Readers & Writers discussion

Members post your Free short stories here. These must be the complete story with no links. Make sure you include the title and you the authors name. Readers post your comments or reviews of one of the stories under the Short Story Review section, not under the story itself.

3:04
A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

Laura Castle bolted up in bed. As her heart pounded and she gasped for air, she looked at the alarm clock at her bedside. It was 3:04. The alarm had not sounded. She had set if for 6:00 a.m. It was another horrific nightmare that had caused her to wake up, just one of many terrifying dreams that she had been having every night for several days in a row. Each dream was different, but always carried the same theme of her pending death. This time she had fallen through an ice-covered pond, and just before drowning she suddenly woke up. The other nights she was either being stabbed to death or was in a car crash, but she was always saved by waking up, and it was always at 3:04 a.m.

What in the hell is going on? she wondered. The lack of restful sleep was physically and mentally draining, and was starting to take its toll. This was the last thing she needed in her life right now. She was up for a big promotion in her job at Lone Star Life and Casualty Company in Dallas. She had worked hard to get ahead in the company, but her lethargy and forgetfulness was beginning to affect her daily job performance, and could jeopardize her chances for promotion.

When Laura arrived at work later that morning, her co-worker was the first to notice her dragged-out appearance. “Dang girl!” The outspoken Jasmine commented. “You got circles under your eyes like a raccoon. You party all night?”

Laura rolled her reddened eyes at Jasmine and shook her head. “No. I just can’t sleep these days.”

She began to tell the quizative Jasmine about her ongoing nightmares. After venting for several minutes, Jasmine said, “I think you should see a doctor.”

“Oh, my doctor would just give me some pills and that would make it worse,” Laura replied.

“No, I mean a head doctor,” Jasmine clarified.

“A shrink? No way! That would definitely kill my chances for a promotion. If the big shots found out I was seeing a psychiatrist. . .no, that’s out of the question! I’ve worked my butt off for that regional job, and I’m going to get it!”

Jasmine could see Laura’s determination. “Well, I tell you girl, you better take those nightmares as an omen and watch your step.”
“Do you really think it could be an omen about something?” Laura asked.
“Well, I’m from Louisiana. We take omens as serious as a heart attack,” said Jasmine.

“Thanks, now I will worry,” Laura frowned.

Laura’s phone started ringing. It was her boss, Gerald, wanting to see her in his office. As she reached his door, he motioned for her to come in and take a seat across from him at his desk. She felt uncomfortable as he stared at her, and wondered if he noticed the tiredness in her face.

“Laura, as you probably already know, we have been considering you for a promotion for quite some time now.” Her heart began to sink as she waited for him to tell her she was not going to be promoted. “I just want to tell you how pleased I have been with your hard work and dedication to the company. I have been in touch with the home office and a regional position has opened up in the Southwest. I have recommended you to fill that slot.”

Laura began to beam from ear to ear. “The Southwest? Oh my gosh! That would be wonderful!”

“I know this is short notice but could you fly out tonight to San Francisco and meet with the directors at the home office first thing in the morning?” he asked. “It’s just a formality. They like to personally meet new appointees, and welcome you aboard.”

“Oh sure. No problem. I can’t wait!” Laura replied.

“I’ll have my secretary make your travel arrangements, and congratulations. You deserve it!” Gerald shook Laura’s hand.

“Thank you, Gerald!”

Laura returned to her cubicle and told Jasmine the good news. They agreed to celebrate with a drink when she returned from San Francisco. With all the excitement, Laura forgot how tired she was as she finished up her afternoon at work. She was too excited to let sleepiness damper her elation. Before she left, Gerald’s secretary called and told her the travel arrangements were made for an 8:10 p.m. flight on Delta. She said she would send an e-mail to Laura with the specific flight information.

Laura arrived home to her apartment around 5:30 and began to pack an overnight bag for the trip. Later, she called her mother in Fayetteville, Arkansas and told her the good news. Not wanting to worry her elderly mother, she specifically didn’t mention anything about the nightmares to her. Her mother told her she was so proud of her and that she intended to notify her friend at the local newspaper, so she could write a piece about the promotion of her daughter.

After a quick shower, she drove to the airport and parked in the parking garage across from the terminal. As she rolled her carry-on bag across the street, she looked at her watch. It was 6:40. Perfect timing, she thought.

The line at the Delta counter was fairly short. Laura handed her driver’s license to the ticket agent. “Yes, I have it right here, Ms. Castle. Round trip to San Francisco, departing Dallas at 8:10 p.m., Delta flight #304, arriving San Francisco at 11:32 p.m.”

“Flight #304?” Laura blurted out.

“Yes, that’s correct. Is something wrong?”

Laura started sweating and could barely speak. She was having a panic attack. “I can’t take this flight,” she uttered. “Is there another one?”

The bewildered agent typed on the keyboard. “The only one is the redeye departing at 12:15 and arriving at 3:37.”

“What’s the flight number?” Laura asked.

“#512,” the agent replied with a perplexed expression on his face.

“I’ll take that flight. Change my ticket please.”

The agent made the ticket change and didn’t ask any questions, but it was obvious to him that this strange passenger had a problem with the flight number for some reason. Another weirdo, he thought. It must be a full moon out tonight.

With the new boarding pass in hand, Laura took a seat in the terminal area to gather her thoughts. Jasmine’s voice echoed through her mind. . . “We take omens as serious as a heart attack.” Well, I took this one serious too, Laura thought. What was the odds of the flight number being #304? Better safe than sorry, she assured herself.

She had so much time to kill before her flight, so she decided to get her car and go out for a bite to eat on the way to Wal-Mart just down the road. She made a list that included lip gloss, Visine, Tylenol, and a magazine. She stuffed the scribbled list into her purse and grabbed her rolling carry-on and headed for the exit door of the airport. Her cell phone beeped with a text message as she walked. She reached into her purse to check the text. It was from Jasmine and said to have a great flight. Laura stepped off the curb. Tires screeched and a horn blared as the vehicle impacted her. Laura became airborne. Her body smashed the windshield and was thrown over the top of the car and landed on the trunk lid. She slowly rolled off onto the pavement. Blood was pooling from her head. A shaken cabby exited his vehicle. Bystanders screamed in horror and ran to the scene to try to help the stricken Laura, as faces of strangers gawked from the terminal windows. Sirens screamed in the distance as Laura drew her last breath.

The coroner arrived and pronounced her dead and the police officer began his report. Eyewitnesses stated that Laura was looking at her phone as she walked straight into the path of the oncoming taxicab.

An investigation at the scene was conducted and the tragedy was ruled an accident. No charges were filed against United Cab Company or the driver of cab #304.

Mildred’s Makeover

A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

Ivan Borisheski and his young bride, Mildred, immigrated to America from Poland in 1955. After living in the slums of Brooklyn for a few years, they finally scraped up enough savings to move to Wisconsin. They purchased a small hog farm on the outskirts of Sheboygan.

Ivan worked tirelessly over the years and farm life had taken a toll on him. His long, jet black hair became short white stubble, and his hands were cracked and calloused. He rarely left the farm except for needed supplies, which always included a quart of cheap bourbon. Mildred referred to it as “Satan in a bottle.” On the other hand, Mildred had never been to town, and in fact, had never left the house since they moved there. A definite recluse, I guess you would call her.

Ivan came through the door after another hard day of work, and breathed in a whiff of beans and salt pork he had put in the slow cooker that morning. Mildred sat at the kitchen table where she always sat. Ivan dished up the beans, placed a bowl in front of her, and then took his place at the other end of the table and began digging in.

After a few bites, he looked up and told Mildred that Rosey, his prize sow, had gotten her head caught in the fence trying to fetch a stray cob. “She’s a feisty ol’ gal,” he said, as he began to laugh. “Reminds me of you, back in the day.”

Mildred didn’t respond.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he paused to take another bite of beans. “I think you need one of those makeovers that all the women are getting now days, and maybe a new dress too.” He shoveled in another spoonful of beans. “Now don’t try to thank me. It’s the least I can do,” he added, and lifted up his hand. He retrieved a newspaper from the kitchen counter and placed it in front of her.

“What ya think? Ain’t she a beauty?” he asked. The paper was opened to the obituary section and displayed the picture of a lovely young female with flowing hair around her shoulders. The young woman had recently died and was buried in Clossen Cemetery, just down the road from the farm.

Mildred said nothing. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t uttered a word for decades. On occasion, a shrill high-pitched voice could be heard throughout the house, but it was just Ivan mimicking her after he’d had too much whiskey, and was in the mood for an argument. Of course, that was what led to her demise years ago, but it had been so long that he didn’t even remember what they had argued about.

Mildred just sat and said nothing, her hollowed eye sockets seemed fixated on Ivan’s every word. His calloused bear-like hands had choked the very life out of her years ago. Now, she just sat at the table, day in and day out. The small amount of remaining flesh on her face and hands had dried like leather across her skeleton.

Ivan assured her that removing the young woman’s face that was buried down the road would be no trouble whatsoever. After all, he had butchered so many hogs in his time that he had the skills of a surgeon.

As he reached across the table to finish off her supper, he whispered, “You’ll look stunning, my dear…absolutely stunning!”

FACING THE BEAST
Short story by Robert M. Roberts

It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. The train car slowed. Quentin looked out the window as the buildings and houses came into view. Just another town and another show, he thought. Just like the thousands of others the circus had been to over the years. However, this one seemed eerily familiar, but he was sure they hadn’t been there before.

