April Showers Bring a Murder

Start your story with “April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my ______ used to tell me.” Then end your story with story with, “And that, officer, is why I had to murder my ______.”

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

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338 thoughts on “April Showers Bring a Murder

  1. PlagueWitch3874

    April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my mother used to tell me. I guess it was a bit ironic, because my baby girl, Lily, was born on April 1st. Beautiful, she was, we both loved her, Deric and I. But there was always something off about her. I didn’t know what it was, at first when I was around her I’d get the feeling of being watched, like I’d put her down in her crib, turn away, and just… Feel her eyes burning into my back. I took it as nothing because as a child I was always paranoid. I assumed it just, stuck with me. But then… when Lily was three years old, she began to draw. Her drawings would be scribbles of red, sometimes blue dashes. I never understood it. I would ask her; “What are you drawing, honey?” She wouldn’t say anything, just smile. I asked Deric about it, but he didn’t think anything of it. I tried to let it go, but eventually drawing was all she would do. Just red and blue. She would barely eat. I couldn’t get her to. Neither could Deric. We took her into a doctor, but they told us she was perfectly fine, and well fed.
    “What..?” It didn’t make sense. She never ate anything. She refused to eat. How could she be ‘okay’. One day, I went into her room and found her sitting there, in the middle of a bunch of red papers. I looked closer.

    It was a flower, a big, red flower. And there was blue speckles around that. I tried to get her attention, but she was silent. Like her body was a shell. I reached out to her, but something stopped me. I froze and stared. Something burned inside of me, rage. I didn’t know why I was mad. I reached out and grabbed her neck, lifting her up, I looked at her one last time, her smile made me sick. Without second thought, I squeezed as hard as I could. And I swear, I saw it in her eyes, she was a demon, a being of evil. I dropped her to the ground, her body slamming on the wood.

    And that, officer, is why I had to murder my daughter, and I don’t regret it.

  2. nikkiramsey

    ‘April showers bring May flowers’ at least thats what Emma Smith used to say. She’s died. I sat in that room, with people walking in and out asking me questions. They wanted to know why I did it, why I killed 6 people. Denial. They had 10 hours to save Emma, but they didn’t know that. Her death was my ticket out. A murderer walked straight past 20 FBI agents, and they had no clue. I went on to kill 5 more, they never caught me. They left the streets of London paralyzed with fear, because they let me go. They never caught me. I’m Jack the Ripper, and that is why I killed those people. Because I wanted to.

