Underground Book Reviews

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A mystery in only 100 words? #Short Stories #MysterySuspense

Cops, Crooks & Other Stories in 100 Words: 101 Tales

By Mark S. Bacon

Each entry in this book is a complete story, usually with a protagonist, a challenge and an unexpected resolution. Here's one sample:

On the House

Starting her workday baking before sunrise always made Sophie’s concentration sag by 9 a.m., but looking across the counter at a gun barrel got her immediate attention.

“Gimme the money,” the gunman said.

Sophie glanced over the man’s shoulder, moved toward the cash register--then ducked.

The cop standing behind the robber threw him against the counter, while another officer grabbed the gun.

“You gotta be the dumbest crook I ever met,” said the first cop. “Okay, maybe you didn’t see our car in the lot, but really….”

“Thanks, Kelly,” said Sophie. “From now on, doughnuts are on the house.”

If you feel like getting fired, please do as Mr. Sean Smith #comedy #satire

Working for Heat

 by Donovan Sotam


Sean is trying to get a raise with Mike's help.

‘So, what we need to do Mike, is: climb up that tree, reach the second floor, cut the window with the diamond tip pen and move from there.’ said a very confident Sean.
‘Why can’t we just enter through the front door?’ We both know the access code.’ In fact every other person in a mile radius of that building knew the access code. It was the famous 1234 code that comes with that lock.
‘Well, where would be all the fun in breaking in, if we were just to enter in. No, no! We must do this properly.’
‘Ahh, yes, where would all the fun be in trying to avoid physical damage, from let’s say…’ a small pause while he observed his surroundings ‘falling down from the tree?’
‘Ohh, shut up, Mike, you’re taller than me, you could probably reach the second floor without the tree.’
‘Very funny Sean. Tall people’s jokes! Haha.’ replied a bit angry and even more sleepy Mike.
Eventually they decided to just go through the front door, since the window that was cut led to a storage room that was closed from the outside. They made their way into their boss’ office in a very cinematographic way, jumping, diving into the cover of a desk, running and sneaking, all to avoid, what apparently was not missing the chance to use the cheap ninja costumes to the fullest.
They were now in the waiting room and Mike picked up the National Geographic and started whistling the National Geographic theme.
Yeah, I read it this morning’ said Sean. ‘There’s an interesting article on Atlantis.’
‘Where did they find it, this time?’
Sean didn’t answer for he had managed to pick the lock of Mr. Anderson’s office.

When a woman confronts her missing lover's mother #ShortStories

Single Edged Blades: 7 Stories for a Broken & Angry Heart

By Deanna Roy

After driving two hours to her lovers' childhood home...

“I haven’t seen my boy in two weeks, two weeks!” Richard's mother said. “Yesterday he was in town with his wife, he say he cannot stay two more hours to wait for his mother. Too much in a hurry to wait for his own mother two hours!”

My mind stumbled on the unexpected word, then dismissed it. “He--he wouldn’t wait? He said he got here midafternoon. He left me at noon and came here…”

“Already gone! Said he had to move into a new apartment with his wife--new place by her new job. You didn’t know about her new job? That they were moving this week?” The señora sat back, not with spite, but knowingly, and watched me with gentle concern as my mind caught up to her words.

I was too dizzy to answer, pressing my hands on the wood table. His wife. The one he had left many months ago, he told me. He was moving into a new apartment. With his wife.

“You look like you need orange juice. Let me pour you some.” The señora heaved from the chair. I grasped small details of the table and its contents--a loaf of bread, a stack of newspapers--unable to master the broad swath of scenery that had changed like a theater rolling in a completely altered stage.

"The Unauthorized Biography of Michele Bachmann (and other stories)" by Ken Brosky

I knew this guy, babe, he could do things with his mouth you ain’t never seen. And I ain’t talking about sex here, all right? All right? Get your head out of the gutter and listen to me, because this is a story that’s gonna blow your mind.

There was a guy named Steve who called himself Nines and a guy named Simon who called himself Case. And they were both Phreaks—not the kind we used to make fun of back in high school, not those freaks. I’m talking about Phreaks, babe: phone hackers. Guys who could work the phone system. They could do things that weren’t even supposed to be possible. Getting free calls was just the beginning for these guys, babe.

Let me start with Nines, because Nines was the godfather of them all. Nines didn’t really start the whole idea of phone hacking, I don’t think, because there’s no way to tell who really first started hacking phones, you know? But Nines was something incredible, and he knew it and he flaunted it. What did he do? I’ll tell you what he did.

He whistled.