The sign said Peaceville, Mo., Population 8,433. Such a small town. Hardly worth the trouble of setting up before they reached Kansas City. Oh well, money is money, and the struggling Schofield Brothers Circus sure could use some, he thought.

As the train came to a stop just north of town, he changed into his work clothes and set out to check on the lions. They hadn’t eaten since morning when they stopped briefly in Texas. He had to get them fed and watered so they would be in a calm mood for tomorrow night’s show. He never let anyone besides himself tend to the animals. He didn’t want to interrupt the trust between him and the felines by allowing other humans to interact with them.

As he rolled back the tarp of the train car, the mighty animals roared as they paced back and forth in their cages. He turned on the water faucet to fill the drinking tank, and began poking chunks of raw meat into the cage. The hungry lions tore at the flesh as if they were starving and hadn’t eaten in days. Lily, his favorite of the four lions, made a swipe with her paw at the others, and then took the first piece of meat. She could be the most affectionate of the animals, but also the most unpredictable, and Quentin was always on his guard around her.

He awoke the next morning with the anticipation of the upcoming performance. Although it was a small town and would draw a sparse crowd, he would give an entertaining performance as if he were in a metropolis. After all, he was the greatest lion tamer in the world, and was envied by his rivals.

It only seemed like yesterday to him, that he ran away from home to join the circus. Only twelve years old at the time, it was his only way out of a miserable existence. His mother had passed away when he was six, and he was the target of constant verbal abuse from his alcoholic father. So, when the circus came to his town, he hopped on one of the cars and never looked back. The lion tamer at the time, a gentleman named Raphael, from Spain, took young Quentin under his wing and made him his assistant. He taught him how to feed and care for the big cats, and prior to his death, mentored him in the art of lion taming.

Evening finally arrived, and it was showtime as the curtains opened and the lions ran into the arena and took their places on the half barrels. Seconds later, Quentin entered the arena donned in his white jumpsuit, and cracked the leather whip. The lions let out deafening roars as they traded places on the barrels and swiped their paws through the air.

Just as Quentin made a loud crack with the whip, everything under the big top went silent. He could hear absolutely nothing. He put his index finger in his ear, trying to open up the passage. Had he suddenly gone deaf? he wondered. He began to feel faint and walked to the edge of the arena to lean on the rail in front of the spectators. He looked out at the crowd. They acted as if nothing was wrong, like they didn’t even notice him. They just stared and clapped their hands at the activity in the ring. Quentin turned and saw someone else performing with the lions. He ran toward him and shouted, “Who are you? What is going on here?”

The strange man continued to command the cats as if Quentin didn’t even exist. He ran back toward the crowd and overheard two people having a conversation. “I remember about twenty years ago when the last circus came to town, a young man was killed by the lions.”

“Yeah, a fellow named Quentin. I remember it well,” the other man said.

Suddenly, Quentin realized he was facing the beast called death. After all those years, it was time to cross over.

The Boxer
By Robert M. Roberts

Pedro’s gloves were smeared with the blood of the Irishman. His lightning left hook followed by a right cross had landed with pinpoint accuracy. The Irishman stumbled backwards and then lunged forward with an explosive haymaker that connected with Pedro’s temple. The crowd roared as Pedro “The Puncher” crashed to the center of the ring like a fallen oak. The referee shouted the ten count with his arm flailing at the downed boxer.
Pedro’s chin reverberated off the canvas as the Irishman stood in his corner smiling sardonically with his bloodstained mouthpiece. “The Puncher” was in a dream state as the referee’s count reached six. Suddenly, his arm began to move and his mind flipped back and forth from the past to the present. Was he still that frail, skinny boy in Ecuador, or was he really Pedro “The Puncher” fighting for the championship at Madison Square Garden?
Unfortunately, neither was true. These were only the fleeting thoughts of a dying murderer as the deadly cocktail of drugs passed through his veins at the Florida State Prison.
Some say justice was served as Pedro took his last breath. Far removed from the small innocent boy of his childhood, he didn’t become a boxer, but the victim of a violent world.

MAY THE RIVER RUN RED

Part 1 of 2

A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

Ten year old Joey Mills was beaming with excitement in the summer of 1958. He had just gotten word that his grandparents had bought a farm outside of Peoria, and he had been invited to spend the summer with them. No more boring Chicago, he thought, as his mother helped him pack for the trip.
The three hour drive to Peoria passed quickly while he bombarded his parents with questions about country life. As they arrived, he saw his grandparents waving from the front porch. Joey’s eyes scanned the area and saw the green fields and the old barn that stood in the distance. As the grownups hugged and chatted, Joey took in a deep breath of fresh air and compared the smells of the country to that of the city. He was a little disappointed at the absence of farm creatures, but he was still glad to be away from the city and knew he had a lot of exploring to do over the next couple of months.
A little while later he kissed his parents' goodbye and they reassured him that they would return to pick him up before the start of the school year. He waved at the back of their car as it drove down the dirt road and disappeared from view.
After a piece of his grandma’s apple pie, he was off to explore his new surroundings. On his way to the barn, he passed by the modest garden of corn and other plants that wasn’t familiar to him. The barn was old with big, creaky doors, and contained rusted farm implements and tools. At the back of the barn there was a ladder leading up to the loft where several bales of hay had been left by the previous owner. His grandfather had mentioned to him that he planned to eventually get some cows and maybe even a horse, so the hay would come in handy. He swung open the upper doors of the loft and had a good view of the countryside. Farm houses dotted the large green fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. He noticed that the skies were clear blue, instead of brown like they were in the city.
Joey started to wonder if he might get bored this summer because no other kids were around. The country was so quiet without the noise of cars and trains that he was used to. After a few hours of play in the barn, his grandpa hollered to him that supper was ready. As Joey made his way back to the house he decided that tomorrow he could make a fort with the hay bales if his grandpa didn’t mind.
His Grandma fixed a big supper of fried chicken and all the fixins and then they settled in the living room to watch television. Joey was astounded that they only had one channel instead of his normal 6 channels that he had at home. Between the long car ride, exploring the farm, and the chicken dinner, he fell asleep on the sofa. Grandma woke him up around 10:00 p.m. and helped him to bed. At first, he struggled to go back to sleep. It was just too dang quiet. Finally, his eyelids grew heavy and he was off to slumber land.
Hours later, he awoke to the smells of bacon and coffee permeating from the kitchen.
“Oh, wow! Waffles!” he said as he entered the kitchen.
Grandpa pulled out a chair. “You sit right here, Joey. Do you drink coffee at home?”
“No. Mom won’t let me,” he replied.
“Helen, pour Joey a half a cup. He’s a farm boy now,” Grandpa exclaimed.
“Ramona’s going to skin you, Harold,” Grandma replied.
Grandpa winked at Joey and laughed. “It’ll be our little secret, won’t it Joey?”
“You bet, Grandpa,” Joey said with a grin.
Joey dug into his waffles. “Grandpa, can I build a fort up in the loft of the barn with the hay bales?”
“Sure,” Grandpa said.
Helen spoke up. “I think that’s a little dangerous.”
“Hogwash,” Harold said. “That’s what’s wrong with Ramona. You made her scared of everything.”
“Hogwash?” Grandma laughed. “I’ve never heard you say that before. Aren’t you now the country bumpkin?”
Joey sipped on the coffee and made a grimacing face. Soon he was off to the barn to build the fortress of straw. To his surprise, the bales of hay were a lot heavier than he had anticipated. He struggled as he stacked them two high on each side and two in the back. It really needed a roof, so it took all the strength he could muster to stack the last ones three high. At last the fort was complete. An old broom was the closest thing he could find that resembled a rifle. He picked it up and crawled inside, peering out of an opening and waited for the anticipated Indian attack. He made “pow-pow” sounds, and the avengers fell, one by one. Then, he noticed something looked odd on the floor of the barn where the last bale of hay had been moved. One of the boards in the floor was very short, only about a foot in length. Joey crawled out of the fort to get a better look. The board wasn’t nailed down, so he pried it up with his fingers, and leaned back as if he was expecting a spider to jump out. He couldn’t believe what he saw. It was a book. As he picked it up, he blew off the dust and rubbed the remainder of the dirt off the surface. It smelled musty and there was no printing on the front that looked to be made of leather. As he opened the cover, the outer edges of the pages were stained brownish yellow, but the blue handwritten words, although a little smeared, were still legible. It was a diary. A soldier’s diary. He read aloud the date at the top of the page. “October 12, 1862.”
Joey braced his back against the fort and tried to calculate in his head how many years ago that had been. “Wow, 1862!”
He soon dismissed the arithmetic. His small finger moved beneath each sentence as he began to read. It was the journal of 16 year old Cody Westfall, a corporal in the Confederate Army from Tennessee. Joey was mesmerized by what he read on each page, even though he didn’t understand a lot of the terminology or even much about the Civil War, except what he had seen on television. His eyes remained glued to each page. He only put the book down occasionally to utter “wow” or “man.” As he read the last two pages, his heart began to pound as the young corporal prepared for battle.
April 23, 1863
We made camp last night after coming up from Arkansas and into southwest Missouri. It’s cold for this time of year and we couldn’t light a campfire ‘cause them Yanks are just a few miles across the river from us. Our Lieutenant said the Injun scouts reported there’s a company of two hundred of them across Hickory Creek near the town of Carthage. We should be able to take‘em easy. Can’t wait to get to that town. We sure are runnin’ low on grub.
The young corporal continued to write in his diary until the light of dawn as they prepared to engage the enemy. Joey began to read the last entry in the journal.
Lieutenant Elijah Combs just gave the morning prayer and told us to get ready to move out. I’m dreadin’ crossing that cold creek more than I’m dreadin’ those damn Yanks. Lieutenant Combs ended the prayer saying, “May the river run red with the blood of the enemy.” He sure has a way with words. Will write again tonight after we kick the shit out of them Yanks, and get to Carthage.
The rest of the pages were blank. Joey closed the book and stared across the barn. There were so many unanswered questions. What happened after that? Were some of the pages missing? Where did this come from? How did this book get to Illinois? He scratched his head and wondered. He felt a deep attachment to the book and the young soldier and held it close to his chest. Hours had slipped by when he heard his grandma call out that it was time for lunch. He immediately put the book back in its hiding place and covered it with a bale of hay.

