A sweet-looking girl walked shyly and a little flusteredly to a convenience store by the side of the road and asked in a low voice, "Well, hello, do you know if there is a policeman near here?"
"Hey, it seems not."
"Then can the police be found in a short time?"
"Well, it doesn't seem to be possible."
"Well, that's fine. Raise your hands, rob!!"
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Sixth Sense
Supernatural novels《Hell Apartment》loading
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0 Harvest a heist
When they broke into the jewelry store, no one expected such onsequences. They should have easily slipped through the window, grabbed the goods, and made a quick escape. But things didn't go according to plan. Suddenly, the siren sounded, and the intruder had been stopped. They took the first sober decision in an emergency: retreat. But they forgot one very important detail: all the alarm clocks in the windows had gone off. They didn't have time to cut the alarm clock wire and had to run away. A few hours later, in a large park, they separated. When they were safely separated, police continued their investigation. However, they made a fatal mistake: they didn't split the spoils.
By Sixth Sense11 months ago in Fiction
One Minute to Noon
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
By Lacy Loar-Gruenler8 days ago in Fiction
The Beamish Boy
The day dawned chill and pale, muted by the whispering mists that rose from the swampy woods lapping the hillsides, a foreboding sea of green and soupy grey. Down there, between the warped trunks and mossy loam, the fug was thronged with the slimed bodies of creatures that thrive in the murk, the plashes and scurries and screeches of their morning japing sending eddies of animation into the haze, loosening its grip on their world. Further into the forest, where swamp segued to bog, and tussocked fingers of dry land became stretches of solid ground, droplets of sunlight sequined the vapour, shimmying between the trees and into small clearings, a suggestion of something charmed that belied the doleful lamentations emanating from those darker, denser columns of fog moving in still air on the edges of the quagmire.
By Hannah Moorea day ago in Fiction
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