Posts Tagged ‘Murder’
Jan
Delhi Rape Case
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as “mental/alcoholic.”
Escaped punishment by suicide.
Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.
Hung to death.
Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.
Death sentence.
Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of “rarest of rare.” Raped so hard; intestines bled.
Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.
Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.
Death penalty.
Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.
Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.
Fuck Justice.
From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni
Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.
Nov
The Inescapable Muse
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
It was a perfect setting for a murder. The characters leapt to her mind’s eye: two brothers suavely lounging in the large padded oval back armchairs.
She pictured their wives, prim and dutifully attentive in the smaller twinned balloon backs.
Or perhaps she would mix it up to attract the increasing cohort of latter-day suffragettes and sympathizers who appeared to take umbrage at earlier novels.
Yes…she could almost see the dominant wife of one of the couples – American probably – claiming one of the larger chairs, her slightly effete husband relegated to the smaller.
But who would die?
Agatha scribbled.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
Jul
Road To The Suburbs
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Her house was situated next to a busy route. A road which connected the city to the southern parts of the suburbs.
The whole year, living in that house without wired broadband, with the incessant dust of the road, and the smell of pollution as the trucks roared by; she could barely sleep.
In her dreams she murdered and killed drivers of four-wheeled vehicles, and imagined a day when she could make their lives miserable.
The next year the media went gaga over the unaccounted increase in car crashes on that road. She was not on the list of suspects.
From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar
Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Rat’s Ass Review, Cerebration and here at A Story in 100 Words. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com
Dec
The Gardener, In The Pool House, With A Rake
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I stared at my client, debating internally how to respond. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to perform a questionable task in my line of work. Normally I would refuse, but she was offering 50,000 dollars.
“You’re putting me at risk here.”
“If you don’t want to do it, there’s plenty of people who could use the money.”
She was bluffing. The fact that she was asking me to murder her husband said that she didn’t have anywhere else to turn. But then again, where else was I going to make 50,000 dollars as a gardener?
Dec
Guilt-Free Murder
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Carlos dragged the body onto the street. Veronica screamed about the neighbors, but if anyone was awake, it was because she was screaming. Besides, he didn’t care who knew.
Mr. Caspar had deserved to die. He’d hit Veronica. He’d hit Mrs. Caspar. He’d hit the dog. If Carlos had to go to jail, at least he’d know Veronica was safe.
Veronica screamed again. It made Carlos mad to see her crying for her father, but he’d never admit to a mistake.
Today, we’re deviating from the 100-word format. Today’s story is exactly 81 words, and is a submission for this writing site.
Oct
Rotten Teeth
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Staring down at my bloody teeth, I vowed this would be the last I had this nightmare.
Dr. Lawson called them stress dreams and suggested I examine where my anxiety was coming from. Only I knew their true source. I wasn’t going to share it with my therapist.
I tried washing my hands, but soap and water couldn’t cure the corruption. My soul had turned, many years ago, and the only way to end its blight was to take my own life. Or to kill again.
Dr. Lawson was the next victim to pay the price for my own cowardice.
Happy Halloween
Jul
Confession
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I did it. I killed her in cold blood. I hesitated at first, but she finally got on my nerves.
She tickled my ears, sat on my lap, and touched my private body parts. I asked her to stop but she kept going.
I slapped her in the face. She dropped onto the floor at once. Her skinny, crooked legs twitched a few times in utter disbelief and then she went silent. I picked her up, dropped her dead body in the garbage can, washed my hands, and went back to work.
My office is a “No-Fly Zone.” No exceptions.
From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch
Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Necon E-Books.
Oct
Mona Lisa
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The murder happened right in front of me, yet not one of the detectives ever bothered to question me about it. They had to know I was a witness. I’ve witnessed so many things during my lifetime that it gets rather tiresome not to be able to share.
I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You’ve probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world’s most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.
I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean’s corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.
After questioning Jean’s wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn’t care enough anymore to commit murder.
Jean’s death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out–even the cause of death was still a mystery–the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn’t an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.
The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.
Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.
I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He’d stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He’d ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he’d written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you’re surrounded by people all day, it’s still very easy to feel alone.
In the end, my desire to have Jean all to myself overcame my modesty. His life may have belonged to others, but his death was all mine. It wasn’t enough to overcome my loneliness, but there are always small comforts to be found in other people’s secrets.
This longer piece was written for the Flash Fiction Challenge at Terrible Minds.
Jun
OCD For PTSD
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Herbert surveyed the battle raging before him. Never had he seen his living room in such disarray. The coffee table, seven degrees askew, was at war with his sofa and chaise. The casualties were everywhere, as the legroom between sofa and table had practically been murdered, and the rug underneath was suffering its death throes as it bunched up under the strain.
As heroically as Alvin York, who risked life and limb for his fellow soldier, Herbert dove into the tempest.
With the furniture righted, and the correct layout restored, Herbert knew all that would remain would be his PTSD.
Jun
The Recumbent Bicycle
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When Inspector Grimes arrived at the scene, a flood of details cried out for his attention, as they so often did: the layer of grime between the flagstones, the single shoelace tied around a stack of books, the taste of almonds hovering in the air. Any of them might be important, but it was the recumbent bicycle the inspector focused on now. Someone had knocked it to the ground.
Being a good detective requires blotting out emotions and staying focused on the meaningful details. But right now all Grimes could think about was that his best friend had been murdered.