MAY THE RIVER RUN RED

Part 2 0f 2

A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

As the summer months slipped by, Joey had read the book so many times that he almost knew each sentence by heart. He asked his grandpa many questions about the Civil War, but never told him about the book he had found. Grandpa asked him why he was so interested in this subject and Joey fibbed and told him they had studied it in school, even though American history wouldn’t be taught in school for two more years. Grandpa was never the wiser and Joey never asked questions about it again.
The day came when Joey’s parents arrived to pick him up to return to Chicago. He carried a little guilt about taking the book and hiding it in his suitcase. After all, he justified, the book was left there years ago, and since his grandparents didn’t know anything about it, it technically wasn’t theirs either.
After returning home, Joey hid the book in a shoebox under his bed. He became obsessed with the Civil War and read and researched everything he could get his hands on about the subject. One Saturday, at the public library, he stumbled upon a book that finally gave some answers to the questions that eluded him. A book entitled The Tennessee Volunteers described the movements of the Confederate battalion of eight-hundred soldiers who fought in numerous states. After the battle of Pea Ridge in Arkansas, the battalion was split up into two companies. One company moved into Prairie Grove, Arkansas, and the other one forged into Missouri toward the town of Carthage. Through faulty intelligence, the Confederate army of less than two-hundred soldiers perished when they encountered eight-hundred Union soldiers on April 23, 1863. This came to be known as The Battle of Hickory Creek that took place near the town of Carthage, Missouri. The last page of the book listed the war dead. Among them was Corporal Cody Westfall, 16 years old, from Dixon, Tennessee. Joey stared at the page for a few moments, and then closed the book. He felt relieved that the mystery had been solved, but at the same time, he felt sad and angry that so many Americans died in a senseless war that he still didn’t quite understand. He still wondered how the diary ended up hidden in a barn in Peoria, Illinois.
For the next several years, the book remained in the dusty shoebox under his bed. When he went off to college in 1966, he didn’t think to take it with him. He found college to be boring and not that much different than high school. The only class he excelled in was American history and he dropped out in his second year. Now that he had lost his college deferment for the draft, and had no job, he felt the only thing to do was join up. He spent his twentieth birthday in basic training with his new friend, Carl, at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Carl was a country boy from Tennessee and had a thick southern drawl. They became best of friends and depended on each other to get through the rigors of basic training.
When graduation day came and orders of deployment were handed out, the two were elated that they both were assigned to Special Forces Company C, even if it meant they would be heading to Vietnam.
After two months on active duty, they had seen very little action and spent most of their time at the base in Da Nang. Luckily, they had dodged the TET offensive to the base three months prior to their arrival.
When orders came down that their company was to proceed on a mission the following day to the Mekong Delta region, they were excited, yet apprehensive. Their company commander, Colonel Michael Cross, was a seasoned career soldier and had fought in the Korean War. Their mission was to engage the Viet Cong at the Mekong River that separated Vietnam from Cambodia. Intelligence anticipated very little resistance to their mission of destroying ammunition bunkers hidden in Cambodia.
Morning came early as the company of soldiers gathered for last minute instructions from Colonel Cross. He spoke with authority about the success of their upcoming mission, and ended with “may the river run red with the blood of the enemy.”
Joey couldn’t believe what he had heard. Had he just imagined it?
A nervous Carl suddenly said, “We’re gonna kick the shit out of the Cong, ain’t we Cody?”
Joey turned to Carl. “What did you call me? Did you say Cody?”
“Joey. I called you Joey. We’re gonna kick the shit out of ‘em, ain’t we?”
Joey paused and looked at his friend. “No, Carl. I don’t think we will.”
One hundred seventy-one men lost their lives that day after being overrun by the Viet Cong. No one would ever know that the name, Joey Mills, PFC, which was etched on a granite wall, was history repeating itself.

*Dates, places, names, and events are not based on historical facts.

Jimi the Good Boy
Short Story by Robert M. Roberts

This story was written before Russia's invasion of Ukraine.


Olga Ivanov and her seven year old son, Jimitri, were in awe as they peered through the window of the airplane. The city below, with its towering buildings and many houses, stretched for miles. This would be their new home. It was a far cry from the cold impoverished country of the Ukraine.

Although Olga was frightened of this new beginning, anything would be better than living with the abusive, alcoholic husband, Jimi’s father, who they had left behind. She wondered how he would react when he finally sobered up and realized they were gone and were never going to return. Maybe he would kill himself, she thought. No he wouldn’t do that. He would be so glad to be rid of us, he probably wouldn’t even contact the authorities and report us missing, she surmised.

They would never have escaped had it not been for her cousin, Sonjia. She had helped arrange the airfare and visas. Sonjia warned her years ago not to marry the monster, but Olga didn’t listen to her advice. But now, she and Jimi had a second chance. She vowed to herself that she would work hard to pay her cousin back for saving them.

After the plane landed at JFK, they waited patiently at customs. As the agent waved them through, Olga was relieved that the agent didn’t ask her anything since she spoke little English. She saw a woman waving frantically in the distance. As they worked their way through the crowd, she realized it was Sonjia and she was yelling in Russian, “Welcome to America!”

A few minutes after the hugs and heartwarming greetings, they gathered their small bags of belongings and made their way to start their new life in Brighton Beach. ‘Little Odessa,’ it was called, where thousands of immigrant Russians and Ukrainians had resided for generations. America has traditionally been called ‘the melting pot’, and New York City has several pots where different nationalities claim their own little space in the metropolis.

Sonjia was several years older than Olga and had never married. She was happy to share her small, two bedroom flat with the new arrivals. She enrolled Jimi in school and helped Olga find house cleaning jobs.

As time passed, Jimi seemed to be doing well in school. However, Olga found it quite difficult learning the English language and she could only speak a few words. She tried hard to fit in with the people she worked for, but there was such a language barrier. She would pull a picture from her apron and point to it. “This is my son, Jimi. He is a good boy,” she would tell them. Olga did this often and it was obvious to everyone she met that she was very proud of her son.

Olga worked hard and over time and was able to pay Sonjia back for helping her and Jimi come to America. Life was good for them for the first few years until Sonjia suddenly died from a brain aneurysm. Olga and Jimi continued to live in the apartment. Sonjia left them a little money, but that soon evaporated. It was tough to live on the money Olga got from her few cleaning jobs, but she always kept a smile on her face. She often pulled the faded picture from her apron and would say to everyone she met, “This is my son, Jimi. He is a good boy.”

Jimi was now fourteen years old and his life began to spiral out of control. Unbeknownst to his mother, he quit going to school. Olga was never notified that he didn’t attend school. He started hanging out every day at Chertoff’s Deli, which was a mere front for the Russian Mafia. There he met the worst of the worst, but they began to take an interest in the young boy and gave him a few dollars to run errands for their bookmaking and money laundering business. To explain his constant absence and the extra money, Jimi told his mother he had a part-time job after school, washing dishes at the deli.

As time passed, Jimi became hardened and considered himself a tough guy. He bought a menacing knife with a serrated edge that he stored in the lining of his boot, under his pant leg. He was quick to pull it out when he was threatened by an outside foe and therefore gained the nickname of ‘Jimi the Knife’ by his Mafia cohorts. His allegiance to the organization would be tested as he moved up in the ranks.

In the spring of his seventeenth year, he had the audacity to tell his mother that he had graduated from high school and had been promoted to Assistant Manager at the deli. Olga never questioned what he told her. She bought a cake in his honor to celebrate his achievements. “Jimi, what a good boy you are,” she told him in her broken English.

One week later, Jimi stood in the darkness between two buildings. He was just out of sight of the glaring street light. He waited patiently with his knife in hand as the targeted victim approached on the sidewalk. Failing to pay a gambling debt, the husband and father of three was about to pay with his life.

In a split second, Jimi shoved the steel blade into the man’s side. He quickly extracted it and then slit his throat. As his body slumped over in the dark alley, Jimi wiped off the bloody knife blade on the victim’s coat and exited the alley in the opposite direction.

As he made his way home, he stopped in front of a lighted store window and checked for blood on his clothes and hands, but they appeared to be clean. He was kind of surprised that he didn’t feel guilt or remorse, it was the opposite. The first time was exciting and he enjoyed it. After all, he thought, he didn’t know the guy.

Jimi received kudos, as well as money from his mafia bosses and there would be no turning back. Like all organized crime, whether it is Italian, Russian, or whatever, once you’re in, there’s no getting out alive. He knew that. He graciously reaped the monetary rewards for this hit and future hits. He socked the money away, and planned to buy himself and his beloved mother a nice house one day.

There was little news coverage or real investigation of the murder. After all, it wasn’t like it happened in Manhattan. Even after three more killings that year, no one was taken into custody. By definition, three murders suspected by the same perpetrator are normally considered by the FBI as serial killing. But no FBI agents showed up to investigate. It was just business as usual because it happened in areas dominated by organized crime.

