Whodunnit

Elementary knowledge of physics and chemistry saved the life of Lord Sherlock.

This was a case of national security, something to do with secrecy about canons. All the evidence had shown that state secrets were sold to a foreign power.

Judge Lestrade certainly would have found him guilty and would have sentenced him to the firing squad if it hadn’t been for the world famous detective Moriarty and his brilliant assistant Mrs Hudson. They countered all the incriminating material which now acquitted the accused and finally they revealed what no one could have ever suspected: Watson, the butler, did it.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Validate Yourself

“Don’t expect a pat on the back, just know you did your best,” Ted’s mentor in Rail Dispatch taught him the most important lesson. He was right. Ted never was acknowledged, but years later he validated himself.

In the dimly lit Rail Control Center, while his colleagues were distracted by a stalled train, Ted studied his flickering console and alarm bells sounded in his head. Another commuter train would crash into it if he didn’t act quickly to shunt it to a siding.

Ted didn’t wait to be feted as a hero. He just did the deed and thanked himself.

From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

Dancing Hands

She talked with her hands. It was comical.

The more animated she became, the more her hands flapped and fluttered through the air.

We teased her, had her sit on her hands, which practically made her mute.

She’d laugh then and poke our ribs, call us stinkers, and her hands danced as she did.

I didn't make it back in time. I would have if I didn't stop.

The bill wasn’t even due.

I was stalling, but stalling what?

My return to her bedside? Her last breath, or both?

When I got there, her hands were at her sides, spent.

From Guest Contributor Linda Chandanais

The (Mis)Fortune Of Having Been There

The shadows that lurk in the background carry the suggestion of prison stripes. Cary Grant picks a flake of cigarette tobacco off his tongue. This whole time the Ferris wheel has been spinning in the traveling carnival of his mind. He doesn’t try to reason with the gods but mocks their Greek robes. Then, as night burns to the ground, he discovers the perfect partner in Rosalind Russell, who spits words the way a machine gun spits bullets. She knows without having to be told that movies are just life enlarged. There’s no one to feed, nothing to feed anyone. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press), The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro Press), and Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Year Of Atonement

The Grim Reaper took things slower, started to travel by tricycle during the week and by donkey on the weekends. At night we kept warm around matchsticks and dumpster fires. For entertainment we compared peanut butter and jelly recipes. Snooze buttons recorded high anxiety days. Snooze alarms provided the year’s soundtrack. Almost everyone drank alcohol to mournful excess. Even coffee was served wrapped in brown paper bags. Coincidentally, that was the last year for the Miss America pageant. The final talent show, with an extra-large flame thrower, was really something. For months afterwards people sold charred auditorium remains as souvenirs.

From Guest Contributor Mike James

A Warning

The three dice feel like cold teeth in Kate’s hand. She rolls each one separately, as Dorothea instructed. Mumbling, the old fortune teller stares at their placement inside the chalk circle.

Candles flicker on the stone mantle. Kate shifts, sweat dampening her armpits.

“Interesting,” Dorothea mutters.

Suddenly, a sound like beating wings erupts from the fireplace. The candles extinguish and darkness swallows the room.

“Kate!” a familiar voice exclaims. Her mother, murdered exactly three years ago, channels through the fortune teller’s throat.

Kate starts to cry. Somewhere down the hall, a window breaks.

“Run!” her mother screams. “They’ve found you!”

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo

Three Hands

I was born with three hands, all roughly the same size. People often mention how lucky I am. To be able to wave hello, or goodbye, to three people at once. Or how nice it must be to applaud more than everyone else. But what they don’t understand is I only have two arms, two wrists. There is nothing for my third hand to connect to, so I carry it around everywhere I go. One hand is always busy holding my third hand, which leaves me with just my other hand, my poor other hand, doing everything on its own.

From Guest Contributor Jason Heroux

Mending Hearts

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Recovery

The healing came slow. A damaged psyche doesn’t show like a bruise. Her little boy needs her; she is everything to him and he is the world to her. But she needs to be whole for him.

More than a month of repair to start the recovery. Participation in daily activities was the first sign. A faint light at the end of the tunnel, but a light nonetheless. Her posture showed confidence. Then her gait picked up a bit. A twinkle returned to her eyes. Her journey would be long and arduous, but she was on her way to recovery.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Undetected

“We’re detectives,” said the teenager in Greta’s doorway. “Like Nancy Drew. But guys.”

“And brothers!” the other boy added.

Greta studied them. “So...more like...the Hardy Boys?”

“Who?” the Hardly-there Boys asked together.

Greta smirked. “Never mind.”

“We’re tracking a thief,” explained the first boy. “He’s targeting Culpepper Lane!”

Greta gasped.

“Vases, television, artwork.” The second boy ticked off his fingers. “Even Mrs. Giovanni’s tiara! We’re questioning everyone. May we come inside?”

“Certainly,” Greta said. “I was just setting up my new TV.” She ushered them into her immaculate foyer, a sea of diamonds sparkling unnoticed atop her head.

From Guest Contributor John Adams

John (he/him/his) lives near Kansas City, where he produces comedy shows and writes about teenage detectives, robo-butlers, and cursed cowboys. Twitter: @JohnAmusesNoOne.