded Birkenstocks. His little black book fell to the floor, sending the dry, brown earth flying in all directions. I dropped to my knees. Thump thump. I could hear my heart through every fissure, every artery, every cell within my numb and shaking exterior. I looked up. The girl had moved her malnourished hand from a still wave to an extended, motherly grasp. Thwack. She landed with a thump; so loud I could identify it with the fifty-metre distance between us. The stocky, big bellied man - who created the thump - let out a deep, evil chuckle. He turned and picked up the rock he had previously chucked at her head, smirking at the speckles of blood found on its sharp, rough edges. Two strangers. Both lying on the same earth - the only difference; one still had a life, the other just had hers swept away from beneath her feet. I prayed. I didn’t believe in God - science was too existent in my life to consider a make-believe creature – especially one that didn’t have the power to stop monstrosities like this happening. Regardless, I needed something to believe in at that moment. I could feel my heart in my stomach, my chest tight with anxiety, my lungs struggling for the sauna like air I felt like I was drowning in. I wasn’t sure if I was reacting to the death of an innocent child or the words I had just seen in the little black book, which sat inches away from my right arm – now covered in the brown, African dirt. The dirt of a place I loved so much. A place I uprooted and changed my life for. A home I made for my girls. The line moved on - with my newly lost friends figure trodden on and rolled as the others were forced forward. Their bare feet standing on what could be, and quite possibly would be them. The line of young, exposed women went on for what looked like miles. There was a man posted up every five metres or so, with the support of a military rifle on their shoulder. With my gut about to release more of my eggs, I picked up his little black book and began to walk. As I struggled to move, I opened the book to find what had made me violently ill before. The Twenty-thousand-dollar cheque made out to a Mr Teddy Baraka for the sale of two hundred items – silently balancing on the coffee stained paper of his little black book. Items being women. Women being the young, nine-year-old girls trudging towards the army van – with the support of armed pigs.
By Eleni Thorn6 years ago in Criminal