"Quiet Americans" by Erika Dreifus

You will go to Germany. You will go, after years and years of refusing to go (even when you traveled through the rest of Europe after your freshman year of college), just as you refused to learn German until circumstances (that is to say, graduate school requirements) forced you to. But if your grandparents, may they rest in peace, managed to go back and visit, way back in 1972, then you can go. You will be practically next door in beautiful baroque Central Europe for a conference; you really should go while someone else has paid your transatlantic airfare. So you will.

     You are an American. You are a grown-up. What’s to worry about? Even now, even this summer of 2004, when your own homeland needs security, and every time you watch the news you’re afraid you’ll hear about another suicide bombing on a bus in Israel.

     You talk with your best friend before you leave. You say: “I don’t know which is worse, at this point. To be an American in Europe—or to be a Jew.

     Your best friend is also an American Jew. She also has European-born grandparents. Hers survived a total of seven camps. Your best friend doesn’t have an answer.

"Curbchek" by Zach Fortier

The door of the mobile home had been kicked in, so I called for backup and went in, clearing room-by-room, my gun out searching.  I checked the entire trailer - which smelled like a damn litter box - and in the only bedroom I found an unmade bed covered in blood.  There was no one in the house.  I called for techs to process the scene and put out an attempt-to-locate on the woman’s car; it was gone - and she with it.

            I was pissed off.  I drove around the immediate area, looking for her car; then, call it intuition or whatever, I decided to park back up on a hill and blacked out (turned out my headlights).  I just sat, waiting.  I know this sounds weird, but I knew something was going to happen.  Call it luck or gut instinct - whatever you want to feel comfortable - but I knew I had to park and wait...something was coming.  

Fifteen minutes later, here comes her car down the dugway.

"Tips for Tailoring Spacetime Fabric--Vol. 2" by "Roger Bourke White Jr."

Tom is introducing himself. Tom is the only living person in New York.

Hello there.

... You can’t be real, but you seem real. So I’ll talk to you. I’m a pretty lonely guy these days. I’m Tom and I’m the only living person in New York. And I have been for three years now.

He looks back at Central Park for a moment, thinking hard, making a decision.

That may change, soon. Especially if I’m starting to see you. You’re a hallucination, of course. There used to be others, real others, I mean, but they’re all gone now ... all gone.

But it’s really nice to have someone to talk to ... anyone.

I’m about to get some dinner, would you like to join me? ... Of course you would. He grins a bit sheepishly for asking the question. Old habits die hard.

I’m probably not making sense, am I? Let me start from the beginning. I have a choice to make ... I’ve always had it. The question facing me now is ... do I want to give that choice up?

He laughs. Well ... that didn’t sound like the beginning, did it? But it is. Now let me start at something that sounds like a real beginning.

From "Sweetwater" by Courtney Lyn Batten

Mia blinked back the tears, the longing, and the heartache that threatened to consume her. Leaving Mississippi four years ago was eerily similar to leaving Adam now.

Kyle’s raspy voice jolted Mia out of her thoughts. She whipped her head back to face him. He sensed her eyes on him and met them, still singing faintly. And for a moment, it was hard to ignore the warmth that flooded in her gut as their eyes locked. His deep voice made her want to forget and desperate to run at the same time.  Mia realized she was staring, he winked and a hot blush crept into her cheeks and stained her pale skin. She dropped her eyes to her lap; a curtain of blonde hair fell forward and shielded her red face.

Kyle chuckled as he turned back to the road, “Even cuter when you blush.”

From "The Academic Exercise" by James G. Bruen, Jr.

"What is the matter, Matt?" asked the priest, sniffing the brandy.

 

"Am I that transparent, Paul?" said Matt Hart with a smile and a sigh. "I guess after all these years you know me well."

 

He put his glass on the small table next to his chair.

 

"One of my law students was killed today," Matt continued after a short pause.

 

"He was one of the best students I had last year, and he was killed by another one of my students. The police say it's murder, and they have arrested him. I know he didn't mean to do it. I feel responsible for the killing and obligated to prove he isn't culpable."

 

"Responsible? Why?" said the priest. He dipped his tongue into his brandy.

From "His Story" Compiled by Cynthia Meyers Hanson

This book is a collection of inspirational stories:

 

Unexpectedly- a young mother died in a car accident.  Her best friend, a cancer survivor that relied heavily on the deceased soul bravely volunteered to do the eulogy.  Another young friend decided to gift those present with her angelic voice.  The singer worried about her strength to make it through her songs.  I drove her early to practice so her husband could await their babysitter.  She feared crying instead of singing during a song’s words: “and I will lift you up on eagles’ wings…” So, I joked about other creatures and lyrics. 

