Tag: mystery

The following is the fourth post in a series of sponsored short stories written using Jamie Cat Callan’s fun and easy to use The Writer’s Toolbox (affiliate links are included in this post for your convenience). You can read more about Jamie’s other creations at the bottom of this post.

For those not as familiar with The Writer’s Toolbox, it prompts you with a first, middle, and last sentence as well as a series of descriptions, some more random than others, which help your writing pop as well as a protagonist complete with overarching goals and an obstacle to overcome. I absolutely love it.

You can also read the first post in the series here.

“I like hats.” That’s what Donald said the day before he killed Sally. They were also the last words he spoke to anyone, their boss had seen to that. Frank shared a look with his business partner as Lillian walked into the back room bringing a dark-haired woman in tow.

Frank dropped his brush into a glass of water, enjoying how the leftover paint spread out in the liquid like a red cloud. The movies made his profession out to be much more action-packed than it was.

The movies left out how much waiting was involved. There was waiting for a guest to arrive, then the waiting while fear simmered to a breaking point, followed by even more waiting for a guest to come back to after Donald got through with him or her.

Frank took up watercolors to pass the time. He’d found it excited him and yet simultaneously relaxed him even more than the feel of spandex.  If his therapist was still alive, she might appreciate the fact he’d taken up a hobby.

“Hello Margaret, so nice to see you again.” Frank smiled and gestured for Margaret to have a seat while Donald locked the door, his expression as cold as November in Cincinnati.

“This is all a big misunderstanding,” said Margaret as Frank pulled over another chair and sat down across from her.

“You hear that Donald? It’s a misunderstanding.”

Donald grunted.

“Well now’s your chance to clear everything up. I suggest you use it. What you were up to, that weekend in Duluth?”

“It was the bartender from Seattle. He started to ask questions. I decided the only solution was to seduce him. We went on a date, a couple’s cooking class, and spent the night together. That’s all.”

“Is that so?” Frank arched an eyebrow. His gaze swept her body from toe to the top of her head, lingering on all her curves. She raised her arms, crossing them over her chest and hiding her breasts from view. He shook his head. The woman across from him didn’t have the first idea how to use her body to save her life. She was no calculating seductress. He’d been with enough of them to spot their tell-tale signs. Some people might even say that kind of woman was his addiction. Too bad for us both.

“I’m telling the truth.” Margaret’s eyes darted around the room. “There was a man selling bananas outside. The instructor ran out and had to buy a quarter of his supply. I still have the receipt for the class in my purse. All you have to do is call the number and ask him about it.”

Frank reached out a hand. Margaret drew back. The corner of his lips crept up as he slid the strap off her shoulder. He turned his head. “Lillian, be a doll and check out her story, won’t you?” Donald moved to the side to allow Lillian to pass leaving Margaret alone with the two men.

“So say your story checks out –”

“It will.”

Frank had to admit Margaret had spunk. “That still doesn’t explain why you were seen hightailing out of town.” He leaned back in his chair. “I mean why run if you have nothing to hide?”

“I wasn’t running. I was on my way to see Leslie, just like I promised.”

“Funny. From what I heard, you were spotted going in the exact opposite direction.”

“I can explain that too. I can explain everything.”

Frank snorted. “I’m sure you can.” He motioned to Donald, who approached the chairs and dropped a black leather bag by Frank’s leg. Frank turned the metal dials on either side of the clasp and a latch popped. He pulled the sides of the bag open so that the overhead light could reflect on the metal tools inside. Painting with watercolors wasn’t his only artistry.

Margaret blanched and her shoulders slumped as he pulled out a device with a diamond-sharp edge. “It all started the day Lillian learned to drive…”

Oh dear, things are looking bleak for Margaret. I hope for her sake they believe her story, as unbelievable as it sounds, without things having to get too messy. 

You can jump to part 5 here.

I believe in this product so much I reached out to its creator, the lovely Jamie Cat Callan, author of the upcoming Parisian Charm School: French Secrets for Cultivating Love, Joy, and That Certain je ne sais quoi (available January 2nd, 2018) to tell her how much I loved her creation and was beyond thrilled when she allowed me to use her prompts for these posts.

In addition to her upcoming novel, she is also the author of the books Bonjour, Happiness! , French Women Don’t Sleep Alone, and Ooh La La!: French Women’s Secrets to Feeling Beautiful Every Day

Thanks to Jamie, I’ve learned there is a word for a woman who emphasizes a life of passion, expressed through personal style, leisurely pastimes, charm, and cultivation of life’s pleasures. That word is quaintrelle. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking that word would look great on my business card.

