Continue reading “You (Or Everything Happens Every Day) by Geraint Jonathan”
Tag: Mystery
Ecclesiastes by Zark Fekete
Every morning, the Archivist arrived just before the sun burned off the smog. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor of the Memory Tower…the east wing…Department of Significance. The lift doors opened and he unlocked his office with a key labeled VANITY in scuffed gold.
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Things I Know to Be True: by Kate Humbles
1.
The human head remains conscious for up to ten seconds after decapitation. I read this in a medical journal I found in a dentist’s waiting room when I was eleven. I couldn’t stop picturing it—the severed head blinking, eyes scanning the floor for its missing body. I imagined it was my own head, watching the soles of the nurse’s white sneakers as she walked away, the antiseptic taste still heavy on my tongue. The article didn’t mention what happens in the ninth second—whether the eyes soften, surrender, or still search for a miracle.
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The First Thing She Noticed Disappear Was a Kangaroo by Michael Degnan
Kyla scanned the exhibit, looking for the kangaroo. When she asked her dad where it had gone, he shrugged. She asked again, and all he said was, “Sorry, honey. This has been happening more and more recently.”
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Bald White Man in His Sixties by J C Rammelkamp
It started on Facebook, a notice from a neighborhood dog fanciers’ page about somebody dousing a piece of steak with anti-freeze and tossing it over a fence to an unsuspecting dog, which ate the meat and died. (Apparently these attacks have been happening for quite a while now, and they believe it is the same man.) Then it was taken up by the neighborhood listserv, the modern-day call-tree, and further warnings about this criminal – described as a bald white man in his sixties – prompted an outpouring of fear and outrage. (He appears to be targeting pitbull breeds in the Lakeview area of Potawatomi Rapids.) A vigilante call went out; posters went up on phone polls; you heard nervous chatter in the grocery. You could practically hear the bugle summoning us to action. (Let’s work together and catch this guy so no more of our neighborhood pets have to suffer from his horrible acts. PLEASE SHARE & SPREAD THE WORD!!!)
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Sunday Whatever – The Deserted Painting by Michael Bloor
This is an account of a beguiling little puzzle, beguiling to me at any rate.. All the facts known to myself are set out below. A possible explanation is then offered. I would very much welcome any alternative solutions that suggest themselves to LS readers.
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Where Do Lost Memories Go? by Rinanda Hidayat
Somewhere in a land where only the forgotten remembered, stood a river flowing with discarded memories. Tears cry above it, ever begging for the one who shed them to return.
Sometime between now, today, and never, a man burst out under the river––let’s call him M. He splashed around, thrashing his arms, kicking his feet, but all was unnecessary, for the river never had the will to drown.
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The Miracles of San Batista
One could argue that, as a native Batistan (even though I currently reside and work in Bocay), my opinion of the events I am about to recount must necessarily be tainted by local prejudice and distorted by personal involvement. And, in a sense, it would be accurate. But rest assured, I will tell you what happened as best as I and my fellow Batistans remember, local prejudice or not.
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Nice Young Lady Vanishes by Simon Nadel
You haven’t been at work. That’s very unlike you. It’s been a few days. No, weeks. They couldn’t agree on how long but they all agreed it’s extremely uncharacteristic. You’re a model employee, always at your desk by nine, always there until at least five. You’ve been at your job for a few months. No, it’s been a year. A middle-aged HR manager named Dragwood (I didn’t ascertain whether it was his first or last name) looked through a file. He shook his head in disbelief. Wow, five years. She seemed like such a nice young lady, the man they called Dragwood said, like you I’m sure. I’m not at all nice, I didn’t say out loud.
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Swans of the Baltic by Conor Christofferson
Ivan Mikhailovich Izbyakov stood statue still at the window overlooking the Motlawa River, his face a mask of benign tranquility. A ray of late afternoon sunshine cut through the parted blinds and bathed the small studio in a sultry golden light. He leaned against the windowsill and watched a flock of gulls hovering over the river, rising and falling in the wind as if on strings.
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literally stories 