 

Lines from “Mickey Mouse” poured out of my mouth breaking her tension.  As we laughed, I parked my car and told her to watch my lips because they will be harmonizing with that other animal song.  During the actual funeral, my neighbor didn’t have to find my face because the face of the church’s clock hit our funny bone.  This Orlando church made its timely purchase at Disney World; there the mouse stood greeting us with his open arms marking the hours and minutes. God has a sense of humor!

From "Tips for Tailoring Spacetime Fabric--Vol. 1" by Roger Bourke White Jr.

Now that he's a prisoner, Hansen finally finds a Harpupon...

Hansen stared across the cell at the Harpupon.

“Alien intelligence, my ass,” he whispered.

The Harpupon was lying against the far wall, inert, curled up, a dog-sized cross between a rock and a potato bug.

For the hundredth time since Tlurg and his Xobon lackeys had brought in the creature, Hansen felt the urge to get up, walk the two steps, and kick it like a beachball—to watch it bounce against the wall, just to break the boredom. He suppressed it.

“Suppression won’t do any good. I felt you think that!” A voice in his head informed him. Hansen felt a thrill. There was a single antenna sticking out from the Harpupon. It was coming out!

“I did. But if you uncurl so I don’t keep thinking you’re a ball, it won’t happen again.”

“You think I’m a ball?”

“Damn straight. You look like one. Do ya bounce?”

The Harpupon thought about that.

“I don’t feel like a ball. I feel like a rock. Something you’d ignore. Why do you think I’m a ball?”

“What the fuck would a rock be doing here in the middle of a bare five by ten cell? You’re a ball.”

From "Rostov Rising" by Roger Bourke White Jr.

Ifrit Zaneem is telling the history of Ifrits and Dragons in the Plane of Fire...

“Tell me more about Queen Almidahl,” I said to Zaneem.

“When we Ifrits first came to this plane, she was First Guardian of the Red Dragons. It was she who led the Dragons against us when we first sought to make a home here.

“At first they hurt us grievously. We lived as furtive beings on the edges of the realm and many of our kind did flee elsewhere, as the Dragons wished. But with time those of us who stayed became stronger and adapted to this realm, so that we not only became immune to Dragon breath but came to enjoy it! Ah … I may not be able to experience the joys of the heart that you and the Queen discussed, but you cannot experience the joys of being bathed from head to toe in Dragon flame.

“After that change came about, we Ifrits found ourselves seeking Dragons out. They could still hurt us if we were not careful, but we would bait them to breathe on us, then scamper away. Those who now live in the city went one step further: They captured young Reds and trained them to be pets. There are now many in the city."

From "Frothy Coffee Stories" by Tabitca Cope

He tried to blend into the back ground, another grey suited man, in a sea of grey suits all leaving their grey offices to head their grey way home. He hoped they went home to a warm family to bring some light into their lives, as she had to his. He looked ahead, the problem would be once she went over the bridge as the crowd would disperse and head for the station and he would still be there following her. She was heading past the bridge and down to the riverside. There wouldn’t be many places to hide once she hit the path. Both sides of the path had been cleared of bushes so no one could hide there and spring out on the unwary. He had applauded it at the time now he wished they had left some in situ. He considered and then pulled out a plastic cagoule from his pocket and a woolly pull on hat. Dressed in these his suit was covered and he looked like someone walking a dog. Satisfied he followed her down.

From "The Wood & Copper Inn and other Short Stories of the Supernatural" by G. Neri

A confederate deserter on his way west, is abruptly awakened by an unearthly visitor...

The shadow moved forward and stood at the mouth of the cave for a time.  It was undoubtedly the form of a man.  The wind screamed an eerie lament through the valleys and amongst the mountains, as if to warn Adams of the shadow and of the shadow’s unknown purpose.  He watched as the shadow slowly walked into the cave entrance.

        He also noticed what were dark and malevolent spirits, which remained in the wood just outside of the cave.  He heard their voices and saw their eyes.  They were stirring and writhing and staring inward at him and at the fire.  Adams knew what they were.

        The stranger was peculiarly dressed for being in the wilds, for he was dressed in finery from top to bottom.  He wore a fancily tailored long coat, a tall hat and shiny black boots that were tipped with strangely patterned silver at the ends.  Adams noticed that.  He carried a silver tipped and polished oaken walking stick. He was an imposing figure as he slowly and very silently walked closer.  He was followed into the cave by a smaller, hunched and shadowy figure.

From "I Can Touch the Walls" a story in "Cracks in the Ceiling" by Dave Cornford

The opening of I Can Touch the Walls, one of the short stories in Cracks in the Ceiling by Dave Cornford...

 

The shadow of the window and the bars is climbing up the wall. I've turned the light off so I can watch it. The edge of the shadow has gone soft while the sun struggles futilely against its nightly captivity. 

