Tag Archives: street

2567. City life

Serenity’s husband was away on a business trip – for the whole working week. It was no bother. Serenity was at work herself during the day. Upon finishing work she would go home, cook something to eat, watch a bit of television, and go to bed.

It was on the Tuesday night, around eleven o’clock. Serenity was awoken by noticing a light left on in the shed in the garden. It wasn’t a very big shed. Her husband used it mainly for storing tools and the ride on lawn-mower. (Yes, even though they were a very liberated household, her husband was still the one who mowed the lawn).  It had been a handy shed when the kids were growing up; a couple of bunks when they had friends stay over was a Godsend.

The light being on bothered Serenity; mainly because she had not been into the shed for a while and if she didn’t turn it off it would continue to stay on all week and chew up a bit of the grocery money in electric costs. So she got out of bed and went out into the dark. She opened the shed door, walked in, turned off the light, and returned to the house.

As she got into bed she noticed something. The light in the garden shed was on again. It was strange, but not enough to bother Serenity. She would turn the garden shed off properly in the morning. She went to sleep.

In the morning she had forgotten about the light being on in the garden shed. She put a few vegetables and a couple of tough meat chops in the slow cooker and left for work. The cooked result would be enough for her and her cat!

That evening when she got home someone had been in the house and eaten her dinner and left a mess in the kitchen. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. When her husband returned at the end of the week they were leaving San Francisco whether he liked it or not.

2485. Dead end street

Wilma had just moved house. She moved into an old house on a dead-end street; a sort of cul-de-sac with a turnaround area at one end.

Counting Wilma’s there were four occupied houses on the street and one unoccupied. There were three empty sections without buildings. These were unkempt. They were overgrown; not that some of the occupied houses weren’t overgrown as well. Pride in ones abode was not a strong characteristic of this little cul-de-sac.

A few weeks after arriving on the street, Wilma thought she would organize a function. She put an invitation through the mail slot of each front door. A cup of tea or coffee and a nibble or two!

No one came from the drug den. No one came from the brothel. No one came from the gang headquarters. Ms Heffernan came, and she was roaring drunk. Someone else came on their own; a young chap. Wilma wasn’t sure which house he belonged to. Not to worry; he was someone to talk to. He was very pleasant, and asked Wilma all sorts of questions about the house she had just moved into and the place from where she had lived previously. In fact he was so pleasant and interested that Wilma showed him around her new home.

The following Wednesday Wilma returned home from grocery shopping and her whole place had been stripped bare. Not a vestige of a possession remained.

No one on the street knew a thing, not even the nice young man she had kindly shown around the house.

2114. Murder on the street

It came as a shock to the whole street – in fact it wasn’t much of a street, more of a cul-de-sac with just six houses on it – when Mr Algernon James was found lying dead at his front door with a carving knife stuck in his back. He lived at Number Four. Police carried out an exhaustive investigation. All five of the other households had salient motives.

There was Mrs Dorothy Phelps of Number One. Algernon James had run over her cat six months earlier. All that Algernon had said by way of apology was that “Your stupid cat shouldn’t have been on the road”.

There was Mr Harry Barnaby of Number Two. He was not happy that Algernon James had chainsawed down a significant tree on the street. It supposedly had been planted years earlier by Princess Diana not long after she had danced with John Travolta. All that Algernon had said was “It ruined my view, and since you love it so much why don’t you cart it away yourself.” Not a leaf was moved. It lay there as a relic.

Ms Tessa Clockbury of Number Three was a most displeased neighbour. She shared a boundary fence with Algernon and he had cut a hole in the fence so his dog could get through and do its business on her lawn. “A dog is a dog” was all that Algernon said.

Mr Tom Brick despised Algernon with all his might. He was at Number Five. Algernon had parked his old motor vehicle on the grass verge outside Tom’s house. It not only leaked oil on the lawn manicured to perfection by Tom, but the car had been sitting there for several months now and all that Algernon had said was “It’s a public street. You don’t own it.”

Finally there was Mrs Hyacinth Arrowsmith. It would take a novel to expound on why she held grudge after grudge against Algernon. Not least was a letter Algernon had written to the editor of the local newspaper (and printed) referring to “Hyacinth Arrowsmith, that old fart bag at Number Six”.

So there were the five suspects. Each could be guilty as far as the street gossips knew. It therefore was a great surprise when Mrs Noelle Brackenburg was arrested for the murder. No one had heard of her, and she didn’t even live on the street.

2076. A street of murders

There had been three murders on the street in as many weeks. Constable Carrington said they were unrelated. They have nothing in common with one another, and besides, we have arrested three individuals, one for each murder. What would he know? He spends most of his time down at the Archery Clubhouse practising archery.