The next year, Jimi the Knife was contracted to do another hit on a John Doe who owed the organization money for drugs. Jimi was uneasy about this one because it was to go down in his own neighborhood. He didn’t want his mother to be afraid because of a murder happening so close to home. But there was no other option.

It was shivering cold that night with a heavy mist in the air. Jimi was in wait, hiding in the shadows, just two doors down from a bakery. He was told his victim would be wearing a black hooded coat, and that he stopped at the bakery every week day night a little after 9:00 p.m. for donuts and coffee on his way home from work.

Jimi kept looking at his watch, wishing the guy would show up. He was freezing and fog was settling in, making it hard for him to see. Suddenly, he heard the door bells ring as the bakery door opened. He peeked around the corner and saw a figure in a black hooded coat walking in his direction, carrying a box. As Jimi pulled the lethal knife from his boot, he wondered how he had missed the guy going into the bakery.

The footsteps got closer. Jimi drew back the knife, ready to thrust. Just as the hand carrying the bakery box came into view, he gouged the steel blade with all his might into the victim’s torso. The body immediately fell to the sidewalk, as Jimi’s hand still held the knife.

The hood of the victim’s coat fell back. Jimi stared at the face and screamed, “Mommmm!”

It was Olga’s face staring up at him.

“Why? Jimi, why?” she gurgled.

“I didn’t know it was you!” Jimi’s voice echoed loudly through the streets.

It was too late to help her. She was gone. Jimi cradled his mother’s lifeless body in his arms. As he sobbed uncontrollably, he saw the contents of the open box beside her body. It was a cake decorated with the words, “Happy Birthday, Jimi. You’re a good boy!”

LEGEND OF SPIRIT CREEK

By Robert M. Roberts


We sat around the campfire smoking cigars and drinking beer. It was a perfect night with the sky full of stars as we listened to the ripple of the creek rolling by. Other than the croak of a distant frog, our voices were the only sounds that could be heard.

It was good to be with my old buddies again. The four of us had been friends since childhood and were in the scouts together. Although our lives had taken us to different parts of the country, we always managed to get together for this most important reunion. Jim, Donny, Joe and I had been getting together every five years for a camping excursion. This year it was my turn to pick the place and make all the arrangements.

After searching the internet for months, I chose Spirit Creek in Oklahoma for our get- together. It was centrally located for all of us, had good trout fishing, and it was isolated from other campers. The guys hadn’t changed much over the years, except for Joe. He had seen some tough duty during the Gulf War, but in spite of it, he had become a successful attorney in Des Moines. Two failed marriages due to his excessive drinking haunted him, and he had become cynical and almost mean-spirited at times, especially after drinking too much booze. But we were friends, and friends overlook shortcomings.

Just like when we were kids, each one of us told our same stale stories as we drank and laughed into the night. I piped in with the Indian legend of Spirit Creek that I had read about when I was doing my research for this trip. The guys sat like statues as I relayed my story.

“According to Indian legend, about a quarter of a mile downstream, there is a fork in the creek,” I pointed. “If you cross to the other side west at the fork, you’ll enter the spirit world. Only Native Americans are welcome, and outsiders will be dealt with accordingly.”

“Why would anyone want to enter the spirit world?” Donny asked.

“To visit relatives that had passed, I would guess,” I replied.

“Man, that’s some spooky stuff,” Jim added.

Joe took a gulp of his beer and let out a belch. “What a crock of shit,” he said, slurring his words. “You’d have to be a damn fool to believe that Indian crap!”

“Lighten up man. I was just making conversation. We all know it’s just a myth.”

You could have cut the silence around the campfire with a knife, as one by one, each excused themselves to turn in for the night. Everyone turned in except Joe, who mumbled as he grabbed another beer from the ice chest.

The next morning, I was the first one up and started stoking the fire for the coffeepot. A pile of beer cans were strewn next to the chair where Joe had sat the night before. After the coffee perked, I went to the guys tents to wake them up. Joe’s tent was empty and his cot looked like it hadn’t been slept on. I began calling out his name as Donny and Jim emerged from their tents.

“What’s going on?” Jim asked.

“Joe’s not in his tent. I wonder where he’s at,” I said.

“Oh, he’s probably just scouting around. He’ll show up,” Jim said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

An hour passed and no sign of Joe. We all started to worry and began combing the creek, each going in a different direction.

“Come quick, downstream,” Donny yelled.

When Jim and I reached Donny at the fork, we couldn’t believe what we saw. Joe lay on the bank, his clothes soaked, and his lifeless eyes stared at the gravel bar beneath his chin. He was dead. None of us could utter a word as we saw the three crude arrows with feathers on the ends protruding from his back.

We just stood there for a couple of minutes. Jim mumbled, “Legend, my ass,” as we turned and looked across the creek.

Last Flight of Mary Sage
A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

Mary stood patiently in line waiting to check in. The terminal was a beehive of activity that Monday morning, as groggy travelers sipped on coffee and rolled their luggage a foot at a time toward the counter. Finally with boarding pass in hand she went through security and then headed to the boarding area.

This was the typical routine of the start of another work week on her commute from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. She couldn’t believe it was already July, 2022. Her new position as CEO at Five Star Records had been an exciting adventure thus far, and she was determined to turn the struggling recording company around. Mary’s partner and founder of Five Star, Barry Cronin, had died from a cocaine overdose four months earlier. His expertise for signing new talents to the label had evolved from looking for talent, to their ability to access narcotics for his uncontrollable addiction.

Now Mary was in charge, and her latest scouting auditions of new rock groups in California had produced a top ten hit on the Billboard charts. By doubling her efforts, she hoped to put the dying record label back on top.

Passengers crowded to the pedestal and handed their tickets to the agent as the door in the waiting area opened and it was time to board the plane. With only an average of four hours of sleep most nights, it was never a problem for her to sleep through the entire flight. The plane had barely become airborne when Mary drifted off to sleep. Five hours later she awoke just fifteen minutes before touchdown. Stretching her arms she felt refreshed from the much needed sleep. Now she had the energy and vitality to seek out the next big talent.

By the end of the week, she was certain she had succeeded by signing a new group from San Diego called Cloud Burst that specialized in a unique mix of southern rock and rhythm and blues.

She felt ecstatic as she boarded the plane from LAX for home, and was soon fast asleep as the plane ascended into the sky. Mid-flight, somewhere over the state of Iowa, she was suddenly aroused by the Captains loud, but calm voice coming over the cabin speaker. He was instructing the passengers and crew to prepare for crash landing. She was confused as she looked in terror around the cabin. Everything was different. The plane and the people looked different. She could smell cigarette smoke permeating the cabin.

“What’s going on?” she screamed, but none of the passengers looked up from their crouched positions.

Had everything before been just a dream, or did she have a glimpse into the future of what might have been? You see, Mary was not the CEO of a record company but instead was a college student on her way to visit friends. It was not 2022, but July 8, 1989, the day 198 people on Trans America Airlines flight 412 crashed in an Iowa cornfield. 102 people survived, while 96 perished. Mary Sage was listed among the dead.

Murder on Mulberry
By Robert M. Roberts

It was 11:55am when the call came in from central. Detective Ross was just pulling into his favorite deli when he heard the call from dispatch on his radio. “Damn! Right at lunch time,” he cursed, as he circled the parking lot and headed in a northerly direction. 2212 Mulberry Street. That’s only a few blocks over, he thought.
“Two gunshot victims,” the dispatcher said. It had been over a month since the last shooting in the town of Marietta, located on the Ohio River.
Minutes later, Ross arrived at the address. As he exited his car, he noticed that he had beaten the crime unit to the scene, but the yard was already strewn with the yellow and black police tape. A pudgy uniformed officer stood on the front porch. As he walked closer, he recognized him as Wallace, a sergeant on the day shift. Wallace nodded at the detective and addressed him, “Lieutenant.”
“What have we got Sergeant?”
“Two victims, a male and a female, with gunshots to the head,” Wallace replied.
Detective Ross entered the dwelling, followed by the sergeant. Sirens blared in the distance as the two walked into the bedroom. The nude bodies of a man and a woman lay on the blood soaked bed. Detective Ross stood looking at the gruesome scene and donned a pair of latex gloves. Typical, he thought, just as he had seen many times before. Brain tissue and blood covered the headboard while blood splattered the wall diminishing into a red mist toward the ceiling. He glanced on each side of the bed for a weapon, but didn’t see anything. Ross bent over examining the entry wound to the female victims head.
“That’s Cheryl,” the sergeant uttered.
“You know her?” Ross asked, as he focused on the wound.
“She’s my wife,” Wallace replied.
Detective Ross spun around toward Wallace. The sergeant stood there, stone faced, extending his arm and holding his weapon by the barrel. “I guess you’ll want this,” the sergeant said.
Wallace was later convicted of murder in the second degree of his wife and her lover. He was sentenced to twenty years on each count.