  3. United Flames

    ‘April showers bring May Flowers’ at least, that’s what the Jackal said. He would try to rhyme all the time with every element in the world. That trickster, that joker, he was always saying things that were so absurd. I chuckled dryly as I trudge along the narrow path, rethinking all the good times we shared. It seemed a long time ago since we last talked but thinking back I realized it had only been mere hours. He had helped me with a great many things.
    “A great many things!” I shouted aloud to no one but the stars in the sky. The wind howled and the trees swayed as the storm threatened to fall on the unsheltered people. I could hardly notice it when there was so much going on, so much excitement, so much adventure. My skin was numb from the cold and my clothes, torn, muddy and soaking with ice. I could hardly feel anything over the warm reeling thoughts racing through my mind.
    “Oh, Jackal of mine, where do you lead me?” I said softly to the wind. The mud grabbed at my shoes and ankles trying to hold me down but I could not waver from my path. What time was it now? Midnight? Oh how great it would be if it were! The perfect moment, the exact moment, my time will be undone on that moment.
    I stopped dead in my tracks as I found the end of my path. I looked around at the dead leaf cluttered clearing. In the center was a shovel, a gift from the Jackal I suppose. I walked to the center of the clearing and heaved the heavy burden with me. Grabbing up the shovel, I smiled at the feel of it in my hands. Turning to the pale face of the dead, I laughed. “Oh, don’t look so damper, sir. I didn’t drag you all the way out here to leave you out in the cold.”
    I plunged the shovel down into the soft earth and pulled up the dirt easily. “I’m building you a nice spot to rest your head. I know how tired you must be.” I turned to the dead man and frowned when he didn’t answer. “Don’t be like that. Giving me the silent treatment, it’s quiet rude.”
    Slowly I started building the hole wider and deeper as the rain poured on to the earth. Digging was proving bit of a challenge when I could no longer control the shivers going through my body. Yet, the cold did not reach my bones and I felt no exhaustion so I continued on my mission. “This is a nice spot. So peaceful and warm, you will love it. The Jackal told me you would, he told me many things. How tired you are, how much you need a rest.” I paused my work to turn to the man once more. “I suppose you will have to thank him than.”
    Once finished, I grabbed the man’s limb once more and dragged him into the hole. “There you are. A wonderful fit.”
    I smiled in satisfaction of the perfectly dug out grave. Maybe the Jackal would be pleased with my success? I don’t know if he would. Placing the dirt on top of the body, I thought of what the Jackal would have me do next. He was always out there, always waiting for me to do a he pleases. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a shouts coming from the hill. Panic stabbed in me and my first response was to run. But before I could move I spotted the half buried man once more.
    “The Jackal would be displeased if I left him like this.” I sighed and picked up the shovel and began working again. I hummed a tune quietly as men with flash lights and weapons came upon me. I turned when the job was done and put down the shovel as they commanded. They classified themselves as the police force, to which I had no doubt but where is my Jackal? Where could he be? Wouldn’t he aide me in my time of need? I was quickly cuffed and one officer undid all my hard work by unburying my friend.
    “Yup, looks like we got another dead.” One officer said.
    The officer holding me firmly asked me a simple question: “Why did I do it?”
    I laughed loudly, was he stupid? How could he not know? I smiled. “The jackal told me of course! And that is why I had to murder the man.”
    The officer shook his head and dragged me away.
    A giant colorful bird sat on the tree, watching the scene unfold below him. He then spread his wings wide and silently lifted himself to the night sky. Skimming tree tops he flew to only distention in mind. Nearing the location, he spotted his master next to a car, waiting for him to return. Flying down he landing on his arm and let the man pat his head softly.
    “Good. Now tell me what you found.” The man cooed.
    The bird opened it’s beak repeating what had been said. “The jackal told me of course! And that is why I had to murder the man. And that is why I had to murder the man . And that is why I had to murder the man”
    The man smiled and pulled out his cellphone and put it to his ear. “Yes, Mr. Jackal. It’s done. The man is dead…yes, sir.”
    The bird tilted his head. “The jackal told me of course! And that is why I had to murder the man.”

  4. b24beanz

    “April showers bring May flowers.” At least, that’s what my grandma used to tell me every rainy day in April, whenever I used to stay round hers, which was often. I was a playful child, but also sickly. Going out in the rain always made me ill, so my mother had stopped me from playing outside every time it rained. I would sit by the window and watch other children in their bright coloured raincoats splashing and laughing in the puddles. When I was down, grandma would always say her favourite expression, with a big smile on her face.

    It was a long time before I fully understood what she meant. Things may have been dreary, and I may be upset from time to time. But I wouldn’t stay that way forever. I would not feel as I had done then for the rest of my life, something would always be around the corner to cheer me up again. It was comforting. Then we’d go bake cupcakes or something.

    It is many years later now, and I’m sitting by her bed side. I am a lot stronger than I was and she is the sickly one. She has been in pain for so many years now, and all she has is me and all I her. The doctors say there’s nothing left to do, all that is left is to wait for the inevitable. Her mind is still functioning as well as it had done all her life, it is her body that is failing her.

    As I sit there, listening to the steady beeping of her heart and the ticking of the clock on the far wall, she wakes. She wishes something of me that I am not entirely sure I can fulfil. Her eyes are brimming with tears, she tells me that she is in agony and there is but one way I can help her now. I stop her speaking, I do not want her to beg.

    She wants to go on her own accord. I can tell she is scared. I am scared. We have a long conversation, everything I need to say, I say. Then, we fell silent. As her eyelids droop in preparation for a well-deserved rest, she breathed one last comfort:
    “April showers bring May flowers.”

    There is only one way I can fulfil her wish. I unplug her life support system just as the doctor walks in.
    “What have you done?” He shouts, and other nurses rush in. They start to resuscitate her. I lunge for the man, screaming. Hands pull me back, I fight against them all I can and knock the doctor over. My grandma makes it to where she wanted to go.

    Now, I’m sitting in the back of a police car. They are taking me to prison. The driver asks why I did what I did, and I tell him. And end my story with:
    “And that, Officer, is why I had to murder my grandma.”

