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.
Photo by Daniel von Appen on Unsplash
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.
‘The Sands of Love.’ Sy pulled on one glove then the other, his fingers resembling over-stuffed sausages, straining against the latex.
‘What was that?’
‘Her first film role. Nineteen fifty three. Blink and you’d miss her.’
Francie looked down at her paperwork. ‘Never seen it.’
‘Not missing much. Gangster B movie. But she had glamour. Stood out, you know?’
Francie scribbled her signature at the bottom of the form before looking up.
Soap scum floated on the bath water, strands of long grey hair looped on the enamel. A crumpled square if tin foil – grubby brown shining at its centre – lay by the taps. One of the officers had found a teaspoon and a lighter in the bottom of the bath wedged under the body. She must have wriggled some as she died.
‘Doesn’t look too glamorous now. Okay, Sy. You can move her.’
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
The sun slumped low in the sky as we pulled into the drive-in. Kids clustered at the entrance, the girls whispering and giggling behind cupped hands, a boy tossing a ball on baked concrete.
Mansell turned off the engine, cuffing his top lip. His shirt collar was dark with sweat, his tie hanging limp. ‘Damn this weather, eh? Hot as asses out here.’
My partner was king of the meaningless expression.
Pulling on his suit jacket, he nodded towards the drive-in shelter, its corrugated iron roof, its strings of dusty bunting. ‘The boy’s parents run this place, you say?’
I checked the manila file on my lap. ‘For the last five years. Mother and stepfather.’
He opened the door to the SUV, pulling his jacket collar straight. ‘I’ll lead.’ He nodded to the open file. ‘Keep those photographs hidden. We need answers – the sight of blood only ever brings more questions.’
Written for What Pegman Saw, a photo prompt using Google Streetview. See here to join in and to join in.
His gaze fell upon the flower still clinging behind her ear. Its petals were flushed coral, curled back like lips parted in surprise. Her hair tumbled from its clip, curls lapping her neck. A tangle of sheets pillowed her head, exposed a shoulder, an arm thrown behind her, fingers still gripping the fabric even now.
If only she had said yes.
Well, that went creepier than I expected!
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. Today the word is GAZE. Pop along here and join the fun.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
They arranged to meet outside the mairie, where the brightly flowering baskets hung frothy with bumble bees.
She watched the council officials come and go, the men in their shiny suits, the women with their coiffed, brittle hair and stiff, painted smiles.
As the town hall clock chimed twelve she sat outside a cafe in the square, fingers tapping between the checked tablecloth and her cafe creme.
When she heard the sing-song siren she just smiled, standing ready for the gendarme to handcuff her.
They’d almost made it too.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the grandest flash prompt flying round the ether. See here to join in and to read the other, glorious tales.
That old place was isolated even when Mr and Mrs Murphy lived there – on the edge of town on a dogleg road that led to nothing but a dried up stream bed filled with dumped refrigerators and tyres.
The couple kept themselves apart. They didn’t use the local store. They didn’t go to church on Sunday. Never even borrowed a cup of sugar. In fact afterwards, no one could remember more than twenty words that passed between the Murphys and their neighbours.
There were rumours, but that’s one thing that breeds well in small towns. When people are starved of the truth, they like to invent their own.
But there was no denying what was found when the men came to unblock the sewer. No denying the smell, the bodybags lined up in the makeshift mortuary.
No denying how well the place burned after the news got out …
Written for What pegman saw, a prompt using Google Streetview. This week we have a picture of St Louis. See here to join in and to read the other stories.