Excellent writing, painted the scene very well. No surprise in the plot. It's the first person to suspect, the husband. But that's just me. I write about domestic violence.
Good job

If I Only Had A Rock
By Robert M. Roberts

Being afraid of the dark is a common fear of most young children, and ten year old Billy Sampson was no exception. When the dreaded 9:00 p.m. bedtime arrived, he slipped into his bed, while leaving the overhead light on and the door shut. No sooner than he had closed his eyes, the door creaked open. He opened his eyes to see the figure of his father looming in the doorway.
“Damn it, Billy! How many times do I have to tell you to turn the light off? Electricity isn’t free you know.”
“I forgot,” the sleepy eyed Billy replied, not about to confess to his dad that he was afraid of the dark.
His dad quickly flipped off the switch. “Goodnight,” he said as he shut the door.
Now it would begin…another night of terror as Billy’s young imagination began to visualize the monster in his closet. It made no difference if the closet door was opened or closed, it would be there. Its glowing red eyes with black vertical slits pierced the darkness. The monster had drooling razor-sharp teeth that were yellowed with stain. Horrified, Billy clenched his eyelids shut until they hurt, because he was certain the creature would be there if he dared to open his eyes. He remained very still and thought to himself. If I only had a rock, I would smash his face in. The one time he did bring a rock into the room, his mom had found it and scolded him for bringing the dirty thing into the house. The nightmares of the closet creature raged on in his mind. Billy hid his face under the pillow and finally drifted off to sleep.
Fifteen years later, Billy now went by Bill. He had matured into a nice looking man of twenty-five. He was a college graduate and the same good-natured person he had always been. The one thing that remained constant was his secret fear of the dark, and the constant nightmares of the closet creature still pursued him. The fear was as strong as it had ever been, and he had put off getting therapy way too long. He had just married his fiancée, Deborah, and so far, had managed to keep his phobia a secret from her. It was a short, but romantic, engagement of the two, and I guess you could call it love at first sight. The two had met at work, a large insurance firm based in Boston. Unfortunately, due to the heavy workload at the office, their honeymoon to Jamaica had been postponed for a week.
The couple leased a new apartment and looked forward to their life together. The first night in their new surroundings flashed by as they unpacked boxes and nibbled on a delivery pizza. They discussed the upcoming honeymoon details until almost midnight, when the exhausted couple went to bed. Bill tossed and turned throughout the night with horrible dreams of the closet creature. When the alarm sounded at 6:00 a.m., he opened his eyes and reached to turn off the blaring alarm clock. There was something in his hand.
Bill stared at the bloody stone clasped in his hand. “What the hell?” he yelled. He let out a deafening scream as he looked at Deborah. Her face was a bloody mass of bone and flesh that was hardly recognizable as a human being.
Months later at Bill’s murder trial, his defense argued a plea of insanity. It was denied and the jury found him guilty of murder in the first degree. He was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole.
Billy arrived at the Massachusetts State Prison to serve his lifelong sentence. An important question loomed in the back of his mind as the prison guard led him to his cell. “Do you keep the lights on at night?” he asked.

BEHIND THE MASK

By Robert M. Roberts

Joel Cantor considered himself a very lucky fellow. It had been less than two years ago that he was charged with the double murder of his estranged wife, Lisa, and her lover, David. The twelve person jury found him not guilty due to lack of evidence. Joel was a free man and had moved from Missouri to New Orleans soon after the trial. Guilt of the brutal stabbings he had committed did not follow him.
Now he was a model citizen living large in the “Big Easy.” As recipient of his dead wife’s life insurance, he owned and operated a liquor store in the nicer part of town. Over time, he became acquainted and befriended some of the more prominent people in the area including writers, bankers, and even entertainers, who kept a second home in the upscale Garden District.
Halloween was fast approaching. As far as parties and celebrations, it was second only to Mardi Gras. It was no surprise when Joel received an invitation to a Halloween Ball in his mailbox.
You’re invited, he began to read. Thirteenth annual Halloween Ball Oct. 31st, 8:00pm ‘til midnight, 412 Crescent Road. Full costume with mask required. Drinks, h’ordeurves and prizes. Special celebration at the unmasking at midnight, RSVP.
He wasn’t familiar with the address and it didn’t say who was hosting the party, but it sounded fun. Probably one of his uppity customers who purchases mass amounts of alcohol from his store, he guessed. There was bound to be a lot of single women there, so he marked it on his calendar. He sent the RSVP the following day, and at the end of the week he picked up his costume at Madame Bovier’s Party Emporium.
It was 7:00 pm on Halloween as he squeezed into his Court Jester attire. A shiny suit of half green and red clung to each side of his body, clad with pointed upturned shoes. A hood over his head sported the horns with round orbs dangling from the ends. He looked silly he thought as he gazed into the mirror. He wished he had gone with the Zorro costume. “Oh well, too late now,” he said aloud, as he grabbed the mask and headed for the door. He started the car and programmed his GPS. Only 4.6 miles it read. Minutes later, he turned onto the oak-lined Crescent Lane looking for house number 412. It was at the very end of the lane through massive iron gates. It was a large European style estate with giant white pillars supporting the roof. It was obvious to him that these people were loaded with money. They’re probably giving away a trip or a car at midnight for the best costume, and look at the crap I’m wearing, he cursed to himself. The door chimes rang out and a costumed figure of a hunchback opened the door and welcomed him.
There were several people mingling and drinking cocktails, as he made his way to the bar and grabbed a glass of champagne. Most of the party goers looked better than he did. He stood alone, embarrassed, as the others were in quiet conversation. Everyone ignored him as he hovered next to the bar, drinking and glancing at his watch, desperately hoping for midnight. This was the most boring party he had ever been to.
Finally the large clock in the hallway struck twelve and a man in a tuxedo with a pig head said, “It is time for everyone to unmask.”
Joel couldn’t wait to get the sweaty rubber attachment off of his face. As he pulled it away, he wondered if he would recognize any of the other guests. To his horror, he knew them all. Everyone had the faces of his murdered wife Lisa and her lover, David, but in a state of decomposition. He stood in terror with a silent frozen scream, his champagne glass crashing to the floor. The crowd moved in and surrounded him, as their razor sharp knives stabbed and ripped his flesh, over and over again.
This was the nightmare that manifested itself every night, until he succumbed to heart failure at the Crescent City asylum. Maybe guilt had followed him to New Orleans after all, or perhaps it was the souls of the dead.

