For Week 11 of the Shenandoah Valley Writers' Weekly Flash Fiction Contest we were told to write a murder mystery in 150-400 words.
We had a choice of weapon:
And location:
I resisted the urge to say Colonel Mustard in the Library, and instead wrote the following flash story.
We had a choice of weapon:
I resisted the urge to say Colonel Mustard in the Library, and instead wrote the following flash story.
The
small room would work for now. It was his, he’d decided. He deserved
it. The Cardinal was a very busy man, and was going to get busier now
that the other’s had handed down their decision.
No
doubt, there were many groans being issued across the City at that
moment. He didn’t mind. If anything, he relished it. He imagined
those who had argued against him gritting their teeth when they heard
the news. “He’s too young” “His faith is insincere” “He’s too busy with
the Inquisition” “He’s too worldly” They had tried, but in the end,
the majority had spoken.
Those
who had advocated for him were probably scouring the grounds, trying to
share in his victory. He would emerge from his hideaway when he was
good and ready. The miniscule room had once been used for something,
possibly the same purpose for which he now claimed it. When he had
first opened it he found a small table with an empty wine bottle. He
had his own drink and food placed upon it next to the bottle. He
refused to move it. It looked too elegant with the cork in place
holding up draping spider webs.
He
watched the light from the small window glint across the web as the
glass of wine did its job. Tomorrow he would become the leader of the
world, at least all the parts that mattered. This afternoon he was
going to enjoy his solitude.
As
he was bringing the glass back to his lips to try to shake the final
drop free, his inebriation was joined by another sensation. The glass
suddenly felt heavy in his hand. He put it down with more force than
intended and stood up. He grasped the table to steady himself as his
head spun.
The
Cardinal made it through the entrance to the hidden room and cleared
four stairs before his legs failed him. He fell straight forward,
throwing him head-first into the wall of the spiral staircase. The
blood was the color of the wine he had spilt on his white shirt sleeve. What was it?
he wondered just before the blackness enveloped him. The wine slipped
to him by a conspirator, the small black spider crawling out of his
stained sleeve, or the prayers of his enemies echoing across the City.
