Crime

This week’s flash fiction is all about love.

Or money?

Or a love of money?

Or both?

Read on to find out which!

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It was the perfect night for digging up a corpse. Not too cold, but with a low mist adding oodles of atmosphere.

“We’ll be rich,” said Mike. “Together.” We were already in the hole, standing on the coffin. Uncle Chester’s metal box of treasure (bearer bonds, family heirloom gemstones) had been sewn into the velvet pillow he rested his greedy, peeling skull on.

Uncle Chester had always been so greedy that he insisted he would “take it all with him.” That was the story.

I bent to give Mike the box, and his eyes hardened as soon as I touched it. Even in the dark, the way the muscles in his face went rigid to hide his anger was noticeable. I let him take it instead, and he hoisted himself out of the grave with it.

The pause before he reappeared to help me out was the longest I have ever experienced. I was so sure that a shovelful of cemetery dirt would hit me in the face that I held my breath not to inhale it.

“Come on, Kara!” Mike called, however, and his powerful arms pulled me out of the hole. He was smiling at me, his good mood returned.

I had the key to the box after all, having followed the clues to its hiding place, tucked into a slot carved into the back of an old mirror frame in the attic.

He waited eagerly for me to open the box, forcing me to admit that I must have left the key behind. His face went rigid. It made him briefly old and ugly, before it passed. 

Mist swirled in our headlights as we raced through the night, back to the penthouse to find the key. Mike loved me again.

As he drove, he made plans for Chester’s money, then tacked on, “wouldn’t you like that?” for my sake. As much as I loved him, he had never thought highly of my intelligence.

When we had got married, he had told me I was the only woman he had ever loved, even though he’d been divorced three times already, and the contact list on his phone only contained women’s names, none of whom I had ever met.

I liked to think it could be true. The marriages were unhappy, and the contacts were just friends. He was handsome. Why wouldn’t women like him?

He was possibly too handsome. And I did love him, despite the fact that I knew he mostly liked me for my money. That was the problem.

Not that he needed it after divorcing three incredibly rich women.

The cutest thing I ever saw was the look of disappointment when I told him my lawyer insisted on a prenuptial agreement before we married. 

Not that I planned on divorcing him. I had more money than I could ever spend (though not enough to keep Mike happy, if I simply gave it to him). And he made life exciting for me. 

So, I had a discreet arrangement with the local undertaker and his nephew who created puzzles for one of those “escape rooms” to help me source a constant supply of eccentric “relatives” and their various treasure maps, challenges, and other adventures to keep Mike on the hook.

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If you liked this story, you might like to sign up for my newsletter! This month I’ll be writing about Edgar Allan Poe, writer, poet… psychic?

Wikipedia will tell you the cause of his death remains a mystery.

But I reveal all, exclusively for subscribers. Sign up free here!

After the protests and heavy-handed response last week, it looked like things have calmed down here in Kazakhstan (certainly in Nur-sultan, which anyway escaped the brunt of the violence).

I admit to having my doubts about the official explanation, but it looks like the real story was much worse than even I could have imagined. It turns out Kazakhstan was under attack by…

Jazz Musicians from Kyrgyzstan! 😮

Luckily the danger has been averted, so you can relax for this week’s piece of flash fiction, which is also about a man on a mission.

Enjoy!

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The snow hid the curve of the road until it was too late. The ambulance Brent was driving ploughed through the guardrail and into a deep drift.

“Shit!” Brent was uninjured, and the ambulance didn’t seem badly damaged, just stuck. When he tried to reverse, his wheels span without purchase. And he had a heart in the back of the ambulance, with a patient waiting for it.

It wasn’t easy to get out of the vehicle; it was pointed away from the road and down into the neighbouring field at a thirty-degree angle. When he pushed the car door, the snow pushed back. It was up to the handle already, up to Brent’s waist, when he finally made his way into it. He climbed back to the road, hoping to spot a car that might tow him out, but there was no sign of any traffic.

He’d been travelling too fast, he knew that, but the heart transplant was urgent. If he’d taken the motorway, there’d be cars about, but that was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. He’d gambled on the empty back roads, and it had been paying off until he crashed. Had he fallen asleep at the wheel, one of those micro-sleeps? With the missing second income since Janine got sick, he was working every available shift. Driving was more stressful, too, in this kind of weather. And it wasn’t like people were lining up to become heart donors. Still, it’d be worth it once he’d finished the run and could enjoy Christmas with Janine.

