Mystery
Last Call to Summer
Summer of 04 Dodger watched Masie’s pale yellow Mustang kick up gravel from the Swensons’ long, rugged driveway. The top was down, allowing him to see her companions, Melody and Sarah, who were animatedly bopping and singing along to something. Billie’s smile was wide as she came running out her house, the screen door swinging behind her, she vaulted like a gymnast into the back seat.
By Nikki Torino Wagner2 months ago in Fiction
Hello from *No* Side
The air caught in her throat. How can anyone explain this? How can you possibly think through this? Not only was everything Alexa was taught (her whole life) wrong… but, on top of that, she was being offered a chance to see the truth no one else knew.
By Gabriel B. Shames2 months ago in Fiction
Where the Honeysuckles Grow. Honorable Mention in Last Call Challenge. Content Warning.
Two weeks earlier: There will be war; he saw it now in the leaking eyes of the groveling boy, held by the bare forearm of his father, firmly pressed across his chest, pulling the child in front of him. A gun racked and loaded against his own son's temple. “Daddy, please,” the boy whimpered through a quivering lip.
By James U. Rizzi2 months ago in Fiction
The Bus Ride
Riding the bus is not my favorite way to travel, but if you are like me, low on funds, do not own a car, or your destination is too far to walk or to trust your luck at hitchhiking, riding the bus is your next best choice. So, I chose the Greyhound and waited in a crowded station for an announcer to call my boarding number. I wanted to go to the bathroom but was afraid of missing my call over the loud noises, so I stayed in my seat.
By Frankie Berry Wise2 months ago in Fiction
It's always the husband.. Honorable Mention in Last Call Challenge.
New York is a place where late-night calls feel just as normal as conversations at happy hour. But when a married man is calling you after midnight—well, you know how the story can go. It was only four months into my counseling sessions with Dion and Anna Caruso when his messages became more frequent and more predictable after our Wednesday night sessions. We ended at six, and like clockwork, by midnight, my phone would vibrate. At first it was casual frustration; then it got more personal. He’d mention arguments with Anna that he didn’t speak about during our time with her. From my experience, they needed a divorce— but of course I didn’t tell them that — what kind of therapist would I be? The Carusos were well-off, and maybe I used that to my advantage. I took Dion as a private client, off the record, while continuing to counsel them together every Wednesday. Yes, it was unethical. Anna didn’t know. And yes, legally, I was potentially losing my neutrality, but I felt bad for Dion. One Friday night, I was on my sofa going over some patient notes. Michael hated when I took work home with me, but that night he was on an overnight shift at Mount Sinai, so I had the apartment to myself. My work phone kept going off. Message after message. It was Dion . I didn’t answer right away. It’d been the same old thing with him. Talks about leaving Anna, dragged out until all hours. Anna was drinking again, calling him every name in the book. They’d fight over whose turn it was to pick up their son from Trinity—a prestigious Manhattan prep school. He said Anna complained about constantly catering to their son’s extracurriculars alone, then rushing home to make dinner. It left her no time to get her highlights done, so Anna hired a young maid to take the load off and accused Dion of gawking at the poor girl. Julia. Answer your phone. Please. I need you. Something happened. Pick up. I live a convenient three blocks away from my office on the Upper East Side. It took Dion eight minutes to get there from the San Remo to 86th and Madison. It was 1:23 in the morning. I was by the window when I heard heavy knocks at the door. Before I could even turn the knob, Dion pushed the door open with his shoulder, stumbling inside, grabbing my arms. Blood all over his palms. Now on my wrists and my blouse. I flung my arms away from him, and he collapsed to the floor. I pushed the door shut, and he reached, hugging my legs. I backed away. Disheveled, reeked of bourbon, and his hands drenched in red. Whatever the hell he had done, he had brought it to me. “Julia. Please.” He was sobbing on my floor. “Just listen.” “Whose blood is that?” I maintained my composure. Someone had to. “Who do you think?” “Where’s Anna?” He kept sobbing, burying his face in his palms. I yanked them off, knelt down beside him. “Where’s Anna? I know you can hear me, Dion. Where’s Anna?” Lost. Less sobbing, exhausted, his empty eyes wandering past me. “She’s gone. Julia…” “Gone where?” Naive question. We both knew where. “Gone.” “Did you kill her?” He looked up at me as if the question were absurd. But who in their right mind would believe him if he said no ? He was the husband and everyone knows— it’s always the husband.
By tatiana vitas2 months ago in Fiction
Day 22
Although this is over a day and a half later, I stayed in the cavern for 30 fucking hours; the last seven were me sleeping, so I'm showing up now. Keep in mind that’s what I was told, as feeling well rested is not an experience I’m familiar with, now or ever. I woke alone on one of those cots in that eight-by-ten-foot bedroom/workshop. A light shone from the ladder hole, one that fucked with my migraine personally; it must be hell. The feeling that I could piss a new waste system in this cavern, outside of the hole I watered the first tree that was remotely at the top of a slope to get the least as possible on my bare feet. The sun was attacking me with solar lemon juice, so that was more out of my piss-outside-etiquette than I could concern myself with. Not that I could see at the start of my eyes adjusting, but this was a jaw-dropping sight to behold of the swamp glowing to life in a flurry of insects and birds bursting into the sky for the hunt. My frontal male nudity may or may not have been part of the shock for the others. However, once I regained my vision, my quest for the missing 30 hours began, not due to the nudity but— “What the shit happened to my god damn arm?! Bandaged like my stroking out trigger their stroking.”
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
