Short Story
The Farewell
The last slice of cake leans and eventually falls to the plate beneath it. Small mounds of icing outline the rectangular sweetness that once was. Well at least the streamer above the kitchen entrance is still there. “Wishing you all the best” it reads. Yet I wonder if it’s really true. I think it’s a funny thing to say to someone being evicted. I look around at the small four rooms of the complex and wonder how many people actually wish me well. I’m leaving, leaving them empty, and absent a tenant. How many people would actually appreciate that and “wish me well?”
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
Easily Spooked. Top Story - June 2025.
Here I am again, surrounded by chintz, faced with tea and watery eyes, the bloody dog staring at me. What was it Mickey said? I ask the wrong questions. Could be he's right. Well, it's hard to ask the right ones when your stumbling in the dark. I'm on surer footing today. Literally. My shoes are new, a little stiff, but comfortable and dry. My mam always said you could tell a man by the shine of his shoes. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Jeffers," I say, pleased with how gravely professional I sound, despite the absurdity of the situation. Of course, Gail doesn't find it odd, not in the same way I do. It's got to be strange, being without your spouse after nearly thirty years. Not one half so weird, I'd argue, as knowing the dead man we'll be discussing will be waiting for me outside. "You said you used to work for the police," she said, "That's right, isn't it?" "That's right," I say, stirring sugar into my tea, "I left to work as a private detective." Her mouth is a thin line. She's sitting ramrod straight, and peering at me carefully. I'm not sure what she's looking for, but I try to display it. Between her and that huge hairy dog, I feel like there are eyes drilling into me from all over. Maybe Mickey's as well. I shift in my seat. "You don't look like a private detective," she says. "But it's good that you don't work for the police anymore. I don't trust them." She sits up even straighter at that, squinting at me as if daring me to react. "Well," I sip my tea, "Lots of people don't." There's a pause. Damn. I was too heavy-handed with the sugar. "Mrs Jeffers..." Is it Mrs? For a widow? Ah hell, what do I care... "Are you planning to make use of my services?" "I'm not sure. Could you help me, d'you think?" "I may be able to-" especially if your dead husband will be a bit more co-operative. "It would be useful if I could take notes. Is that OK?" She nods. It'd be easier to concentrate if your dog wasn't gawping at me. I turn to a clean page. "Just tell me about what happened. Take your time." "Well, I went into Mickey's study last night. I don't know why. It... It feels like he's in there." Her chin juts upward. "I understand," I try to inject warmth into my voice. I really do understand...better than she realises. "There was something he was working on... a case he never let go. He was working on it the night he... Anyway. It was gone. Someone had been in the filing cabinet and taken out papers and folders and spread them over the desk." "How did you spot that?" "I'm not sure... It just looked off." Okay. "If I work for you, Mrs Jeffers, what would l be investigating? Would I be looking into the disappearance of those files, or would I be taking on the case your husband was working on?" "They're the same thing aren't they?" "They could be. Wouldn't like to assume, though." "And what about my Michael?" she says, hardly above a whisper. Here it comes... "Could you confirm that he... I mean, was it really...." "I have some contacts. I could look into that for you." Her shoulders sag and wobble. "Mrs Jeffers, when you say you don't trust police... Who else had access to your husband's office?" "A lot of folks came by the same day you did. All old friends of my Michael, from his days on the force. Any of them could have gone in his office. I was hosting, you see. Going to the kitchen, you know. For hot drinks and whatnot." "I see." So what made me so special? What made you decide to trust me? She reads the question on my face. "You're the only one who couldn't have gone in that room," she says. "Why is that?" I'm genuinely curious how she's reached that conclusion. "Honestly? You had wet feet, and you left footprints everywhere you went." Oh, Mickey would have loved that. I sip on my lukewarm tea. "I'd be happy to help you Mrs Jeffers. I'll send you a copy of my rates, and a contract. I don't want to be pushy, but the sooner I can act the better." "I understand. You need payment from me so you can, oh I don't know, bribe people for information." "That doesn't sound like me, Mrs. Jeffers." I am all innocence. It sounds exactly like me. I write down her contact details and she sees me out. The dog still doesn't take his eyes off me. If I were easily spooked it would give me the heebie jeebies.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
When Time Turned Back
Sometimes, a headline isn’t just news—it becomes the sound of a heart skipping a beat. On December 28, 1998, Miami International Airport's control tower received a strange signal—an unidentified aircraft entering their airspace. No contact, no voice, just a silent approach to the runway. It wasn’t just any plane. It was a DC-3 aircraft… one that had disappeared half a century earlier.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner & the Lesson of the Lake
Dodge should have known better. Was there ever a better epitaph for his tombstone? Dodge was not a man easily deterred. Years of stubborn resilience had served him well—whether in navigating the treacherous cliffs of Lysia or fending off Tamsin's incessant boasting about her precious Dragonettes.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
Frankenstein 2025
He pressed play on their class recording again. Melanie went first and blabbered on about some of the approved causes of the Civil War. She was nice, much nicer than most of his classmates. Live presentation and pen and paper had been Mr. Sanders answer to education’s problems, simple and effective. To be honest, Zach didn’t mind. There were two types of people who used LLM’s to do their homework: idiots and people like Zach who were too smart to be bothered, at least by his own estimation. There were better uses of his time.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Window on the Third Floor
Since moving into her new apartment, Daria had formed a quiet ritual. Every morning, she'd sip her coffee on the balcony, staring across at the old building opposite hers. It was nothing special — chipped paint, cracked windows, and crooked balconies. But one thing stood out: the window on the third floor.
By FLORIN-ALEXANDRU CALCIUabout a year ago in Fiction