  5. ParamountAvenue

    “April showers bring may flowers- at least that’s what the sign above my grandmother’s garden stated in bubbly bumble bee letters. Below the charming sign gathered peonies, hostas, daylilies, hollyhock, hibiscus, and purple coneflowers: each planted meticulously and lovingly by my grandmother’s wrinkled, delicate fingers. Her garden flourished; indeed, I cannot recall a flower or plant that my grandmother couldn’t grow. Each morning she woke to the sound of the blue jays and doves who seemed to dote on her the way children dote on their mothers. To this day, I believe that she spoke to them; she never uttered a word, but her hypnotic steel blue eyes conveyed a sense of comfort to all who were lucky enough to be graced by a smiling glance. It’s difficult to describe the sentiments that her gaze aroused”
    “How so?” The brown eyes across the table met mine with impatient curiousity as a hand scribbled notes onto a yellow lined pad of paper. The emaciation of the notepad suggested that he scribbled a lot.
    “You see, if my grandmother were day- and she was: bright, evocative, loving, enchanting, encouraging – all the adjectives that one would typically associate with the life giving diety that is the sun, then I was night: I’d never been able to revive or grow anything. Death clung to me like a wet shirt, or a leech. Ever present and incredibly potent, death extended it’s hand to the victims that entered the kill-zone that is my company.”
    Stunned, the brown eyes scanned my face for a trace of remorse, sympathy, empathy-any redeeming quality to scribble onto the notebook, but his hand remained unmoving.
    “For instance, when I was five, an unfortunate act of nature took my family from me.” I paused… I didn’t pause to cry or mourn, only to reflect. “Indeed, tornados are highly destructive. I believe they reach speeds up to 320 miles per hour.” I secretly admired their capacity for devastation. “The one that claimed my family was not an F5, and certainly didn’t generate speeds of 320 miles per hour. In fact, the tornado that claimed my family moved less than 100 miles per hour. Slowly enough to safely move to the shelter; however, my mother stood glass eyed staring across the sink into the eyes of death. It embraced her by shattering the glass into her face. In the end she collapsed on the floor; her face appeared to be a red mosaic as the blood reflected off the crystal clear glass.” I watched my mother die- I never include this, but I did. I watched the life drain from her eyes as she extended a hand to me, a hand I did not grasp for. I observed the terror and disgust that overcame what was left of her face when I smiled as she ruggidly inhaled.
    “My father would not let me look as my mother died. His actions were justified. I’m certain if I’d watched her die it could have adversely impacted my psyche.” I stifled a smile. “My father and brother died together, The wind speed caused a cinderblock to crush my brother’s head and my father was crushed from the legs up by our china cabinet.” I looked down at my pale hands… I looked down to smile, to relish the deaths of my family. While my brother and father were killed by a cinderblock and the china cabinet- the tornado was not directly responsible. Understand that witnessing the death of one’s mother in such a horrid manner, and finding such death to be arousing is overwhelming for a five year old. I knew I had to witness more deaths, but it appeared as though the tornado wouldn’t oblige my fantasy. Rather, I was forced to assume the role of a force of nature. I killed my brother first. You may think this merciful of me, but mercy is not a sentiment that resides within my blackened heart. No, I killed my brother first because it was practical: he was smaller, easier to manipulate, and easier to crush. Lifting the cinderblock was more difficult than releasing it. At five I could hardly lift it to my waist, but apparently two feet generates enough force to crush a two year olds skull. My father was far more difficult; thankfully, he was burdened by the deaths of my brother and mother, a burdened that seemed to anchor him as I began to rock the china cabinet. When I met his eyes, I encountered only curiousity and heartbreak.
    “After the death of my family, my superlative grandmother became my guardian. And my yang. I believe this is why she survived as long as she did. As a yang, my soul felt complete and balanced, and she intriguied me.” The last part is true, she did interest me, which is why I allowed her to subsist. Picture being in darkness, only knowing darkness save for faint lights, then suddenly being surrounded by a light as bright as day. I believe it would paralyze anyone with wonder.
    “She loved me to the best of her ability, and I believe that the best of her ability could possibly be the best in the world. She catered to me, rarely scolded me, and provided me with loving support. I love her and I miss her.” I said imitating the melancholy faces of actresses who force tears in the cinema. While concerned, my therapist had little reason for accusing me of my grandmother’s disappearance. He satisfied the court’s request that I be examined for psychological shortcomings after passing my polygraph. Ironically, it was their phrasing that rescued me from imprisonment. They asked if I knew anything about my grandmother’s disappearance. She hadn’t disappeared for me, I still saw her every morning through the window. Without her presence, most of the garden had withered, all of the garden except for the peonies. They bloomed with vibrance as my grandmother’s corpse continued to care for them from beyond the grave. I understand I still have not satisfied your inquiry as to why I killed my grandmother. I suppose balance began to bore me. Her smile and those steel blue eyes always looking lovingly into my black irises always unnerved me, and one day I snapped and stabbed her forty times with her shears.

