by Sharon Frame Gay
She kills me every day. I loop round and round in time, coming back to the moment when she backs her car into me as I cross behind her with the groceries.
"John! Oh John!" she cries, as the oranges and apples roll under the rear tires. The last thing I see are the eggs, crushed and seeping from their shells, running into my blood.
I do not see a light for my soul to follow. I only hear her sobbing to the police.
Frightened and sad, I relive this moment forever.
I can always tell when she is lying.
Author bio: Bio: Sharon Frame Gay has been internationally published in many anthologies and literary magazines including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Thrice Fiction, Crannog, Typehouse, Lowestoft Chronicle and others. She has won awards at Rope and Wire, The Writing District, Wow-Women On Writing, and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Reverse is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 December 2019
Sunday, 10 March 2019
Fairfield
by Ed Broom
"Sir, I’ve got something."
All eyes swung to the rookie.
"Spit it out, Fairfield," I said. His centre parting joined me at the incident board.
"Sir, both Henry Bergholt and Eddie Wickham had blue lettering on their foreheads. But the third victim, Jimmy Bentley, had 'B2' in red."
"It’s not some bloody Radio 4 whodunnit, Fairfield. Your point?"
"This, sir".
Fairfield waved the local 'A to Z'.
"C1, the gallery where we found Wickham. G3? The baths. Bentley."
"Excellent. But why switch to red?"
"Large scale, sir. Eight inches to the mile. More precise."
"And B2?"
"Here, sir. The station."
Author bio: Ed Broom works in IT but tells his children that he's a lighthouse keeper. He lives in Ipswich and likes to track down crinkle-crankle walls.
Twitter – @edbroom
Fairfield is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
"Sir, I’ve got something."
All eyes swung to the rookie.
"Spit it out, Fairfield," I said. His centre parting joined me at the incident board.
"Sir, both Henry Bergholt and Eddie Wickham had blue lettering on their foreheads. But the third victim, Jimmy Bentley, had 'B2' in red."
"It’s not some bloody Radio 4 whodunnit, Fairfield. Your point?"
"This, sir".
Fairfield waved the local 'A to Z'.
"C1, the gallery where we found Wickham. G3? The baths. Bentley."
"Excellent. But why switch to red?"
"Large scale, sir. Eight inches to the mile. More precise."
"And B2?"
"Here, sir. The station."
Author bio: Ed Broom works in IT but tells his children that he's a lighthouse keeper. He lives in Ipswich and likes to track down crinkle-crankle walls.
Twitter – @edbroom
Fairfield is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Sunday, 3 December 2017
Dillinger
by Joseph S. Pete
Dillinger once robbed this dive bar. That was the legend; that was the lore. Jukebox and dollar PBRs be damned, that was still the most notable thing about the place nearly 80 years later, Mike thought.
How did a bank robber ever capture the public imagination?
Today, no one romanticized robbers. It was just another violent felony. You were another monster they demonized on the 10 o’clock news.
Mike finished his beer, headed to the restroom, wondered if any of these hipster kids had heard of Dillinger as he drew pantyhose over his head, then his .45 from his waistband.
Author bio: Joseph S. Pete is an award-winning journalist, an Iraq War veteran, an Indiana University graduate, a book reviewer, and a frequent guest on his local NPR affiliate. He was named the poet laureate of Chicago BaconFest 2016, a feat that Geoffrey Chaucer chump never accomplished. His work has appeared in Chicago Literati, Dogzplot, shufPoetry, The Roaring Muse, Blue Collar Review, The Five-Two, Lumpen, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Prairie Winds, The Dime Store Review, Pulp Modern, Zero Dark Thirty and elsewhere. He has twice as many first names as the average writer.
Dillinger once robbed this dive bar. That was the legend; that was the lore. Jukebox and dollar PBRs be damned, that was still the most notable thing about the place nearly 80 years later, Mike thought.
How did a bank robber ever capture the public imagination?
Today, no one romanticized robbers. It was just another violent felony. You were another monster they demonized on the 10 o’clock news.
Mike finished his beer, headed to the restroom, wondered if any of these hipster kids had heard of Dillinger as he drew pantyhose over his head, then his .45 from his waistband.
Author bio: Joseph S. Pete is an award-winning journalist, an Iraq War veteran, an Indiana University graduate, a book reviewer, and a frequent guest on his local NPR affiliate. He was named the poet laureate of Chicago BaconFest 2016, a feat that Geoffrey Chaucer chump never accomplished. His work has appeared in Chicago Literati, Dogzplot, shufPoetry, The Roaring Muse, Blue Collar Review, The Five-Two, Lumpen, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Prairie Winds, The Dime Store Review, Pulp Modern, Zero Dark Thirty and elsewhere. He has twice as many first names as the average writer.
Dillinger is part of 101 Fiction issue 17.
Sunday, 6 March 2016
Kindness
by Daniel Gooding
Terry held on grimly to his wife as the plane continued its seemingly never-ending descent. With all the chaos around them, screaming women clinging to red-faced children and slumped men in business suits weeping incoherently into cell phones, nobody seemed to notice Terry, or his violently trembling wife.
