Brooke held a ballpoint pen in her hand as she graded the papers from her history class. She was exhausted after a long day, but she had to get everything done before she went to bed or her day tomorrow would be way too hectic. She raised a coffee cup to her lips that read “World’s Greatest Teacher”. She had received several of these over her years as a teacher, but she only kept a few.
She wished parents could be a bit more creative in their gifts for teachers. Pens would be nice… a teacher could never have too many pens.
She sighed as she reviewed Bobby McConnell’s test. There were so many red marks on it that it was hard to even see the original writing. She felt bad for the kid. His mom was a single mother working two jobs just to try and keep a roof over their heads. The poor boy came to school in disheveled clothing and looked like the only meal he ever got to eat was at school.
Brooke wished she could do something for him, but she didn’t know what. Suddenly it hit her. “Always take a banana to a party.”
It was silly, but she decided she would host themed parties once a month that would work as a fundraiser to help some of the families in need in the school. She could charge an entrance fee to the party. People would come in costume. There could be themed gift baskets that could be raffled off. All the proceeds would then be split between each of the families, Bobby’s family included.
Brooke smiled to herself at the idea. She would start working on it in the morning. Now, she just had to finish grading these papers.
Written for Daily Flash Fiction Challenge
The detective was absolutely perplexed. “All the crime scenes look the same,” he commented to his partner. “How is he doing it?”
The body was displayed exactly the same was as the other four victims. The victim looked almost identical to the other four (brunette, brown eyes, around 30 years old, female, approximately 130 pounds, around 5’4” tall, etc.). They all had the same occupations (waitresses). They lived in one-bedroom apartments within 10 miles of each other.
But that wasn’t all, there were absolutely no fingerprints anywhere to be found; not even fingerprints of the victims. The shell casing from the bullet used to kill them was placed in virtually the same spot at each crime scene. There were no signs of forced entry. No evidence of sexual assault. No trace DNA evidence on or near any of the victims. No blood found except on the victims themselves.
“Whoever this is, he is really good,” his partner replied. The problem lies in that if they didn’t catch the guy soon, there were a potential for a great many more victims. This was New York City, after all. There were plenty of 30-year-old brunette waitresses living in one-bedroom apartments in a 10-mile radius.
“John, take a look at this,” the beat cop who arrived on the scene first pointed to what looked like a business card laying on the floor a few feet from the victim. After it was photographed, John carefully picked it up in his gloved hand and read what it said.
It was for a local nightclub just two blocks from where they were. A smile slowly crept over John’s face. “Gotcha, you bastard!”
Written for: Daily Flash Fiction Challenge
Winner of: Daily Flash Fiction Challenge