Stickler was talking into a mobile phone and didn’t see her enter the gallery. His hair was a shade greyer, she noticed, his jawline softened by the years.
He looked up at the scuff of her shoes. Those eyes hadn’t changed – Moss once said they held all the emotional depth of polished marble.
With a paper thin smile, Stickler beckoned her over. He muttered into the phone, ‘… the package could not be delivered within the agreed timescale. An unforeseen event occurred that was not factored in to the original calculations.’
An unforeseen event? She could almost feel Moss’s hand in hers, feel the last squeeze.
The phone clicked off. ‘I told you I didn’t want to meet here.’ He looked up. ‘Too many teeth.’
Prouse leaned into him, her lips against his ear. ‘And I told you – sometimes the minnow eats the shark. This is for Moss.’
Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Street View as its inspiration. This week we are in Manhattan, in the American Museum of Natural History. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
The leaves have long fallen, the creek’s fringed with ice. A wind cuts along the path, sneaking beneath my sweater, raising my skin to pimples.
‘You know why,’ snaps Flick, checking her phone signal.
There are still ribbons of police tape further along the track, tangled in the twigs like black and yellow bunting, the only sign remaining that anything happened here.
Madison and Lily are silent, Lily trailing behind as always. Madison’s gained weight since we last met – she always eats when she’s worried. And Lily … she’s a ghost girl. Silent, bony, big eyes staring like she’s seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe she’s sneaking some of her mom’s sleeping pills. I’m old enough to buy my own.
We’re together in this, a bond unbreakable.
Though I wish with all my heart I never had to lay eyes on these bitches again.
Written for What Pegman Saw, the fantastic prompt that uses Google Street View as its starting point. Today, we are at Bridal Veil Falls, Utah. See here to join in, share, read and comment on others.
‘Tell me again why you were here, Stephen,’ said Walker.
The kid’s preppy clothes were grubby, shirt cuff button missing. His knuckles were scuffed bloody, one cheek purpled by a bruise the size of an egg.
‘I said.’ Stephen sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Everyone comes to Cedar Pond in the summer. We hang out.’
‘Yeah.’ Walker crossed his arms, leaned against the squad car. ‘I came here when I was your age. Swam. Smoked some blow. Were you guys smoking , Stephen?’
The kid’s head dipped, eyes on the ground.
‘Man, we used to get up to some stuff.’ Walker crouched beside the boy who winced as he took his hand. ‘Never ended up with knuckles like that though.’ He stared into the terrified eyes, then past him, across the wide glassy black of the lake. ‘My girlfriend never went missing either. Where is she? Where’s Jennifer?’
Written for What Pegman Saw, the writing prompt that uses Google Streetview as its jumping off point. Do join in, share, read and comment on the other stories. See here to do just that.
I know the trees in the picture aren’t pines, but something about the area – and the dark tales surrounding Clinton Road – reminded me of ‘In the pines’ also called ‘Where did you sleep last night?’ I was familiar with the Nirvana Unplugged version and Kurt Cobain’s screaming last chorus (always makes my hair stand on end – in a good way) but I only today listened to an early Lead Belly recording. Equally magical.
All she could remember was the stink – that’s what she told the WPC with the baggy face and the red-rimmed eyes.
Urine – sharp enough to prickle her nose. And paint fumes – aerosol paint. How did she know it was aerosol paint? She shrugged. She just knew.
She wanted to get clean, to wash the smell from her sticky skin, but the WPC said no, not yet sweet. So she sat in the paper suit that crinkled when she breathed and thought of her rabbit Snickers. Of how his eyes had been rimmed with red before he went to the vet and never came home.
It was a simple lie. I didn’t even have to form the thought into words, Weber saw to that.
‘A yes is all we need. A yes and all of this can be over for you.’ His shirt was dark with sweat and even from the other side of the desk, I could smell last night’s schnapps on his breath, the sharp fug of raw onions.
One ‘yes’ and Professor Greenspan’s room became a store cupboard, his class taken by the oily Professor Marlin.
I walked past Greenspan’s apartment today. The windows were boarded up, misspelt obscenities scrawled across the warped wood. With a pen, I wrote in shaky text, I’m Sorry.
Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a story. Go here to join in and to read the other tales.