I'm keeping perfectly still, so there's no momentum in the room. The swirls and eddies in the air are unwinding, allowing tranquillity to settle. It seems to increase the volume of the space ten-fold.

Distant sounds speak of the lives others are living. The screech of tyres must be some p-plate fool going out for another night of Russian roulette on the road. I can almost hear his mum at prayer. She should probably arrange a malfunction of the Grand Theft Auto game disc, just to be sure.

It's colder now. Lovely. A comforting shiver glances through my shoulders. The walls didn't absorb the heat of the day, and they're close enough to draw heat out of my face. Only old solid walls can do this for you; the brick veneer of the suburbs can't provide this type of comfort when it's needed.

From "Greet the World" a story in "The Uncanny Valley" by Bryan R. Dennis

A disaffected employee has been informed that resignation is against company policy...

Taylor leapt to his feet. He paced the room, rubbing his hand over his mouth. After a moment he whirled and pointed defiantly at the counselor.

“What if I told you I don’t care about the rules? What if I told you that I’ve been pushed past the limit and to hell with the consequences? What then?”

“Is that what you’re telling me?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Taylor nodded.

The counselor clucked his tongue, produced a pen from his clipboard and scratched a note. His expression soured.

“What can management do?” Taylor challenged. “Fire me?”

“They don’t fire people.”

“Well, damn it, what if I just leave? What would happen if I simply walked right out the front door and went on my merry old way?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited for a response.

After a delay the counselor set his pen down and folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t leave.”

“And why not?”
 
“You’d die.”

From "Ghost Daze" by Frank Potterstone

He was only 63, but felt closer to 93. His once long, hippie hair now a cold bluish gray, his skin looked like to old saddle bags that had been left out in the weather, and his knee's were constantly in agonizing pain,do to many years of roofing. John Payne was, by now, little more than a crippled old man.  But believe it or not, there had been a time . . . a long, long time ago. When he was able to navigate a lot easier through his bedroom.

He managed to make it as far as to the bathroom before remembering that the ghost had stolen his meds the day before. For the past three days (or was it four?) John had come to find out, of an mischievous paranormal presence in the house. Not really an evil spirit, really, more of a harmless prankster one — paranormal investigators,call them poltergeists. And it seemed to get a kick out of taking little, unimportant items from him, like nail clippers or twisting all his silk ties into knots, stupid stuff like that. John didn't really have a problem with it in the beginning. In a very strange way, he kinda like the company; all his friends were burn outs, and most of his family died before him. So the mere trace of another presence in the house was oddly comforting, somehow. And if the ghost felt obliged to help itself to his nail clippers, well, knock yourself out. Though honestly, why a ghost would need to use nail clippers is beyond me.

But yesterday...

From "The Honeycomb Comet" by Roger Bourke White Jr.

Cpt. Albert Musso tells about what really happened on that first voyage to the Altair HX sphere...

It wasn’t a rest home, it was the Carrefour Hotel, the finest in Titan City 2.

Albert Musso didn’t seem ancient, either, as he walked vigorously to the table in the garden, his eyes sharp and his voice clear as he greeted me. But I’d been warned that he fatigued very easily and when he left me he’d have to be plugged into a roomful of life support systems.

For that matter, it wasn’t an interview; it was a monologue. I waved my ring-computer into its Record mode and Captain Musso talked.

I want to thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Thompson. I assume you know I was captain of the ninth ship to get out to the Altair HX Sphere, not the first. But I think I still have an interesting story to tell you.

It’s a burden I’ve carried too long. Telling the true story of the first Altair Sphere voyage may partly right a terrible wrong from long ago. When I saw what they said in Jonas’s obituaries… Grrr… such bilge! I can respect the dead, but I need to respect the living more. This is what I saw happen there.

From "Wasted, Redeemed" a short story in "The Trio" by Alyse Bingham

She stared at the empty hourglass, asking herself when the bits of sand had joined the others at the bottom. Her eyes ceased to focus on the device and she lost herself in reflection.

An hour – wasted.

One hour was the least of things she had allowed to slip through her malcontented fingers. She had been given a chance for an excellent education, but had declined it less than gracefully.

A mind – wasted.

Finding herself destitute after nigh a year, she had thrown herself at the richest man she could find. But despite the riches and quirks that came with her position, she felt perpetually filthy, eternally tainted.

A soul – wasted.

After her initial rise to the status of near celebrity, the inevitable happened, as she knew it would: she was cast out . . . and replaced. Marred and jaded, she was passed from man to man, her wealth and health deteriorating and fragmenting along the way.

A lifetime – wasted.

But then, she saw him.