  6. ImOK

    “April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my friend used to tell me.” I smile to myself and look at the table. “Toby, what a guy. We were buddies in the army, you know. Best friends. He was absolutely crazy, of course, but who wasn’t at the time? He was crazy, but he knew how to have a good time. And the whole squad loved him for it. He seemed to thrive off danger. He was always the first for everything. I remember one night, it was pouring. Everyone was cold and miserable. And then I hear this singing, and I’m like, ‘My mind’s finally snapped’ Then the voice gets stronger and I hear the words. ‘Rain never gonna weigh me down, mud never gonna swallow me up…’ and one of the other guys says, viciously, ‘Who’s the songbird?’ The singing stops. And Toby says, ‘Me.’ And there’s this moment of silence. And one of the other guys goes, ‘Well don’t stop’. So Toby keeps singing the whole night through. Never once does he stop. What a guy.” The smile drops of my face. “After the war, it seemed like he adjusted the best. Got back into the swing of things. Got back with his girl, went to college, got a job. Then things began changing. His girl broke up with him, and he lost his job. His parents called. Wanted me to come and see him. So I went, and he told me about how no one seemed to understand and he wanted someone to listen to him but no one really could. And I told him, yeah, I get it. I visited him often for the next couple of months. Then one time we were walking and he pulled out a gun. I just sorta stared at him, to see what he was going to do with it. First he put it to his head, and I started to lunge for his arm, then he lowered it. And he cried. He told me ‘I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Pete. I’m not brave enough.’ Then he presses the gun into my hand and puts my finger in the trigger guard and points it at his head. ‘Please’ he says. ‘please’”
    My voice breaks. “What else could I do? I understood his pain so well. I knew that look on his face, because I saw it in the mirror every day. So I closed my eyes and pulled.”
    I wipe a tear from my eye and clear my throat. Then I raise my head and look at the man straight in the eye. “And that, officer, is why I had to murder my friend.”

  7. cxtine16

    A little more than 500 words, but here it is:

    April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my mum used to tell me. She was pretty, my mum, but warm as a brick, though from the outside no one would ever guess it. She liked gardening, and wearing sandals – even in the middle of a torrential downpour! Sometimes, if she was in a good mood, she humoured Timothy and me when we asked for a story. She would always begin in April or May, the garden bloomed best then. Timothy and I loved May, as Mummy never seemed to be without cheer; she would let us play ball in the backyard, and would even sometimes emerge from the greenhouse to supervise our antics and reprimand me when I would get too violent with Timothy.

    Those days were the good ones, but Mummy grew older and became cranky and ill-humoured. Mummy had us at an older age, so by my adolescence, she had grown weary of raising children. She yearned for quiet, but by nature, I was rambunctious—still am, as you can tell by the precarious, almost laughable, situation that I am in currently—and quietness did not seem to like me, no matter how I tried to like it. Mummy grew tired of me and ceased acknowledging my presence. That is when Timothy became my jailer; dear Timmy, just a boy when his mother demanded him to become a man and “take care” of me as if I were invalid.

    I suppose I cannot hate Timmy, then, as he was only following Mummy’s orders when he locked me in the attic. I begged him to release me; the dinginess of the air suffocated me, making me hear imaginary sounds and feel the hands of the dead men buried in the cemetery across from my childhood home grappling at my feet, traumatizing me.

    Things only got worse from there: I had a tantrum after Timothy had locked me in the attic for the third time—per Mummy’s request—and that was the first time I was ever chained to the bed. It drove me to my madness, as hours of being alone and scared can only do one thing to a human being.

    When I got stronger than Timmy, that’s when Mummy called the doctors to lock me away in my special room. I had banged him up quite badly—his head was bleeding up a storm—when they came and grabbed me. I never saw Mummy again, but Timmy came and visited quite often. I pretended not to notice him, as I was angry for his weakness. Had he been stronger, I would not need my restraints or Nurse Judith’s injections. I would be at home, watching Timmy play chess by himself and Mummy garden to her heart’s delight.

    I wish I had acknowledged him, though; perhaps then I would not be in this situation now, but I was so angry. Timmy had just been sitting there, telling me a story about his new wife and son, when I saw red and launched myself at him, hands out-stretched and ready to choke the life out of him—which I did, and enjoyed. Nurse Judith was too late, and by the time I was off of him, he was already dead.

