Mystery

25 articles in category Mystery / Subscribe

Tthere are good days and then, of course, there are Bad Days. Now I am not overly prone to bad days but I do feel personally that my bad days are the worst. So, before you say anything, let me tell you how bad my bad days are. (Loosens his collar Rodney-Dangerfield style).

I can tell you I get no respect around here! So listen up and you will be able to go about your wonderful life miserably happy. It all started with the alarm clock; which is to say, was flashing 12 o’clock when I woke up. You know what that means, your already one minute late for work because someone at The Electric Company fell asleep at the controls, and sent power surges thru your electric lines.

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Wwith only dark glasses and a scarf to disguise her, she quickly scurried through the side door of her hotel. Always careful enough each year to follow different streets, she darted off only after she was positively certain that no one was watching her. She was even cautious enough each year to start from a different hotel as well.

She would stride down different streets that were usually teeming with tourists. Like a busy bee bouncing from flower to flower, she would dive in and out of little shops, while at the same time cleverly changing her appearance from time to time, by adding different scarves or sunglasses, or sometimes even changing her dress. Always looking over her shoulder she insured that no one was following her. Her moves were well co-ordinated: quickly through front doors and out back ones leading to allies and side streets, as she skillfully made her serpentine route towards the docks.

This year would not be different, as she started off with a taxi down Victoria Street followed by a brisk walk through St. Thomas Circle and on to the market streets of St. Crois that were sweltering in the tropical heat. Always stopping to look behind to be sure that no one was following, she quickly disappeared in an out of shops and back door of restaurants. After many hours of this, and only when she was absolutely certain that no one was trailing her, would she even attempt to approach the docks.

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Having felt a sharp pain in my arm, I had decided to move on. I was walking along the High Street, happily looking into shop windows, when suddenly I noticed that our local bully had seen me and was waiting to cross over to apparently confront me. He is not a person to mess with and I had to get away. Now!

Noticing that I had seen him, he called out “Oi! I want you!” I quickened my step and wondered what to do. Then, next to the baker’s shop, I noticed a door that I had not seen before. It was slightly ajar and I quickly decided to go in. The door slammed shut and I was alone in a long, dark tunnel.

As I looked around, my eyes quickly grew accustomed to the gloom. There was a door on the left-hand side, while ahead, in the far distance, bright sunlight was filling what appeared to be the obvious way out. However, as it was nearer, I chose to open the door as I was curious to see what was behind it.

I walked forward and entered a large, circular room. I could not believe my eyes! The vision was in 3D and constantly changing as it slowly moved around me. The scene was of groups of people going about their everyday life. They were in a variety of places, in a variety of countries!

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Eevery morning it is my job to make the coffee before my wife joins me for some breakfast and conversation. This has been a tradition in our marriage ever since it began over thirty-one years ago. While I was getting the coffee pot ready I noticed a large jar next to the coffee machine.

It must have had a gallon capacity but was only a quarter filled by some kind of yellowish liquid. The liquid was brewing because its surface was covered with tiny bubbles. When my wife came downstairs to join me for breakfast I asked what this newest of inhabitants of our kitchen counter was. She told me that it was a starter cake.

Not having a clue as to what a ‘starter cake’ is supposed to be, I asked for an explanation. She told me that she got the starter liquid from her sister. She explained that every time one made the cake mix they would have enough left to give the extra mix to two other people who wanted to make their own Christmas cake. Then these people would make their cakes and have a couple of starter liquids to give to other people, so the same cake starter would spread around our known universe.

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Iimust be getting good at looking pathetic. I was sitting at a very old variety store in Exeter, New Hampshire waiting for the “Downeaster” to arrive to take me into Boston. You see this was the first time I had ever been on a train.

I mean a real train. I have been on subways but never on a train. A train to me was something out of “The Orient Express” where spies and trade merchants came and left without anyone wanting to know why they were there or where they were going. A train to me was filled with people carting chickens or geese to market. In other words, I was a bit scared.

I guess I should explain how I got here. In my real life as a teacher I am asked to go to various places to meet with various people about various topics that I am supposed to be an expert in. On this particular occasion I was asked to go to Cold Spring Harbor on Long Island in New York for a biotechnology seminar series. Normally I would take a plane but on this particular trip I was asked by my colleagues to take the train.