THE DEAD END
by R.E. MOORE

Ding! Dong! The front door bell rang out. Margaret Riggs walked to the front door and opened it.
“Hi, Mrs. Riggs,” said the boy with unruly red hair. “Can Devin come out and play?”
“I’ll call him. Devin! Hunter Burks is at the door!” The sound of her son’s feet pounding the carpet came closer and closer when he burst into the vestibule from the depths of the house, nearly running outdoors when his mother grabbed his arm.
“All this crashing around. You’re going to hurt yourself someday if you don’t learn to be more careful.”
“Oh, Mom. I didn’t do anything wrong,” he complained. “I just like to run fast.” Margaret Riggs straightened his collar and looked at his untied shoelaces.
“Look at you. You’re going to trip yourself if you don’t tie your shoelaces.” He immediately knelt and tied them up nice and tight and stood. “Run along now. Have fun. Don’t stay out too late.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Devin said with a wave and walked to the sidewalk with Hunter.
“Where do you wanna go?” Devin asked.
“The Dead End, of course.”
“Cool.” The Dead End was at the end of a long wide boulevard nearby. Three years ago a massive winter storm dumped a record amount of precipitation in the broader region. The runoff was so great that it created a raging creek that eroded a path to a low spot in the undeveloped land and formed a lake. After a couple of kids drowned, the city put up a chain link fence to keep the neighborhood kids out. Unfortunately for city planners, a NO TRESPASSING sign is like an invitation to most misbehaving kids. Devin and Hunter crossed the street when they got to the Dead End. The creek was now fed by runoff from sprinklers and people hosing off their driveways and was just a trickle compared to the raging torrent that created the lake. For some reason the erosion on the north side was greater than the south side. A little canyon had been cut out of the scrubland that consisted of wild grasses, sandhill sage, California sagebrush and salt bush.
Normally the boys would have been content to look for tadpoles, frogs, snakes and lizards. Today was the day they would finish building their raft. Ahead of them, standing next to the fence was their friend, Curtis Rutledge, sitting on an old tire, holding a rucksack filled with hammers, nails and twine. They passed the rusting wrecked car they’d often used for target practice using dirt clods and rocks. The windows had long since been broken so bigger and bigger rocks could now be used to dent the metal.
“What’s up,” said Curtis. “What took you so long?”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Hunter said. “Is it my fault you’re early?”
“We got a lot of work to do today,” said Curtis. “It’s about time.”
“Okay, Curtis,” Devin said. “We’re here now so let’s quit squabbling.”
“I brought my dad’s tools, but I’m going to need help getting this tire over the fence. Sucker’s heavy. It’s even heavier than the last one we heaved over the fence.”
“Let’s see if we can find some garbage to pile up next to the fence,” said Devin. “We won’t have to lift the tire as high.”
The boys split up and explored the Dead End, looking for things they could use to ease the task of hoisting the tire up and over. Hunter found a couple of metal milk carriers in the field and wondered if the milkman abandoned them here. Curtis found a thick rubber tarp and Devin a fifteen-foot length of rope attached to a discarded vise. They tied the rope to the tire, stacked the milk containers next to the fence and draped the rubber tarp over the fence. Curtis climbed over.
“Toss me the rope,” he said. They tossed it over and he held on. “Lift the tire on the milk carriers and push it up while I pull on the rope.”
Hunter and Devin lifted the tire onto the milk carriers, got under the tire and pushed it up with all their might while Curtis pulled. They grunted and groaned, but the tire rose, neared the top of the fence and they push-pulled it over. It dropped to the other side and bounced twice and the boys breathed a sigh of relief. Devin and Hunter hopped the fence and joined Curtis while he was untying the rope from the tire. They helped him roll it over to the one they’d taken over the fence yesterday and took the tarp off the lumber they’d stashed two days ago. Using the twine he’d snuck off from his father, Curtis lashed the tires together while Devin and Hunter, using Curtis’s dad’s tools, hammered together a wooden frame and helped Curtis lash the frame to the tires. Together they drove nails through the planks into the wooden frame and then stood back to admire their handiwork.
“What are we gonna use for oars?” Hunter asked.
“We got those poles and leftover planks we haven’t used yet,” said Curtis. “Then there’s a plank we can use as a rudder.”
“How’s that gonna work?” Devin asked.
“We hammer a couple of small pieces of plank to the rear, slip this piece of wood between em and tie it all up with twine,” Curtis said. “Then we push it into the water and ride it across.”
“Are we really going to do it?” Hunter asked. “Check out the Nike base?” he said as he pointed to the three missiles on their launchers, behind the hill past the lake.
“You’re not going to chicken out are you?” Curtis said.
“No way,” Hunter said. They tossed the poles and a couple of more planks on the raft, pushed it into the lake and jumped aboard. Hunter and Devin dug the poles into the water while Curtis steered. As the raft reached the center of the lake water began to wash over the raft. The tires weren’t sufficient to keep them afloat. Devin and Hunter switched to planks and rowed harder to the other side. As the raft slid up the bank, partially under water, they pulled it ashore and rested while water drained from the tires.
“That was a close one,” Devin said. “Do you think it’ll take us back?”
“Got us here, didn’t it,” said Curtis. “We’ll just use the planks instead of the poles for the way back. Now let’s do what we came for.” They headed through the brush up the hill toward the missiles, which dominated the skyline before them.
When they got to the top of the bluff next to the wall topped with barbed wire they stopped.
“How’re we gonna get over?” Curtis asked.
“You’re gonna need a ladder,” a girl said from their right. They turned and saw Amina Drake and Cheryl Robinson approaching, dragging a small ladder. They were the same age and knew each other from school.
“How’d you get over here?” Curtis asked. “We built a raft.”
“My cousin’s got a pickup and a rowboat.”
“You girls shouldn’t be here.”
“And you boys should be back with your mamas.”
“Make me,” Curtis said with bluster, his face smiling with confidence.”
“Phfft,” Amina said, making the sound of a fart. “You’re made.” Everyone but Curtis was laughing over the insult. Curtis turned pink and then relaxed.
“Good one, Amina,” he said. “I’m going to use it. What are you planning to do with that ladder?”
“Wait and see,” she said as she leaned it against the wall and telescoped it until it was three-quarters near the top. She climbed it and peered over the fence.
“What do you see?” asked Curtis.
“Soldiers. They’re standing guard. They have rifles.”
“Can we look, too?” She climbed down.
“After Cheryl,” she said as Cheryl climbed up and looked over the wall. After waiting, the boys took turns climbing and looking. After spying over the fence they retreated and sat cross-legged at the base of the wall.
“You guys are pretty cool for girls,” Hunter said. “Want to mess around with us sometime?”
“You just want to use our boat,” said Amina.
“We’ve got our own raft,” Devin said. “Wanna see it.”
“Sure,” Cheryl said. The group walked down the hill to the shore.
“See,” Curtis said proudly. “We put her together today and rowed her across.”
“Sure you can make it back on that thing?” asked Amina.
“Is that where you live?” Cheryl asked, pointing across the lake to the neighborhood beyond.
“Yeah,” said Hunter. “So what of it?”
“Nothing,” said Cheryl. “We just live north of here.”
“Let’s go,” Amina said. The girls turned and disappeared through the cattails surrounding the lake.
“Okay. Let’s go back,” Curtis said as they pushed the raft back into the lake. This time its buoyancy had declined. Even though they used the planks as oars, the water flooded the raft before they reached the middle of the lake. This time Curtis picked up a pole and helped with the rowing, but it did little good because when they reached the middle of the lake the raft began to sink.
“I can’t swim,” Curtis said, panicking. Devin and Hunter kicked into the water.
“Hold on to me,” Devin said swimming over to Curtis who held onto him desperately, using him as a buoy, pushing him under. Devin struggled under him holding his breath and finally broke free.
“You’re drowning me!” he shouted.
“I can’t swim! I’m gonna drown!” he shouted and grabbed Devin again, wrapping his arms around his torso, restricting Devin’s use of his arms. He struggled against him as his head descended beneath the surface. Devin held his breath while Curtis thrashed in the water over him. His lungs began to burn and ache with the lack of oxygen. He struggled to free himself from Curtis, but he was too strong. He reached up from beneath him and found his neck and began to strangle him. Curtis reacted by scissoring his legs around Devin’s abdomen and squeezing hard. Devin released his grip on Curtis’s neck and let the air from his lungs exhale and then breathed in water and lost consciousness.
All of a sudden his entire being was flooded with life and light. His lungs and stomach expelled water into the mouth of Amina Drake. Her mouth was closed over his and the water spilled to the floor of the rowboat. He rolled over and puked water all over the place, gasping for breath.
“I’m sorry, bro,” Curtis said touching his shoulder.
“You almost drowned him,” Amina said sharply. “Get away.” Curtis scurried back as Hunter came over.
“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you died.”
Devin coughed up more water and lay on the floor of the rowboat letting his lungs fill once again with air.
“I thought I died, too,” he said in his weakened state. He looked up and saw that Cheryl Robinson was rowing the boat from the stern. He then looked to Amina Drake. Water was dripping from her body. “So it was you who saved me. Thank you.”
“It was Cheryl who saw that you were in trouble. She turned the boat around came for you. I had to punch Curtis a couple of times before he let go. That’s when I dove into the water and dragged you to the surface. You were headed to the bottom.”
Cheryl rowed the boat forward and it slid ashore. The boys got off. Devin was still weak from the ordeal.
“Are you okay, Devin?” Amina asked. He gave her a thumbs up and the boys pushed their boat into the water. Cheryl turned it around and rowed it to the north side of the lake as the boys waved goodbye.
“We need to build a better raft,” Curtis said.
Devin and Hunter shook their heads and walked away.

Does anyone in this group ever read these stories???

I do

Robert wrote: "Does anyone in this group ever read these stories???"

Karen wrote: "I do"

I love short stories. My favourite short fiction author is Joyce Carol Oates. Her stories are mesmerising and shocking, I can feel my eyes widening as I read! I'm new to the group, look forward to reading these members' stories.

Trick or Treat
By Robert M. Roberts

As long as I live, I will never forget Halloween of 1985. My oldest daughter,
Lisa, was ten years old at the time, and her sister, Kelly, had just turned six. It was their first year to go trick or treating on their own in our neighborhood. It was a safer time back then, but Mom and Dad did have rules that they had to follow. The kids had to stay within a three block perimeter of houses, only stop at houses with the porch light on, and had a time limit from 7:00 – 9:00 p.m. The exact time was monitored at home by their mother, Doris. Lisa would also monitor the time by the cabbage patch wristwatch that she proudly wore on her arm.

The two tiny goblins were ecstatic as they dressed up in their costumes. Lisa wore a sparkling princess dress, and Kelly dressed as a bright, orange pumpkin. When I chaperoned them on previous Halloween nights, our last stop was always at the Rosemary Krantz house that was a couple of blocks over on a dead end street. Rosemary was an elderly widow that lived in an older two-story Victorian house that was sadly in disrepair. Her husband, Eldon, had passed away years before, so she lived alone and had no known relatives. She particularly loved to see my girls on Halloween and always put an extra large Hershey bar in each one of their sacks. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect she was not as generous to the other kids in the neighborhood. I had noticed her dropping candy corn in the sacks of other children that were in front of us before.

Soon it was time for the two to start out on their Halloween adventure. Doris repeated the ground rules. As they went out the front door, she reminded them to be polite and say thank you at each house.

Doris answered the door and handed out the treats at our house, while I sat in my recliner and watched the horror movie, ‘Halloween.’ I glanced at my watch every now and then, hoping the girls would return on time. Later on, the two came through the door with their bulging goodie bags. I felt relieved they were home, and it was also fifteen minutes early. Doris inspected their bags of treats as I listened to them ramble on about what fun they had trick or treating.

Doris held up two extra large Hershey candy bars. “Where did you get these?” Doris asked.

“Mrs. Krantz,” Kelly uttered.

“You saw Mrs. Krantz?” Doris asked.

“Yeah. She called us by name and told us happy Halloween, and we thanked her just like you told us to do,” Lisa replied.

My wife and I were speechless as we stared at each other. Rosemary Krantz had passed away over the summer and her house was completely empty. We hadn’t mentioned it to the girls, and her death had completely slipped our minds, until now.

I immediately drove over to the Krantz house. The weeds had grown up in the yard, and the windows and doors were boarded up. I shined the beam of my flashlight through the cracks in the boarded windows. The house was completely empty. I returned home and didn’t ask the girls any more questions. We never spoke of it again and I really don’t think they remembered any of it.

:-o

Sophia I’m not too savvy on text symbols, but I think it means shock. So was it a good shock or a bad shock?

Well thank you Ruth. I’m glad you enjoyed them and that someone actually reads them.

Robert wrote: "Sophia I’m not too savvy on text symbols, but I think it means shock. So was it a good shock or a bad shock?"

A ghostly shock!

Oh a ghostly shock is always fun!

Robert wrote: "Trick or Treat
By Robert M. Roberts

As long as I live, I will never forget Halloween of 1985. My oldest daughter,
Lisa, was ten years old at the time, and her sister, Kelly, had just turned six. I..."

I did enjoy this story.

By unknown author


"TEXAS CHILI COOKOFF"

(If you can read this whole story without tears of laughter running down your cheeks then there's no hope for you! *Note: Please take time to read this slowly. If you pay attention to the first two judges, the reaction of the third judge is even better! For those of you who have lived in Texas, you know how true this is. They actually have a Chili Cook-off about the time the Rodeo comes to town. It takes up a major portion of the parking lot at the Astrodome.