From the empty road, he could see the snow-covered roofs of the Daniel’s farm a few hundred metres to the west. That, at least, was great news. He was only a half hour’s walk away from home. The only problem was that he didn’t think he could lug the donor’s body all that way to where Janine was waiting for it. Could he walk home to borrow Janine’s car? Maybe. If nothing else went wrong.

Behind him, a groan came from the back of the ambulance as his unwilling donor regained consciousness.

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If you subscribe to my monthly newsletter then I’ll see you this Saturday (with funny cat photo!), otherwise I’ll see you again next Thursday!

In the final flash fiction of the year, we look to Fate to help us live our best possible life. Enjoy!

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Granny told the future from how the milk twisted when she poured it into her tea. She had seen World War II coming, and the day Granddad got hit by that car.

When I met Julie at work, I went straight to Gran for advice. I was madly in love with Julie and wanted to know if she felt the same way about me before I popped the question.

I kept it all to myself until after her divorce. Her husband kept custody of the kids, so she wouldn’t be bringing any “baggage.” it was perfect. Not that I’d have minded. Not really. But perhaps she needed a complete change to stop calling out her ex-husband’s name when we made love.

Shortly before Shrove Tuesday in the year after we married, I visited Gran again. I made tea for us both and unpacked some posh biscuits to stay on Fate’s good side.

“I see a long and happy life. Did you get these from Waitrose?” When I nodded, she took a biscuit. “I see health, happiness and fortune,” she continued.

It always pays to invest in quality baked goods. I spoil Julie with them, too.

“I see — “ Gran started coughing, and only stopped when she was dead.

Julie loves biscuits, so I make sure she gets plenty. Gran would want me to do that. I’m sure it’s what she wanted to say before she died. And whatever happens, I’ll be fine: Julie did well in the divorce settlement. I thump her on the back as another one goes down the wrong way.

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Looking into the future, what else might the future hold for me as a forward facing indie author? Well, maybe I’ll get into NFTs. Don’t know what that is? Here’s a handy explainer for you!

See you next year!

Hi all, last week I promised a very short piece of flash fiction. So here it is. I tried writing a poem a few weeks back and it was really hard, so I wrote a shopping list instead. Enjoy!

If you like this kind of nonsense, then make sure you sign up to my newsletter for more!

This week we’ve got a piece of crime flash fiction, with a nice bottle of wine, some chicken… and murder. Enjoy!

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“The way I see it,” James tossed his apple core over the hedge into the next field, “it’s not murder if no one notices.”

I watched the town in the distance, all red roofs and sleepy chimney smoke from here. James would be a dangerous man to let loose on a town like that.

“I’m sure murder is always murder,” I said. He was trying to shock me. He loved to flaunt his big city cynicism when he came to visit.

“Not at all,” he swigged at the wine bottle, although I had brought glasses. “If you die in the middle of the night of a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t check, then you’ve died in your sleep. Isn’t that the way everyone wants to go?”

“I’d rather go to France,” I said, but he ignored the hint.

“If you see a bird lying on the ground with a broken neck near a window, you think the poor thing killed itself, not that someone came around and killed it.”

“It would still be murder. Or cruelty to animals, or whatever.”

“In theory, yes, but it would be chalked up as an accident.”

“Do you think we could change the subject?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” said James. “I didn’t mean to go on. You know what I’m like.”

I did. At least, I felt I did now.

I knew he liked to talk and had all sorts of opinions, but usually I liked to listen. The village was boring, and I was flattered that he would come and talk to me – he was so intelligent – and then bed me – he was so handsome – but it only occurred to me now that he barely noticed me. He talked to me and bedded me for his own amusement.

Otherwise, he’d have known that I can’t stand any talk of animal cruelty. I could probably have stood the wine bottle up and he’d have talked to that.

I could have saved myself washing the glasses. I could have spent the day watching telly with Charles, my poor dumb husband, who I had killed in order to be with this arrogant fool.

Still, if he didn’t listen to me, I listened to him. It wouldn’t be murder if no one thought it so.

At least, I wouldn’t be the murderer.

“Shall we?” asked James, ready for the second part of our tryst, now that the talking was over.

“In a minute,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d run back to mine to get me a jumper, would you? Don’t worry, Charles won’t see you. Oh, and a proper knife to deal with the chicken. The big one on the draining board. You might need to wash it first.”

“Sure.”

I watched him disappear down the hill to the village and tidied away all the evidence of our picnic, including the apple core in the next field. I thought about poor birds breaking their necks on windows, so I’d sound upset when I put the call through to the police.

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