The Silent Partner_The Pizzeria_A murder in the coffee shop_To Nowhere
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The Silent Partner
The Silent Partner “Okay, let’s start with something easy. What’s your name?” Aberdeen asked it with faked sincerity as she leaned forward bringing her elbows up onto the table, drawing her face closer. The man across from her lifted his eyes only as high as her mouth, “Winston Churchill.” “Really? Winston Churchill. That was the best you could come up with?” Church shrugged, “What can I say, you’d be better off taking it up with my mother.” The corners of Aberdeen’s mouth drew into a frown, she leaned back and crossed her legs. “Fine. Do you go by Winston then?” “Church actually.” He manag...
The Pizzeria
I never thought I would see the day I got hired for a creepy old restaurant, yet here we are. I’m Axel, and this is the story of how I began working the night guard shift at the deadliest place on earth. I was just walking home from college in my graduation suit, still wondering what my occupation was going to be. Was I going to be an office worker working in a sweaty slow-paced environment writing stories about pizzerias and submitting that file my boss always wanted on his desk in ten minutes? Was I going to work in retail? That might be fun, bagging groceries, maybe stwww.onedoor.ccocking the occasional...
A murder in the coffee shop
PS: first person narrative I was busy reading a paper work in my tiny office around 1:30 pm when sergeant Ray informed me of a murder in our local coffee shop. The only coffee shop we have at Branton township was the famous ‘coffee house’ owned by a sweet old lady called Mrs Evie Stellings. Mrs Stellings and her now recently deceased husband came to Branton township a long time ago and built the famous coffee house here. The coffee and pastry they serve are next to nothing! But now, as sergeant Ray informed me about a murder in the coffee house; my heart sank. Who could have possibly been mu...
To Nowhere
“There’s so much snow, Daddy,” Eloisa marvels, squishing her nose against the car window. A little cloud of fog puffs outward on the glass. “Yes, honey,” my dad mumbles. His hands are gripping the steering wheel for dear life. Mine are clenched around the armrests of the passenger seat. Both of us are white-knuckled, and despite the chill in our battered SUV with half-working heat, sweat beads on my dad’s forehead. “It’s pretty,” my little sister says. “Yes, honey.” Dad eases us around yet another deathly icy curve of the highway. The windshield wipers are working overtime; as soon as t...