The following is the third post in a series of sponsored short stories written using Jamie Cat Callan’s fun and easy to use The Writer’s Toolbox (affiliate links are included in this post for your convenience). 

For those not as familiar with The Writer’s Toolbox, it prompts you with a first, middle, and last sentence as well as a series of descriptions, some more random than others, which help your writing pop as well as a protagonist complete with overarching goals and an obstacle to overcome. I absolutely love it. You can read more about the Toolbox’s creator at the bottom of this post.

You can read the first post in the series here.

Her mother was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink. The neighbors said they’d check in on her from time to time. Even so, Margaret was only too aware how little a promise meant. “Give it to me.”

“No,” her mother clutched the wet cloth next to her chest.

Margaret rummaged around in her purse until she located a purple lollipop. “I’ll trade you for it.”

Her mother approached the offered piece of candy like a nervous animal fearing taming. Margaret didn’t have time for this. Not today. But she couldn’t very well leave. Not like this. The hands on the kitchen clock continued their countdown. All the favors she’d traded. The bargains she’d struck. It was all going to be for nothing. All because her mother liked to play mix and match with her medication.

Tick. Tock.

“Oh for the love of–”

Her mother’s lip quivered.

Margaret schooled her tone and counted to ten. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Go on take the candy. I know you like candy.” Still, her mother hesitated. “It’s purple. Your favorite.” Margaret shook the lolly. Light shined through, brightening its color.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. Then the rag was in Margaret’s hand. Her mother dropped to the ground and scurried under the table to enjoy the treat as if afraid Margaret might change her mind. Margaret’s hand itched. One phone call to Iris. No, she shook her head. Calling Iris wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

The clock struck the hour. She couldn’t afford to hesitate any longer. “I’m sorry mom. But this is the only way.” The only thing left she could do was secure the door behind her.

On the following Friday, she packed her bags and planned her escape, kissing the autographed photograph on her mantle of Sy for luck.

Her car idled in traffic across from the Jenny Craig Center. Margaret jumped at the sound of a knock on the window. It was Lillian, her one-time best friend. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Move it cars. She urged in her mind. Lillian knocked again.

The driver of the car in front of her opened his door and walked away. Margaret suppressed a groan. She flipped on her turn signal. The driver of the car beside her made eye contact and tipped his hat. Thank goodness there are still gentlemen in this world, Margaret thought. She began turning the wheel, ready to squeeze her car into the next lane as soon as there was a large enough opening. The driver’s head shook slowly from side to side.

Margaret’s heart began to pound. She looked into her rearview mirror. The driver in the car behind her repeated the same gesture.

Lillian rapped her knuckles on the window again. “Save your gas,” she said as Margaret unrolled her window. “There was an accident up on North, blocking the entire freeway. No one is going anywhere. Why don’t you come inside? I’ll get you a coffee. I remember how you like it.”

Margaret’s pulse calmed. A standard issue traffic jam. That’s all it was. Nothing more. She giggled to herself. “Sorry, Lillian, I can’t.” Caffeine would only make her nerves worse. “Maybe another time?”

Lillian’s smile deepened into the sort that proclaimed conquest or spawned notes from a jealous husband. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

A uniformed figure walked up to the passenger window and raised his hand revealing a gun. “You aren’t the only one who has made friends in interesting places since leaving Starbucks,” continued Lillian, “and mine want to talk to you about that weekend in Duluth.”

Will Margaret’s mother get the help she needs? Who are Lillian’s new friends and what did happen that weekend in Duluth?

You can jump to the next installment here.

I believe in this product so much I reached out to its creator, the lovely Jamie Cat Callan, author of the upcoming Parisian Charm School: French Secrets for Cultivating Love, Joy, and That Certain je ne sais quoi (available January 2nd, 2018) to tell her how much I loved her creation and was beyond thrilled when she allowed me to use her prompts for these posts.

In addition to her upcoming novel, she is also the author of the books Bonjour, Happiness! , French Women Don’t Sleep Alone, and Ooh La La!: French Women’s Secrets to Feeling Beautiful Every Day

Library Journal says Ooh La La is “Part travelogue and part beauty guide, this lighthearted handbook takes readers on another delightful romp through France!”

Every writer fears the threat of the dreaded Writer’s Block. Sure, some might tell themselves that it doesn’t exist, that it’s only a lack of inspiration or a lazy reluctance to sit your bottom in the chair and write anyway. But sometimes, no matter what you believe, what you call it, or how much you want to put in the work, the words won’t come, at least not words that are fit for publishing.

I believe in writer’s block, but I also believe there are tools out there to help you prime your creative pump. One such is The Writer’s Toolbox (affiliate links are included in this post). 