The notes are from an inexperienced Chili taster named "FRANK", who was
visiting Texas from the East Coast:

Frank: "Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili
cook-off. The Judge #3 called in sick at the last moment and I happened
to be standing there at the judge's table asking for directions to the
Budweiser truck, when the call came in. I was assured by the other two
judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn't be all that spicy and,
besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I
accepted."

Here are the scorecards from the event:

Chili # 1 Mike's Maniac Mobster Monster Chili:
Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2 -- Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
Judge # 3 -- (Frank) Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could
remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the
flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are crazy.

Chili # 2 Arthur's Afterburner Chili
Judge # 1 -- Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.
Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken
seriously.
Judge # 3 -- Keep this out of the reach of children. I'm not sure what
I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who
wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer
when they saw the look on my face.

Chili # 3 Fred's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili
Judge # 1 -- Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick. Needs more beans.
Judge # 2 -- A bean less chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.
Judge # 3 -- Call the EPA. I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels
like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get
me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my
backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced from
all of the beer.

Chili # 4 Bubba's Black Magic
Judge # 1 -- Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.
Judge # 2 -- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or
other mild foods, not much of a chili.
Judge # 3 -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable
to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the barmaid,
was standing behind me with fresh refills. That 300-LB. bitch is
starting to look HOT ... . . just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is
chili an aphrodisiac?

Chili # 5 Linda's Legal Lip Remover
Judge # 1 -- Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding
considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2 -- Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must
admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I
can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed
paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her
chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by
pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I'm burning my
lips off. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop
screaming. Screw those rednecks!

Chili # 6 Vera's Very Vegetarian Variety
Judge # 1 -- Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of
spices and peppers.
Judge # 2 -- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and
garlic. Superb!
Judge #3-- I shit myself when I farted and I'm worried it will eat
through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that
slut Sally. She must be kinkier than I thought. Can't feel my lips
anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone.

Chili # 7 Susan's Screaming Sensation Chili
Judge # 1 -- A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2 -- Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of
chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried
about Judge #3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing
uncontrollably.
Judge # 3 -- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I
wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds
like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which
slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava like poop to
match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they'll know what killed
me. I've decided to stop breathing, it's too painful. Screw it; I'm not
getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through
the 4-inch hole in my stomach.

Chili # 8 Tommy's Toe-Nail Curling Chili
Judge # 1 -- The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too
bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2 -- This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild
nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge # 3 passed
out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure
if he's going to make it. Poor dude, wonder how he'd have reacted to
really hot chili?

Made my day!

THE EYES of DEEP ELLUM Part 1of 2
A fictional short story based on the life of serial killer, Charles Frederick Albright
By
Robert M. Roberts

Near downtown, in east Dallas, Texas you will find the neighborhood of Deep Ellum. This area is known for arts, music and brew pubs, but is also remembered as the scene of some of the most brutal serial killings in Texas history.

On a scorching day in August, Detective Consuelo Lopez, who goes by Connie, sat at her computer tracking down leads from Saturday nights’ gruesome murder of local prostitute, Sara Barnes. Murders occasionally happen in the area, but not to this degree of violence. At autopsy, it was determined the victims cause of death was hemorrhage from the trachea. In simple terms, her throat had been slit. One other unusual finding was her eyeballs had been precisionally removed, but the eyelids were still intact on the body. This fact was unknown at the crime scene, but later discovered by the medical examiner.

Connie’s partner, Darren Warren was sitting at a desk across from her. He hung up the phone and said, “She has no next of kin. She’s a transient from Waco.”

Darren was suddenly interrupted by Lieutenant Don Noll. “People, we’ve got another one. Patrol found another body in the alley at Elm and Commerce. We may have us a serial killer!”

“Oh shit,” murmured Connie as she stood up from her desk. Darren grabbed his sport coat and followed Connie to the door.
As the two drove toward the scene, Darren positioned the blue strobe to the top of their unmarked cruiser. About half way to the scene, they were suddenly blocked by the heavy lunch-time traffic and their cruiser came to a crawl.

“Why don’t these people pull over?” Connie yelled as she flipped on the siren.

Darren didn’t respond. He was staring at the aging station wagon that was parked along the street on a weekly basis. The man who owned it was a local character nicknamed ‘John the Baptist.’
In the back window he displayed a large sign with a biblical verse. Jesus said unto him, “If you canst believe, all things are possible for them who believeth.” Mark 9:23.

Every week a new verse donned the back of the station wagon. “You know John the Baptist must spend a fortune on parking meters,” chuckled Darren.

“Well, I guess it’s good revenue for the city, but I’m surprised the local shops don’t complain,” added Connie.

The traffic finally started to move. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the crime scene. They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape as they approached the victim who was covered by a black tarp.

When the tarp was removed, a black female corpse lay in the fetal position. They stared at the coagulated blood that pooled from her throat and were certain that they, indeed, had a serial killer on the loose.

Detective Warren bent down and with his gloved hand he lifted up the eyelids. “Yep, they’re gone,” he said as he referred to the hollow sockets.

Connie turned to the patrolman standing near the body. “We know anything about her?” she asked.

“Yes, she goes by Kasha, but her real name is Kimberly Oats. She’s a local hooker. I’ve busted her a couple of times,” he stated.

“She have a pimp?” Connie asked.

“No. She works alone, usually in this area and over by the Convention Center and West End," the patrolman replied.

The first victim being white and the second being black, pretty much dispels the theory by some profilers, that serial killers usually do not kill outside of their own race. This was Connie’s thought anyway.

At that moment the forensic team arrived and started inspecting the body. They rolled the victim over. “You need to see this, Detective,” the examiner said. On the ground was a broken piece of blade that appeared to be from an Exacto knife. The partial blade was bagged and tagged as evidence to be processed for DNA.

The next day, the two detectives visited the Medical Examiner at the local morgue hoping for more information. “Can DNA be tested from rape kits collected from the victims?” Darren asked.

Connie chuckled. ”They’re prostitutes and I’m sure they had multiple partners the night they were murdered.”

The medical examiner replied with a sober look. “Testing mixed biologic traces, using DNA fragment analysis, can be done when the victim has had intercourse with several males such as gang rapes. However, the process is quite costly and could take months. In my humble opinion, I think you would just be going down rabbit holes,” he said.

As the next two weeks passed, the detectives followed up on leads by checking the security tapes of local businesses, and talking to anyone who may have seen something unusual. The local prostitutes claimed they did not know the victims and did not want to get involved. Forensic results of the partially broken knife blade did not reveal any DNA and those blades could be purchased about anywhere. The only tangible evidence that was found against the killer was that he or she was right-handed. This was concluded by loose clumps of hair on the left side of each of the victims. The theory was that the killer attacked the victims from behind and grabbed them by the hair with the left hand. At the same time, they slit their throats, left to right, with the other hand. This is all well and good, but 85% to 95% of all western cultures are right-handed. They were back to square one, with nothing to go on.

Over the weekend, a firestorm was brewing that was about to explode in the little community of Deep Ellum. Someone had leaked the gruesome details of the missing eyeballs to the Dallas Morning News. Before, it was just a ho hum couple of murders buried deep in the pages of the local rag. Now, it was about to take center stage and panic the general public.

In a few short days, the pressure was on Deep Ellum’s Police Chief, Maria Roseann Chavez. She was one of the first Latino American females to ever hold the position of Police Chief. The fifty-four year old had been in law enforcement nearly thirty years and her record was impeccable. However, now that the case was becoming high profile, everyone was wanting a piece of the action, from the Dallas County Sheriff’s Department to the Texas Rangers, the U.S. Marshall Service and beyond.

Police Chief Chavez stood firm with support for her detectives, but they had to come up with something solid and soon. “I can only hold off the wolves for so long,” she told them.

Now here was the cherry on top. The last week of August was the largest Expo Show at the Dallas Convention Center. It was The International Boat and RV Show that would bring in millions of dollars to the Dallas area.

A third victim showed up dead along the railroad tracks, just two blocks from the Convention Center. The Expo was threatening cancellation. The heat was on to find the illusive killer.

Connie and Darren weaved their way through traffic down Cadiz St. to Canton. They passed vagrants who were camped on sidewalks, and John the Baptist’s station wagon parked on the side of the street. The sign displayed in the back window was from Matthew 6:12, “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”

“Sounds more like a college kids’ plea for college loan debt relief than a Bible verse,” Darren exclaimed.

“What?” Connie asked.

“Oh, I was just reading John the Baptist’s message for today,” Darren replied.

“I don’t care what that fucking freak has to say,” snapped Connie as she turned adjacent to the railroad tracks and came to a stop.

THE EYES of DEEP ELLUM Part 2 Of 2
By Robert M. roberts


The crime scene was a beehive of activity. Law enforcement was holding back the news media, while the forensic team surrounded the body.

Lying on her side was a white female with blond hair colored with green and red streaks. A gaping gash across her neck and a thick pool of blood was evident of how she died, and yes of course, the eye sockets were as hollow as a rotted tree trunk.

Back at the station, Connie and Darren went over what they knew, and what they didn’t know, while they waited for the Medical Examiners report. As the clock clicked the hours away the two sit with spread sheets scattered across the desk as they highlighted similarities with yellow pens.