    Mummy didn’t love me, and Timmy wasn’t strong enough to manage me, even in death. And that, officer, is why I suppose I killed my brother.

  8. Scissorphobic

    “April showers bring May flowers.” At least, that’s what his girlfriend had always told him. She was always saying it, every time it rained. He’d hated how she was always repeating that stupid little cliche.
    He’d always liked the rain. He loved to watch it fall and soak everything. He couldn’t care less about the damn flowers, though. His favorite season was winter, when everything was dead and there were barely any people outside. He could stay outside in the winter for hours, breathing in the frigid air. She had never understood that about him. She’d always begged him to, “come inside where it’s warm; you’ll get frostbite.” He never did get frostbite.
    She never seemed to care that he hated spring, because for every one of the four years he’d dated her, she’d repeated that awful phrase.
    So one day, she came into their apartment, soaking wet, and hung up her raincoat by the door. He watched her coldly as she took off her rain boots (her ridiculously girlish ones covered in pink ladybugs). She grinned at him, and went over to him for a kiss. He wrapped his arms around her out of habit.
    “It’s pouring out there,” she said, pulling away from the kiss. “But you know what they say, ‘April showers bring May flowers.'”
    He merely nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the rain.
    “Are you okay, baby?” she asked him, seeing his indifferent expression, which, as usual, she took to be an expression of sadness.
    “No,” he said, voice empty of the usual feigned inflection he put into it.
    She looked worried, slightly frightened.
    He said nothing else, although he had to admit he laughed when she screamed, seeing the knife for the first time.
    And maybe he confessed for this reason– it had been amusing, seeing the way the blood splattered all over her ugly flowered raincoat. He’d planned it that way, after all.
    “And that, Detective, is why I had to murder my girlfriend. She should have realized how much I hate spring.”

  9. Rowyn

    The Importance of being Tigger

    April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what Gran used to tell me. She’s quite senile you know. Never made a lick of sense. She also felt quite strongly that butter should be churned by hand, that goat cheeses were for crazy Greeks and that nobody should be seen driving a minivan. They could drive one you understand. They just couldn’t be seen driving one. She kept a squirrel costume in the back of hers for when she needed to nip out to the shops; totally nuts. Which kind of explains the squirrel costume now that I think about it. She also had a thing about the milkman, not a romantic thing, nothing like that. She was convinced he was an alien lifeform and was wearing the milkman as a kind of costume. A bit like the alien insect from that Men in Black movie. Brilliant bit of acting there by Vincent D’Onofrio – but I digress. Gran said you could tell the milkman was an alien because of the way he drove the milk truck. He struggled with the gears. It’s a miracle the gearbox didn’t fall out the way he drove it. Gran said that any true milkman would know how to change gears and what’s more he’d know darn well that butter should always be churned by hand on a Wednesday under the light of a full moon (did I not mention the full moon bit before – she said it gave the butter extra flavour). That’s what she got so mad about … he brought the cream on Friday instead of on Tuesday like he was supposed to. Yes okay she’d ordered the cream the day before which was a Thursday and it’s not like he could time travel (although Gran thought he could on account of his being an alien). It’s all a bit of a muddle. So he arrived on the Friday with the cream and Gran was in the squirrel costume again – she was about to nip down to the pub for a spot of lunch. The Tricky Toad does a wonderful spotted dick on Fridays and Gran has always been partial to a bit of spotted dick. Anyway I was going with her, which meant getting in the minivan which meant getting into costume; in this case a tiger costume. And Gran always says that if you’re going to do something you may as well do it properly so getting into costume meant getting into character. And when I think of tigers I think Shere Khan; you know, the villain from Jungle Book who kept trying to eat the kid. So I was in character and there was the milkman who looked sort of like Mowgli if Mowgli were a middle aged man with a beard and beer gut. And you can’t eat someone alive – that’s just unhygienic. There has to be cooking and such. And that, officer, is why I had to murder my milkman. It was only after I killed him that Gran pointed out that my costume was more of a tigger outfit from Winnie the Pooh. So I should have been bouncing instead of killing. I feel a bit bad about that now – but these things happen.

  10. reachforthesun

    “April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my Papa used to tell me.” I whispered softly, looking up at the rather hefty man from the chair I sat in. There were two people in the room with me, a woman and this man, and both looked at me with pity in their eyes. I blinked back at them innocently, why would they pity me?