 Another factor pointing to their disconnectedness was that each murder had been quite different; one was a gun shot, one was a knife stabbing, and the third was poisoning. So it was disconcerting for Constable Carrington when there were yet a further three murders, all in the same household at the same time; one from gunshot, one from stabbing, and one from poisoning. It was as if a single, as yet unarrested murderer, had heard the news of three different murder methods and performed all three at the same time.

Mrs Audrey Swineheart seemed to be the one able to glean the most information. She was the street’s gossip. Somehow she had an ear to the wall, and could furnish everyone (even those who pretended not to be interested) with details of each killing; in some cases with details that Constable Carrington hadn’t mentioned. For example, how did she know that Mrs Deidre Plonk had been shot just as she was whipping cream to put between two layers of her recently baked sponge cake? “You should have seen the blood in the whipped cream,” said Mrs Audrey Swineheart. “Apparently it looked exactly like she had whisked red food colouring into the cream.”

Then there was the case of Mr Dennis Druskovich. He had been stabbed in the back by a carving knife that his wife had given him for his birthday that very morning. “The handle still had its plastic on,” said Mrs Audrey  Swineheart.

“I have no idea how she knows so much,” said Constable Carrington. “One wonders how much else she knows.”

The street was living in fear. Who would be the next victim? Tension grew. Then it happened. Mrs Audrey Swineheart was found lying dead in her passageway with an arrow in her back shot from an archer’s bow.

Constable Carrington called for a street meeting. “Mrs Audrey Swineheart’s death is a terrible tragedy as is any death. However, I’m happy to announce that there will be no more murders on the street. The sole murderer involved has been permanently disarmed.”

1609. All was right with the world

(Today’s final sentence was suggested by observationblogger. It was thought it might be nice to end with a positive sentence for a change!!!)

It had got to the stage where Delia was too frightened to walk down the street to go to the shop. Despite a high concentration of police in the area, it was still unsafe to walk alone. In the past month there had been three gruesome murders. Before that, who knows how many? The murderer always left the same beautifully written note pinned to the victim: Thanks for the memories.

Once a week Delia would phone for a taxi and get taken to the supermarket right in the busy centre of town. Then she would return laden with bags of the coming week’s supplies. If she ran out of anything (for example, one week she ran out of sugar) it was bad luck. There was no way she would walk to the local shop.

Of course, getting a taxi added hugely to the weekly grocery bill. The taxi there and home again could cost Delia almost as much as the week’s groceries. Fortunately she was experienced at looking ahead and planning. So it was a little unusual when she ran out of milk, butter, flour, and eggs a good two days before she was due to go and shop via the taxi.

“I know,” thought Delia to herself, “I shall simply get a taxi two days earlier and plan to get a little extra so as to get back into the routine.” She phoned for a taxi.

The taxi driver was most pleasant, and had wonderful news. No sooner had the journey begun when he said, “I suppose you know they’ve caught the murderer. The police announced it just a few minutes ago.”

“That’s a huge relief,” said Delia. “I guess then this will be the last time I take a taxi.”

‘I’d imagine it will be,” smiled the nice taxi driver.

Delia sighed. All was right with the world.

1585. Survival

(WARNING! The characterisation in this story calls for the occasional swear word…)

Poodle Jerkin was a clown of questionable talent. He snorted cocaine. Who wouldn’t if you worked day in and day out for a circus that hardly paid for nothing? And his wife had left him and taken the kids. There was no hope, so he snorted cocaine and got the sack. Yeah, he wasn’t good enough even for a fuckin’ circus.

He got a job as a clown at a transgender nightclub, where he gyrated up and down on the bar top, dressed as a clown and wanking while patron stuffed dollar bills down the front of his jock strap. The smile was painted on his face, but underneath the makeup he was crying. Then at the end of each night, Jolie the manager or owner – he didn’t know which but who gives a shit? – would take all the bills out of his jock strap and finish off what he’d started on the bar top. He’d leave each night with a couple of bucks and somehow he was meant to have a life.

One night, on the way back to where he slept, he walked past an appliance store. On a big television screen a politician was spouting:

We’ve got to get rid of all these no hopers sleeping on the street. There are needles everywhere. There’s human excrement. We should round them up and do something about it.

Poodle Jerkin picked up a nearby laptop and threw it at the television screen. He’s in prison now. What the fuck? It’s survival.

1583. Dropped dead

Yeah, well, I was walking down the street when this guy walking along in front of me dropped dead. Just like that. He didn’t have time to turn around and say Help! or pop into a shop he was passing and say Can I have a drink of water? or something. Just PLOP and he was dead. Lying flat on the pavement.

Of course everyone rushed to his aid. He must’ve hurt himself in the fall because there was quite a bit of blood. There were enough people helping him so I moved on. Too many cooks spoil the broth as the saying goes. So I thought it better that I don’t get in the way. Besides, if I’m to be really honest, I don’t know much about first aid. Anyway, when a guy drops dead he’s dead, and I saw he was good and proper dead as I passed.

