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Latest Stories

December 04, 2025
Horror Stories Alizah Zaidi

The Apartment That Remembers

Elias Trent signed the lease for Apartment 4B on a damp Sunday morning in October—one of those mornings when the sky felt heavy with secrets. He had moved to Hawthorne City for a fresh start, a quieter life, and an escape from the noise of the world. The…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Ben Macnair

The Silent City

John awoke not with a jump, but with a profound, unsettling lack of noise. Usually, Tuesdays in his high-rise apartment were an orchestral assault: the insistent moan of the sanitation truck, the 7:05 a.m. argument between Mrs. Petrovich and her potted fig…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Shoplifter

The city was a bruise, the sky a bruised purple at dawn, bleeding into a sickly yellow by noon. Sarah knew its various shades intimately, mostly from beneath the hoods of stolen jackets or the weak, flickering bulbs of forgotten alleyways. She was a ghost in…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Tom Kropp

Shannon's Date

Recently I testified at a murder trial. My big brown Quarter Horse named Buster snorted and stomped his hoof with clear protest at the prospect of moving farther into the forest patch. It was a cool September evening with the sun slipping over the horizon in…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Tom Kropp

Astral Homicide Hunter

Scot put his back to the hall wall and shifted to see all three members of the football team as they approached. All three football heroes stood over six foot tall and weighed over 200 pounds. In contrast, Scot was short and only weighed 165 pounds. His small…
December 04, 2025
Flash Fiction Ben Macnair

The Mirror

Laura stepped into the pulsating nightclub, the bass thudding through her chest like a primal heartbeat. At 29, she had seen her share of wild nights, but tonight something felt different. The air was thick with smoke and neon haze, and the crowd swirled…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Shoelace

The field was a tapestry of amber and gold, the dying grass whispering secrets to the wind. It was a beautiful place, usually. But not today. Today, it was a crime scene. And among the scattered debris of a struggle, a single, mundane object held a chilling…
December 04, 2025
Poetry Markus J

When Santa Comes Downunder

when santa comes down under- he would leave behind snow and thunder. he would cross scenic beaches of golden sand- instead of crossing an ice and snow covered land. he`ll would fly over dirt river beds dry- while constantly swatting away a fly. would he swap…
December 04, 2025
Romance Stories Anthony L

Mr Big

Scotty Biggs lived his life like most people. He lived in New York, in a small apartment above a little bodega that one of his friends still owns. His routine was familiar: wake up too early, make breakfast, hit the gym, work, go home, repeat. His friends…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Ben Macnair

Subjects

The air crackled with a synthetic euphoria, a blinding kaleidoscope of LED lights and projected confetti. Rex Sterling, a man carved from polished charisma and a thousand-watt smile, strutted across the stage of "The Gauntlet of Fortune." His voice, a booming…
December 04, 2025
Romance Stories Alizah Zaidi

Love In The Letters

There was something about the writing cabin at the edge of Windmere Lake that felt suspended in time. The locals said that the cabin had heard more confessions than the village chapel and held more secrets than the town library. It sat halfway into the woods,…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Photograph

The air in the abandoned Jones house tasted of fine dust and forgotten dreams. Detective Miles Corbin pushed open a warped door, the groan of protesting wood echoing through the desolate silence. Sunlight, fractured by grimy windows, painted stripes across a…

They lived together in a rustic looking A-Frame house down the road off the lake. There were three of them, Nancy, Cathy and Mike, all in their early sixties. They were very pleasant, even though townsfolk could tell they were from New York City; all three pretty much kept to themselves and seemed very happy and content with each other living the semi-rural lifestyle here in New England.

Nancy was a trim and fit blonde who looked dynamite in stylish but simple standard corduroy pants and sweater combinations under her tailored navy jacket. The cold, biting New England wind made her complexion even lovelier, complementing her nearly perfect smile.

Nancy loved to shop in the local markets; one could tell she was quite the gourmet cook. She could also be seen painting landscapes during our beautifully colorful autumn seasons. In addition, Nancy sang American Standards at our local coffee house. Her lovely voice blending her ageless sexuality and those timeless lyrical standards of the greatest generation made for quite enjoyable entertainment.

Cathy had an infectious laugh and a great smile. She was petite and slender, with ear length dark hair that was always set in a early 1960’s style out of Mad Men. Cathy looked like her denim jeans were painted on her perfect legs, her tops nicely fit and without a bra her tiny breasts still kept their upward perk.

Cathy also loved to cook and shop along with Nancy.  She loved to clean. The A Frame was always tidy and spotless. Nancy and Cathy were best friends for over forty years. Their friendship was eternal and transcended the physicality of their love. The two drew Mike into their physically and emotionally satisfying world back in New York City.

Cathy was the long distance runner of the three, loving those seemingly endless beautiful trails through tree packed forests along steep mountain terrain. Alternating between the complete silence of nature and classic rock music on her i phone during these runs, Cathy lived for the runner’s high.

Cathy loved to laugh and though not college educated like  Mike and Nancy, she was as sharp as they come. But at times, for affect, Cathy liked to scheme a good practical joke on her two lovers.

Mike was a six foot, blue eyed, retired New York City Police Officer with unkept salt and pepper hair. One could tell he kind of missed the hustle and bustle of being a cop in New York City, but was intrinsically drawn to our peaceful parcel of earth. He always had a smile and a wave for everyone in town.

Mike was not your average police officer. He had a prior career in education but went on to law enforcement instead of getting a Phd. in order to receive tenure in academia. But being a cop was what he was really meant to be. Mike’s sense of humor drove their friendship. He was funny and a true original.

He met Nancy when she ran a deli down on Broadway right off Houston Street in Greenwich Village. They became instant lovers and fast friends.  Nancy introduced Mike to her best friend Cathy and the three became an item. It took a while for Nancy and Cathy to find out what really made Mike tick, but they eventually did, and loved him even more.

Mike dabbled in writing and photography and loved to take long walks in the woods. He truly loves Nancy and Cathy and has finally obtained the contentment and peace that had evaded him since he returned from Viet Nam in 1969. He believes Nancy and Cathy’s place in his life is the answer to years of unidentifiable but gnawing uncertainty.

To Mike, Nancy and Cathy gave him creativity, independence, spontaneity, and most importantly, true love. Hence, he is able to unquestionably appreciate and enjoy existence.

Nancy and Cathy love taking care of Mike, and Mike loves being taken care of by Nancy and Cathy. In his own way, he fulfills and completes the ladies sense of being uniquely connected to the universe.

Mike calls their trio:  The Three H’s: Hazy Hot, and Humid.

They are three of the most contented people I have ever met.

 

Epilogue

 

Why Hazy, Hot and Humid?  Mike answered that with one of his “numerous humorous” observations:

Cathy is Hazy, with her feigned misunderstanding of events and Gracie Allen logic.

Nancy is Hot, for her unadulterated sexuality.

And......

Mike is Humid, for his unkept hair, having bad hair days even in the cold of New England.

 

End

 

Frankie Rembly  is new to writing and enjoys the renaissance of creativity in writing for television's new golden age.

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