    I curled my knees to my chest, and laid my head down on them, “About a year ago, Mama died of cancer in April. During her funeral, we covered her coffin with all of her favorite flowers. She looked so pretty, all pale with a blue dress on and surrounded by bright flowers…”

    I tried to move my arm, but the handcuff that kept me in this room retrained movement and I was only able to brush my brown hair out of my eyes before I continued, “Papa said that he could love no other woman like he loved Mama, not that I wanted him to. They belonged together.”

    “Papa loved spring, April especially, because of the flowers that bloomed. They represented renew-re-renew-”

    The woman interrupted smoothly, “Renewal dear,” She supplied and I gave her my sweetest smile.

    “Thank you! Renewal-they represented renewal. Each time a flower died in fall they were reborn in spring. When I asked Papa if it was like that for Mama, he told be yes.”

    I scrunched up my face, trying to remember what exactly what happened after that. A bright smile lit up my features when I did, “Then this woman came. She was very very pretty, with brown hair and brown eyes, like Mama! She was so nice to be, and when she left with Papa she promised to give him back later.”

    I pounded the table angrily, “Until…Until daddy said that he wanted to marry her. Marry Lizzy? That was crazy! He said he loved Mama! But…but he said that love worked in mysterious ways.”

    I remember that I was so angry about it, I screamed and cried. Until, I came up with a great idea. To let Papa be with Mama, so he couldn’t marry Lizzy. That way, Papa could see that he belonged with Mama.

    “And that officer, is why I had to kill my Papa.”

    1. Rowyn

      I really liked this story, you paint a sad yet vivid picture. I was curious to know the age of your main character. The use of “daddy” and “Papa” suggest that she’s quite young, but her vocabulary seems quite good for a young child and the “I gave her my sweetest smile” hints at a level of awareness and possible manipulation that seems quite advanced. She is an intriguing character though and I find myself filled with a morbid curiosity to know how exactly she killed Papa. Actually the story reminded me of a movie I watched years ago about a young (think Shirley Temple at her cutest) but very clever, and very manipulative psychopath – it was a great movie – I just wish I could remember the title. Anyway this story reminded me a little bit of that in all the very best ways. Well done.

  11. Harless19

    “April showers bring May flowers, at least… that’s what my sister used to tell me,” I whispered slowly. The words barely escaped my lips, quickly dissolving into the tense silence. I felt his glare on me; cold and unyielding. The very weight of it threatened to bring bile to my lips. My thoughts chaotically swirled in my brain, spurred by the pressure.
    “She used to say that, so I could stop being afraid” I finally choked out. Images rushed to my eyes and I bllinked fast to dispel my tears.
    “Stop being afraid of what, Ms. Gerard?” he spat out. It did not take a genius to figure out he was annoyed. Wouldn’t anyone be? Being trapped with a woman who could barely be coherent, and be tasked with solving a murder? I almost pitied the man, but that would imply that I had the ability to think about something else, feel something else.
    “The attic. It was already so terrible up there, freezing and dark. But it was so much worse when it rained. The drops sounded like gun shots on the tin roof, and the wind… it was like listening to the scream of a demon” I recounted, shivers running down my spine before I could stop them. “It was like being blinded and thrown into Hell. You wouldn’t believe the things you can imagine could exist in the dark Officer Legory.”
    “But Sarah, she was never afraid, or if she was, she was damned good at hiding it. She would sit there, and when I started to cry or whimper, she would just say that. Tell me never to be afraid of the rain, because it was here to bring the flowers.” I finished slowly, the loneliness creeping into my soul, pulling me away from the room once more.
    “Why does any of this matter, Ms. Gerard?” Legory growled. His frustration palpable, I almost felt his anger was more alive than I was.
    “She was kept me alive. I was never alone. Even when I felt like I might die, or when the pain was too much, Sarah was there,” I told him without really even thinking. The truth was finally pouring out of me, and nothing could stop the flood now.
    “What pain?” Legory asked slowly, cautiously as if he might spook me away.
    “The hunger. The cold. The bruises. Our life, it was all pain. But we lived, we always lived. Until, one day, it went too far. He miscalculated, he thought Sarah was strong enough to take the fall… but when she hit the stairs… she landed on her neck,” I whimpered, the disgusting crack of my sister’s bones filling my ears.
    “Are you trying to tell me you and Sarah were abused Ms. Gerard?” Legory questioned, his voice much louder than mine in the tiny room.
    “I am trying to tell you, officer, why I had to murder my father” I spoke, and to my surprise, there was no regret in my words.