You often don’t know what’s going to happen next half the time. The guy could’ve been a Chinese spy or anything for all I know. Although he didn’t look Chinese. He might’ve been a Russian spy. They look more like us. You never know these days who is walking right in front of you.

I dare say it could have been captured on video camera. Streets have these cameras for security, but as far as I know this section of street doesn’t have any security cameras because I checked it out.

I see in the paper that the police are calling for witnesses. Apparently he was a foreign national working as a double agent. It’s funny how things come out in the wash. The guy didn’t have a heart attack. He was shot slap-bang in the back the police said.

Must’ve been shot by the guy walking behind him!

1520: Something nice to read while having breakfast

Thelma was not well-off; in fact she was practically skint. She had three children and they lived in a little house with a fairly basic rent. Thelma’s husband had been cleaning the spouting when he fell off the ladder and landed on his head. After the funeral, Thelma tried unsuccessfully to find a job. She wasn’t skilled at much. She had very little to go on, just a few savings that were kept in a tin in the cupboard under the kitchen counter. There was enough there for five weeks’ rent and a little food and the telephone and the electricity and some school books and… By being extra careful, and by doing without herself, Thelma managed to stretch things for a week longer than expected.

But the day came… There was no money left. In fact, that was not quite true; there was a two dollar coin in the tin in the cupboard under the kitchen counter. Thelma knew exactly what she would do with it. Before moving out of the house onto the street, Thelma would spend the two dollars on candy for the kids. It was a complete waste, she knew, but it would be an opulent extravagance; a sugar-coated memory; a throw-all-caution-to-the-wind celebration. The children were at school. When they came home she would give them a chocolate each and move onto the street.

On her way out of the house she picked up a letter on the floor that had been delivered through the door earlier that morning. It was from the landlord; did she realize she had missed paying the rent eleven weeks ago? Honestly, it was enough to break the camel’s back. Thelma burst into tears. She dabbed her eyes dry, tried to look reasonably respectable, and headed for the candy shop.

Here, gentle reader, is where you step in. I know you want something nice to happen, and quickly.

Thelma was the one millionth customer to walk through the door at the candy store. She got a great big free bag of candy in all colours, shapes and sizes – more than enough to rot the children’s teeth, if they couldn’t find anywhere to use a toothbrush out on the street.

On the way home Thelma gave the two dollars (and some candy) to a woman begging on the sidewalk. Surprise! Surprise! The woman was part of a “Why-not-make-someone’s day?” television show. For her kindness Thelma won six hundred thousand dollars!

And, dear reader, if you hadn’t had such a kind heart, such a wonderful thing would not have happened to Thelma. Here’s the moral: see how you have already changed the world for good, and you haven’t even finished your morning coffee yet!

1131. Good reason for a barbeque

This evening after work I’ve got my two grown-up kids coming around with their young families. We’ll cook a few things up on the barbeque to celebrate the occasion. What occasion? Well, it’s not much really, but I’ve lived in this same house on this same street for twenty years! I buried my husband from here!

Next door there’s a lady who lives alone although she’s not there very often. She’s from somewhere in Africa. She has three or four lemon trees. They’re absolutely laden with fruit, and occasionally when she’s not there, and I’ve a need, I go over and “borrow a lemon”. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.

My neighbours on the other side of me – I’m not sure what they do but a van advertising electrical supplies comes and goes, so I presume he’s an electrician or something. I think he and his wife have a couple of kids because I’ve seen her walk with the kids in the direction of the local school. They haven’t been here very long; about five years.

Across the road is a lady who seems to collect cats! She doesn’t seem to work but she’s out on the curb about ten times a day calling “Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” Cats of all colours seem to come running. It’s sad really. Possibly the cats are the only thing in her life. People with that many cats must be lonely. I think.

Next to her is a fairly rowdy couple. They have a son who comes and goes with the music blasting in his car. He comes and goes at any hour of the day and night. The pulsating beat of the music drives me nuts, but fortunately he comes briefly and drives away again. I’m not sure if he lives there with his parents or not. At least I presume they’re his parents. Apparently they also have a daughter, but she’s in an institution for the-something-or-rathers.

As I say, I’ve been here twenty years now; the longest on the street I believe. I’ve been meaning to pop around and introduce myself.

1125. A few tricks up his sleeve

Tony didn’t have a job and didn’t much like his prospects of getting one. He felt he had to do something to get money. He lived alone, but still, it costs money to live alone. He got some help in dire times when he needed it, but he liked to be independent.

He knew what he would do. He would learn to do card tricks and perform them in the street. He was quite good at it – all this magic – and his reputation grew so that he nearly always attracted quite a crowd. People were generous. He raked in not a fortune, but enough to make life more comfortable.

Then he cottoned on to taking little kids for short joy rides up and down the street. Of course he did it for free, but often the parents would drop an extra coin or two into his hat. He loved to do the joy rides, even though he had no legs.