Once the tremors ceased, he released his hands from her throat. It was a kindness really. That had always been one of her favourite refrains: “You really should try and be kinder to yourself Terry!”
Leaning back in his seat, he sighed contentedly. The last minutes of his life were his own.
Author bio: Daniel Gooding was born in 1984, and his flash fiction has appeared previously in '101 Fiction', as well as 'The Legendary' and '101 Words'. His short story 'Crow Magnum Xix' is featured in the upcoming anthology 'Startling Sci-Fi: New Tales of the Beyond' published by New Lit Salon Press, and he occasionally blogs about books for 'The Guardian'. He currently lives in Bath, UK.
Kindness is part of 101 Fiction issue 11.
Terry held on grimly to his wife as the plane continued its seemingly never-ending descent. With all the chaos around them, screaming women clinging to red-faced children and slumped men in business suits weeping incoherently into cell phones, nobody seemed to notice Terry, or his violently trembling wife.
Once the tremors ceased, he released his hands from her throat. It was a kindness really. That had always been one of her favourite refrains: “You really should try and be kinder to yourself Terry!”
Leaning back in his seat, he sighed contentedly. The last minutes of his life were his own.
Author bio: Daniel Gooding was born in 1984, and his flash fiction has appeared previously in '101 Fiction', as well as 'The Legendary' and '101 Words'. His short story 'Crow Magnum Xix' is featured in the upcoming anthology 'Startling Sci-Fi: New Tales of the Beyond' published by New Lit Salon Press, and he occasionally blogs about books for 'The Guardian'. He currently lives in Bath, UK.
Kindness is part of 101 Fiction issue 11.
Sunday, 1 March 2015
Iced
by Robin Jennings
That pale, sickly green piece of paper. That gritty, calloused texture that says it’s been around the block a few times. That smell I can never quite place but always leaves me intoxicated.
There’s just something about a dollar bill, you know?
It’s magic.
Hot off the press. Damp with tears. Stained red with blood. Doesn't matter. Every one is beautiful in all of its imperfections.
So give me the next name on the list and I’ll cross it off. I’ll even let you pick the method. As long as you have that magic. That sickly green. Those dollar bills.
Author Bio: Robin Jennings is a horror enthusiast based in the open fields of Northern New Jersey. Having previously optioned a full length screenplay called “Shudder”, she’s now focusing her creative efforts on short fiction. Follow her on Twitter: @Robin_Jayyy.
Iced is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
That pale, sickly green piece of paper. That gritty, calloused texture that says it’s been around the block a few times. That smell I can never quite place but always leaves me intoxicated.
There’s just something about a dollar bill, you know?
It’s magic.
Hot off the press. Damp with tears. Stained red with blood. Doesn't matter. Every one is beautiful in all of its imperfections.
So give me the next name on the list and I’ll cross it off. I’ll even let you pick the method. As long as you have that magic. That sickly green. Those dollar bills.
Author Bio: Robin Jennings is a horror enthusiast based in the open fields of Northern New Jersey. Having previously optioned a full length screenplay called “Shudder”, she’s now focusing her creative efforts on short fiction. Follow her on Twitter: @Robin_Jayyy.
Iced is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
Tart
by W. M. Lewis
“Man can't survive on lemon tart alone,” Pippy Hunter said, the wind whipping the syllables away like a third-rate magician. The smell of fresh bitumen, pigeon crap, and ancient shells permeated the foreshore.
He said nothing, merely looked at the green sea. She scraped her boot in the gravelly sand. He looked hungry. She touched his face. He looked drunk.
When they found her body the next day, a half-eaten tart on the sea wall above her, it was still and quiet.
The birds strutted around like murderers who’d gotten away with it.
The hot sun itself seemed to smirk.
Author bio: I'm an Australian poet and writer. My poetry has appeared in Alliterati Magazine, Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, Eclecticism, Multiverses, PoV Magazine, Railroad Poetry Project, street cake magazine, The Night Light and Tincture Journal. My flash fiction has previously appeared in 101 Fiction. You can find me on Twitter at @mindintoword and at my blog, whatevertheysing.wordpress.com.
“Man can't survive on lemon tart alone,” Pippy Hunter said, the wind whipping the syllables away like a third-rate magician. The smell of fresh bitumen, pigeon crap, and ancient shells permeated the foreshore.
He said nothing, merely looked at the green sea. She scraped her boot in the gravelly sand. He looked hungry. She touched his face. He looked drunk.
When they found her body the next day, a half-eaten tart on the sea wall above her, it was still and quiet.
The birds strutted around like murderers who’d gotten away with it.
The hot sun itself seemed to smirk.
Author bio: I'm an Australian poet and writer. My poetry has appeared in Alliterati Magazine, Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, Eclecticism, Multiverses, PoV Magazine, Railroad Poetry Project, street cake magazine, The Night Light and Tincture Journal. My flash fiction has previously appeared in 101 Fiction. You can find me on Twitter at @mindintoword and at my blog, whatevertheysing.wordpress.com.
Tart is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
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