  12. CalvinMcCall118

    April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my daddy used to tell me.

    He used to tell me so many stories about why. My favorite was the one where the sky and the earth were in love. Yet, they could never touch one another. In April, the sky would cry, desperate for her lost love. In May, the earth would make flowers bloom, comforting his heartbroken inamorata.

    As I began to grow up, Daddy stopped telling me such stories. Daddy began to look at me strangely. Sometimes he’d just stare, sort of like he was daydreaming. Other times he’d look me up and down, licking his lips.

    I didn’t understand at first, I was too young, but as I grew, I soon realized that what my daddy was doing wasn’t right.

    I came to the realization the first time he touched me. Daddy’s aren’t supposed to touch their daughters like he touched me. He touched me in inappropriate places, places I hadn’t even touched myself.

    He would continue to do so, even when I begged for him to stop. Sometimes, I’d cry and cry, but he didn’t care.

    A few days ago, he told me it was my turn to touch him. I didn’t want to.

    And that, officer, is why I had to murder my daddy.

  13. EmmaTkachuk

    April showers bring May flowers; at least, that’s what my daddy used to tell me. I used to hold his hand, and with the other point and ask about the flowers: where they come from, why their color, where they go to sleep at night. He didn’t have an answer.

    “You’re a curious one,” he used to tell me. I asked him once about the roses. My lip hurt after that, so I never dared about them ever again. Not once.

    Seven years before that day, and twenty before todays, my daddy met a woman. She had hips and long dark hair, and her eyelashes were really long. April was her favorite month, and when they wed one year after that, my daddy loved April too. Every day, for thirty days, in April, my daddy brought her roses: red ones, white ones, pink ones, but not yellow.

    “Bring those to my grave,” she told my daddy when he asked about the yellow ones. He didn’t argue. The following year, in April, she pulled me out of her womb. My daddy brought her roses like he did the April before.

    On the thirtieth day, my daddy went to the market but there were only yellow roses. He spent that afternoon door-to-door at every flower shop close and far, but the red ones, white ones, and pink ones were gone. My daddy bought a dozen yellow roses. He brought them home late that evening and placed them over her crossed hands.

    Barely warm; my daddy had never seen such a beautiful corpse. Her white gown, perfectly ironed and starched, hugged her slightly bulging-out belly. She had curls in her hair, long, wrapping around her shoulders.

    People said that my daddy was never the same after that. I wouldn’t know. But what I knew for certain was that he hated roses – yellow ones especially. April showers bring May flowers – that was the only thing my daddy could tell me about April and about flowers.

    Yesterday, on the last day of April my daddy’s housekeeper of twenty years went to the market early morning, bought yellow roses, and brought them to the house. When he saw, my daddy had a heart attack and died. And that, officer, is why I had to murder my daddy’s housekeeper on the first day of May.

  14. Slider496

    “April showers bring May flowers…” He said, staring out the window. ”At least that’s what my mother used to say.”
    I sat and pondered that for a moment, reflecting on how influential our parents can be. I looked across the table at the old man sitting in front of me. He rested his chin on his right hand as he took a sip of coffee with the other. I forced myself to stop twirling my pen in my hands and prompted him.
    “Tell me what happened.”
    The old man looked back to me and I noticed a faint smirk, and a twinkle in his eye. This man was seventy years old, in that moment I was sure he was the murderer. He spoke with a calm but articulate tone.
    “We were married in the spring of sixty five. Things were simpler back then. None of this soul mate stuff like you see on T.V. nowadays. I had just gotten out of the service, I did a tour in Vietnam and decided I’d had enough war for one lifetime. I had just gotten back into town, and I stopped to eat at a small diner that used to be on the corner of E and 13th street.”
    I chuckled “I remember it, they tore that old thing down in the nineties. Dad used to take me there on Sundays for brunch.”
    “Oh they had the best chocolate chip pancakes I’d ever had. As a matter of fact, that was what Id ordered. Well I was about to pay, and I called my waiter over. Well he was leaving for the day and said he’d have my replacement come on over for the tip. I’m sure glad he did.”
    The old man’s gaze was redirected out the window. The rain pattering against the window cast little rain drop shadows across his face. He took a sip of coffee and he continued.
    “May was my replacement waitress, and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Believe it or not, I was interesting back then. Through one or two clever quips I managed to get her over to my table to sit down…until her manager found out.” He laughed. “Boy she wasn’t happy about that.”
    We got married that August. I got a job at the hardware store and we bought that little house off Main Street. May was educated you see, she went back to school to be a teacher. We never could have kids ourselves. Those kids at the school were our kids.
    “May got sick, about two years ago. We were in the living room one evening, as we always were that time of day…she started coughing and didn’t stop. The doctors said it was lung cancer. Funny thing about it, is that May quit smoking ten years ago. I guess that’s how things work, our sins usually catch up to us when we finally stop and repent for them.
    “We fought it so hard, all the bills and the pain. I lost the store six months ago, and the state came and took our house. We gave everything we had, but it wasn’t enough. The cancer spread, and soon enough she was too sick to go on. We talked about it together, and she said ‘Roy, if I’m ever in a coma you pull the plug now. Don’t you bother with them needless bills when I’m already with the Lord.’ Once she finally fell into a coma, I waited three days seven hours and fifteen minutes. And that officer, is why I killed my wife.”