For those not as familiar with The Writer’s Toolbox, it prompts you with a first, middle, and last sentence as well as a series of descriptions to include as well as a protagonist, obstacles, and motivations. With it, I’ve been able to post a few short stories in the past, which you can read here and here.

In fact, I believe in this product so much I reached out to its creator, the lovely Jamie Cat Callan, author of the upcoming Parisian Charm School: French Secrets for Cultivating Love, Joy, and That Certain je ne sais quoi (available January 2nd, 2018 from Penguin Random House) and asked if she might be willing to sponsor a series of posts. You can read more about Jamie below.

I am delighted to report that over the next weeks I will be adding an additional flash fiction piece written utilizing this fantastic tool to my regular posting schedule. If you are a writer and don’t already have The Writer’s Toolbox. I encourage you to add it to your holiday wish list now. Seriously, I’ll wait.

Back? Great. Now without further ado – part one: 

There were 17 cats living in Larry’s basement. Well, technically it was Larry’s mom’s basement, but Larry hadn’t exactly turned any of them away. Bill shook his head as he surveyed the discarded fur balls and torn up fabric on what used to be a high-end custom-made sofa. “How can you live like this?” he asked his one-time roommate. A poster of a child with wings starring up at heaven with the caption, ‘Believe’ hung from the wall.

“If you don’t take chances,” said the main in dingy striped pajamas, “you might as well not be alive.”

“And exactly what chance are you taking here, other than risking getting smothered to death in your sleep when they turn on you.”

“It’s only temporary.” Larry followed Bill’s gaze. “You know … until I finish my novel.” He pointed to a pile of blue index cards on top of an end table slash scratching post. As if on cue, a large black and white cat stretched up and knocked the pile to the floor where a gray feline promptly nipped a card with its teeth and scurried away.

“I told you, we could have worked something out.” Bill’s salary from the university lab wasn’t anything to brag about, but unlike his peers, he still hadn’t succumbed to the insane spending spree that was marriage and children. He could afford to be generous with his friends – he had so few of them. Growing up, his dad’s career had seen to that.

“You know why I had to leave.”

“Right,” Bill rolled his eyes. “The woman in 3B.”

“Yes,” Larry slammed a fist into the palm of his hand, “the woman in 3B. You were never there. You have no idea what she was like. Every time I left the apartment. Boom. There she was. It was like she was watching our place, waiting for me.”

“I still say she liked you. If you wanted her to leave you alone, all you had to do was ask her out.” Bill grinned at Larry’s sickened expression. “She’d come to her senses soon enough.”

“Har, har.”

Another cat ran by, knocking a crooked umbrella from where it rested by the doorway into Bill’s leg in the process. “If I can’t convince you to move out, can I at least buy you a new wardrobe?”

Larry looked down at his attire. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

Bill held up a finger. “Well for starters it reeks of cat vomit.”

“It does not. I washed these just five days ago.”

“And two,” Bill extended a second finger, “you can’t go out in public dressed like that.”

“Yeah, and give me one good reason why I’d want to go out there.”

The smile left Bill’s face. “My sister’s gone.”

“Where should we go first?”

“To see Iris.” The concern reflected back in Larry’s eyes chipped Bill’s confidence away.  In the hours following dinner with his father, when he’d first heard the news, he’d tried to convince himself that his sister’s disappearance was one big misunderstanding. She’d have even less interest in saying goodbye than he would. He turned to face the door while Larry ran to the back and changed and tried not to imagine what splattered blood must look like as he stared at the stain on the wall.

Will Larry finish his Great American Novel before the cats decide it would make a better litter box? Who is Iris and can she provide any more clues to the whereabouts of Bill’s sister? Tune in next week, or purchase The Writer’s Toolbox and create your own ending.

Read part two of the series here.

More about Jamie Cat Callan:

Jamie Cat Callan, the creator of The Writers Toolbox: Creative Games for the “Write” Side of Your Brain” (Chronicle Books) grew up in Connecticut and taught creative writing at Fairfield University, Yale University and Wesleyan University for many years.

She is also the author of the bestselling books French Women Don’t Sleep Alone, Bonjour, Happiness!, and Ooh La La! French Women’s Secrets to Feeling Beautiful Every Day. Her books have been translated into twenty-one languages and she has been featured in major periodicals including the New York Times, Vanity Fair, and Time magazine.

Jamie has spoken to thousands of women (and more than a few men) encouraging them to embrace a life of style, charm, and grace. She has appeared on the international television news program France 24, as well as Plum TV and Better TV.

Today Jamie makes her home in New York’s Hudson Valley at La Belle Farm, where she and her husband have created a little bit of France and grow lavender and sunflowers and produce their own brand of sparkling French-inspired apple cider.