Victims ranged in age 25 to 35.
All were prostitutes.
Drugs such as heroine, meth and cocaine were present in their systems.
Cause of deaths was bleeding out from the trachea.
Due to the strength required to subdue the victims, killer is male.
Killer is local because he knows the area well enough to avoid security cameras.

The telephone rang. Warren picked up the phone and pushed the speaker button. “This is Paul from the Medical Examiners’ Office. Got some info on your latest victim. Bled out from wound of trachea. Heroine, meth and fentanyl in system. Estimated time of death 1 to 3 am. That’s all we got so far, but we will send over the contents of items that were in her jeans pocket.”

“Thanks Paul,” Darren hung up. “That’s interesting. All of the victims time of death was between 1 and 3am,” Darren added.

“Yes, very interesting,” replied Connie. “It’s after eleven, let’s put an unmarked in the area and we will start again in the morning,” Darren nodded his head.

The next morning Connie was sitting at her desk when Darren arrived. “You’re looking a little scraggly, Darren. You ever going to shave?” Connie asked.

“Not until we catch this bastard,” Darren replied.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll end up looking like a member of ZZ Top,” laughed Connie.

“Oh, I think we will both be fired before then,” Darren remarked.

“You’re probably right about that,” Connie agreed.

The two worked into the morning. A packet arrived from the Medical Examiner’s office. Darren carefully dumped the contents onto the desk. There were three $20.00 bills and some change, plus a bus ticket stub originating from Houston to Dallas. Darren called the Houston P.D. to inquire if he could send a photo of the dead victim to them in hopes of getting an identification. An hour later he got a call back from a Houston Sergeant with the following information:
“Your victim is Sondra Labeau. She’s a 28 year old white female from Lake Charles, LA. She has a history of prostitution and drug abuse, a lengthy arrest record and probably left Houston to avoid arrest warrants,” the Sergeant exclaimed.

Connie and Darren decided to break for lunch. They thought a chicken salad sandwich at Dee’s Deli sounded good. It was just a few blocks from the station. The outdoor temperature was already over a hundred degrees when they arrived at the deli. They were seated at a table for two near the front windows as the sun beamed through the glass. Each ordered the chicken salad on croissant, homemade chips, and iced tea. While they waited on their food, they chit-chatted. The waitress came about fifteen minutes later to deliver their orders.

Connie stared out the window as if she were in a trance. She was fixated on a window from a business down the street that had a mirror-like effect from the Texas sun. This mirror-like window effect reflected a sign from the adjacent sidewalk that was on the back of a brown rusted-out station wagon. It read, “And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee.” Matthew 18:9.

Connie suddenly dropped her half-eaten sandwich onto her plate. “OH MY GOD…IT’S HIM!” she shouted.

Darren looked at her with a mouth full of chicken salad and asked, “Who is him?”

Without answering she jumped up, pushed her chair backwards with her legs, and started for the door. Darren was confused, but also got up, grabbed the other half of his sandwich and followed her. They reached their car and immediately drove within a half block of the station wagon and parked their car. Connie instructed Darren to get pictures of the vehicle with its sign, and also the license plate from his side window.

“So, you think he’s our man?” Darren asked.

“You don’t?” she asked.

“Well, just something a sign say’s isn’t much to go on. Could be just a coincidence,” Darren said.

“I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m certain it’s him,” she said.

They ran the plate number on their onboard computer, and within minutes got the results.
Vehicle is registered to a Joseph Paul Randolph, Dallas, Texas, birthdate 10/22/1946, address 2014 Oak Cliff Place. No prior arrests or traffic tickets. Occupation: Maintenance Man, retired.

The two detectives returned to the station for follow-up and requested 24/7 unmarked surveillance on the station wagon.
They combed through public records and requested some that required special authorization from a judge. Their plan was to establish the routine of their suspect, then place a tracking device GPS on the vehicle to know his position at all times. Although it was of the upmost urgency to determine if he was the prime suspect, it was way too early to ask the DA for search warrants of his vehicle and home. They needed some iron clad evidence.

The following day produced a few nuggets of information about who they were dealing with. Their suspect, Joe Randolph, worked as a maintenance man at the Dallas Convention Center and retired in 2013. People who worked with Randolph stated he was a nice enough fellow, a little odd, and liked to quote scripture. One source said his wife was deceased and his daughter who lives with Randolph had some sort of handicap. One big question loomed. Where did Randolph go all day while his vehicle was parked on the street? He certainly wasn’t in the car in all the deadly heat.

The next morning a patrolman spotted Randolph’s station wagon pulling along-side the curb and parked on Elm, a block north of Main Street. They followed the white-haired man for two blocks as he entered The Texas Blind Rehabilitation Services building. Patrol added he was in the building all day until he left around 5pm and returned to his residence at Oak Cliff Place.

Detective Warren contacted the Texas Blind Rehabilitation Services building and spoke to the director. He learned that Randolph was a volunteer at the center and helped with the needs of the blind. This gave credence to Connie’s theory that Randolph was their guy, but Darren still had his doubts. He had to admit there was no other suspect on the radar.

The following night, a GPS tracking device was placed on Randolph’s station wagon while it was parked at his residence around 4 am. Unfortunately, it was a little too late as another body was discovered behind a dumpster at The Alamo Brew Pub in the historic West End. Although not far from Deep Ellum, it seemed like the murder area was spreading out. This latest murder was different due to the nature of the killing. The victim was a female in her late fifties, of Asian descent, and was stabbed through the heart. She had been wedged between the dumpster and a brick wall for at least two days, and no one had noticed. It was determined that this was a random killing, and not related to the other cases. Besides, unmarked surveillance stated that Randolph’s vehicle never left the residence during that time.

This did not make any difference to the general public and the news hounds. To the community, this was just another murder by the ‘eyeball’ killer. They demanded action!

The DA who was about to retire, and the Judge who was not up for re-election, decided to roll the dice. They agreed to issue the search warrants for Randolph’s vehicle and residence. Connie was delighted and even Darren agreed that it was definitely time.

That morning as Randolph parked his station wagon downtown, the detectives were waiting for him. They showed their identification to him and requested to search his vehicle.

“What for?” demanded Randolph.

“Suspicion of illegal drugs,” Connie explained.

Well, Randolph knew he didn’t have any drugs and didn’t put two and two together. He agreed to the search. The back of the station wagon was a cluttered mess with various cardboard signs, old clothing, and newspapers. In one corner was a small wooden box with a brass clip that held on the hinged lid. They opened it and saw a label called ‘Keene Kutter.’ Enclosed was an array of small wood carving tools and assortment of blades. One partial broken blade stood out to the detectives.

“What do you do with these?” Connie asked.

“I used to do a little wood carving,” he replied.

A glass Mason Jar was discovered with a cloudy liquid inside.

“What’s this?” Darren asked, as he unscrewed the lid and took a whiff.

“I don’t remember, it’s been in here for a long time,” replied Randolph.

Darren knew exactly what it was. He had smelled it many times as a barber in the Army. It was formaldehyde. It was used to disinfect combs and hair cutting tools. It was also the main ingredient in embalming fluid for morticians to preserve human tissue.

The detectives placed Randolph under arrest after reading him his Miranda Rights. Randolph seemed shocked, but said nothing as they placed him in the police car. An hour later, and armed with a search warrant, Connie and Darren arrived at Randolph’s home on Oak Cliff Place. They rang the doorbell and heard a ‘tap tap tapping’ sound as the door opened. A portly middle-aged woman with a white cane and dark glasses stood stoic and asked, “Can I help you?”

They introduced themselves as the police and explained why they were there. She introduced herself as Rhonda Randolph and listened to the details of her father’s arrest. Briefly removing the dark glasses to wipe the tears from her white covered eyeballs she told the detectives to search anywhere they needed to, including the small fruit cellar off the kitchen. Nothing throughout the house stood out, but the cellar was a treasure trove of evidence. They found lots of newspapers regarding the murders, as well as fruit jars with eyeballs floating in fluid. In fact, there were twice as many sets of eyeballs as victims reported. This was disturbing. Randolph, obviously, had more victims than the authorities were aware of.

For the next two months, prosecutors and public defenders prepared their cases. There was only one particular case that the prosecution could safely pursue. That was the murder of Kimberly Oats, aka Kasha.

They had the partially broken knife blade that was found at the crime scene, and the other part of the knife was found in the wooden carving case in Randolph’s vehicle. The two pieces matched perfectly through forensic examination.

The other murder cases could not be pursued, due to a lack of evidence. Randolph was eventually found guilty for the murder of Kimberly Oats.

Randolph’s daughter did not attend any of the trial because she could not bear to hear the details of what her father had done.
Randolph never admitted to the murders, nor acknowledged any information about the additional sets of eyeballs in his cellar.

Sentencing was set for November. The prosecution was dead set on the death penalty, with no plea bargaining. One week before sentencing, Randolph died from a brain aneurysm.

Although many theories of Randolph’s motives were discussed, none were ever proven. Connie and Darren believed the theory that because Randolph’s daughter was blind and couldn’t see, his hatred grew for heathen prostitutes who could see. Therefore, they had to be eliminated.

Robert wrote: "Last Flight of Mary Sage
A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts

Mary stood patiently in line waiting to check in. The terminal was a beehive of activity that Monday morning, as groggy travel..."

Love this one Robert

Wow Robert! All your stories are excellent

Member writers and wannabe writers post your short stories. They have to be the whole story not a link or web site.

I tried it a little when I was in college but I wasn't very good. I can come up with a broad kind of an idea. I just can't seem to fine tune it with the details that really explain the gist of the story.

Amanda just write the story like you are watching a movie. Then the details of the story will emerge.

I will give it a try. Thank you.