In other words, I was the guinea pig to see if this means of transportation was feasible. So there I sat, sipping on one of the best cups of coffee I have had in a long time, listening to a friendly waitress explain to me how and where to board on the train to take me to North Station in Boston. I, of course, waited at the wrong part of the station but a young lady of, I assume, ten helped me out and I made it on the train.

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Aa scrap of bread fell onto the red pavement where Enodin sat hugging his knees, beneath the steel shadows of the towering high rises. The passerby who had dropped the crumbs wore an ankle-length black coat and his face was shrouded beneath a broad-rimmed hat.

Gold flashed in the hazy morning sun. “The ring!” Enodin gasped. “He’s got my ring.”
Tired beyond words, hungry beyond notice, the youth pushed himself to his feet and followed. Hover cars rushed past the surging crowd. Enodin reached into his pocket as he maneuvered through the throng.”

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William was a normal teenager, and one day he found a strange pamphlet in his room.

It read:
Come to Medinel’s School of Magic.
We teach all forms of magic and we run the school on an absorbing spell, so the course is free. Learn primary element spells, secondary element spells, and mixers.
This pamphlet is enchanted with a sentience spell, so, if you are able to read it, you have the capability to use magic. Most people receiving this have very little knowledge of magic; here is a quick reference guide.

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Tthe wind howled past the tatty, sodden boots. A soft splatting could be heard as the early-morning rain pelted the sheet of dirty cardboard at the end of the long, thin legs. It could have been a grotesque imitation of a ‘Guy’ – it was early November.

The cardboard jolted, as if pulled by a cord from above. A grubby, broken-nailed hand pulled the cardboard down. Francis M Donnelly, affectionately known as Percy (or Pompous Percy to complete the title) looked out sadly from a filthy, unshaven face, fronted by a broken nose, and highlighted by decaying stubs in a down-turned, pathetic mouth.

As Percy rose unsteadily, a crisp morning sun peeked momentarily through a break in the clouds and pierced his emaciation cruelly. There was no quarter given to a vagrant, (or street-philosopher, as Percy liked to call himself), in Dublin, his home for ten years. He felt like – well, a down-and-out should feel, cold and miserable.
Come on. He wandered, along the side street from the dingy hotel: his ‘home’ and set off, head bowed against the cold and drizzle along the southern reaches of Upper Leeson St.

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Tthe classroom was stuffy. Beads of perspiration clung to faces and dripped down collared necks. Outside no breeze brought relief, and the grass was turning brown and brittle in the hot dry atmosphere. The heat sapped energy levels; frayed tempers.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, watching and waiting, relentless in its vigil over the town and countryside.
“Before we wrap up today’s lesson, I would like you all to turn to the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
Simon Radley, scanning his 12th grade class with a predatory eye, had to admit, they were a disappointment, well all except Michelle. There she was, sitting in the middle today, a rose surrounded by thorns. The boys always gathered round the honey pot!
“Michelle would you read Juliet’s part and I’ll be Romeo. Just to give the boys an idea of how it should be read.”

At this the boys groaned and began fidgeting in their seats. It was the last class of the day. Outside the afternoon sun was beckoning and they longed to escape the confines of desks and sweaty bodies; to exchange the discipline of learning for the freedom of leisure. Simon too wanted the afternoon over, finished. Just for a moment he let his concentration slip and looking out of the window and remembered an evening … yes, last summer and a figure with long flowing, straw-coloured hair.

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Mmy father called me the other day talking about a ring his friend found somewhere in Somersworth. At the time I was concentrating on a class of labs and must I must admit I wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation for, how interesting can an old ring be.

My father’s friends name is Nancy Seavey. She contacted my father because she was concerned about how she could get the ring back to the rightful owner. My first thought was why would anyone care? My father described the ring as being an old gold class ring dating back to 1934. He told me it was very small and thus had to be a woman’s ring. Back then as it is today the male ring is much larger than the female.

If I am not being politically correct with this observation I do not care because reality is reality no matter how one wants to change it. There was no stone in the middle like the rings of today. It was all gold. I do not know what carat weight it was but there was no tarnish or wear to give a hint to its age. This one was simply molded to show off the name of the school, that was Somersworth High School and the date of graduation. My father went on to explain how the ring was in impeccable shape as though it was rarely worn or had been lost for a very long time.

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