  15. idiaz

    Tried to shorten it as much as possible without taking away sorry it is still a big long.

    “April showers bring May flowers, at least that’s what my grand pappy used to tell me” drawled Beth Callaway as she stirred the sugar in her tea.
    Officer John Millen glanced down at his notebook sweat glistening at his temples. It was a sticky warm morning in early June. He lazily stared at Beth as she chattered on while placing her spoon onto her saucer and daintily bringing the tea cup to her lips. Her engagement ring, 2 sizes bigger than it seemed her finger could hold, gleamed in the early morning sunlight streaming through the partially open gauzy curtains. Next to Beth sat her mother Mrs. Callaway in a lacy white summer dress and a large brimmed sunhat, absentmindedly fanning herself. Beth’s fiancé, Vander Williamson, sat in the arm chair across from her, newspaper obscuring his face. John wondered if they were used to Beth’s idle chatter and learned to tune her out.
    “Officer Millen?”
    John snapped back to attention and gazed at Beth slightly embarrassed. “I apologize Ms. Callaway. Could you please repeat the last part?” He was met with a cackle from the far side of the room closest to the open window where the slightest of breezes caught the curtains causing them to billow around the elderly lady crocheting on the window seat.
    “Don’t mind her.” Beth shook her head her chestnut curls bouncing. “She is going a bit senile. I was asking why you ask about my grand pappy.”
    “I just had a few questions for you and your family. When was the last time you saw Mr. Callaway?”
    “Well…” Beth placed a slender finger on her chin. “It has been about 3 years right darling?” She glanced at Vander.
    Behind the newspaper he responded “Yes honey pot.”
    Beth glowed and turned to John. “We never knew what happened to him. He went out one evening and never came back.” She shook her head sadly.
    “Oh my” breathed Mrs. Callaway. “Has it been that long? The last time I remember seeing Papa, he was out by the stables tending to the horses. He always liked going on evening walks.”
    “I see. Well that is why I am here. I needed to let you know that we believe we have found the remains of Mr. Callaway. They were found last night in the fields off of Lansbury Lane. There were several puncture wounds found in his head and body. We believe he was murdered. Would you happen to know any information as to why or how this could have happened?”
    It was like John had shot off a gun, in disbelief; Beth dropped her teacup her hands flying to her pink pouty mouth. Vander slowly lowered the newspaper shock etched across his chiseled features. Even grandma paused in her crocheting, still as a statue. Tears began to well up in Beth’s eyes.
    “Oh dear Lord!” Mrs. Callaway cried her hand flying to her chest as she removed her sun hat and began to fan herself furiously, her dark hair flying around her face.
    “I’m sorry to bring you bad news but I am attempting to collect as much information as possible to quickly solve this case. It will be difficult as it has been almost 3 years. I just wanted to ask a few questions. Was there anything strange about him that day or the days prior? Anything he mentioned; an argument with someone perhaps?” John pressed.
    “None that I know of” Mrs. Callaway and Beth shook their heads solemnly. Vander stared at the folded up newspaper in his hands. John glanced at him suspiciously nodding slowly, jotting in his notebook.
    “So with Mr. Callaway officially deceased who would get his estate?” John waited for the blow that he saw brewing in the Callaway women’s faces.
    “Well I would!” Beth exploded “But what does that have to do with anything?!”
    “Well Ms. Callaway, there seems to be no reason why anyone would want to hurt your grand pappy so I am looking into all possibilities.”
    “So now we are suspects?!” Mrs. Callaway demanded crumpling her sunhat in her hands.
    “I’m sorry like I said I am just trying to get as many answers as I can. A forensics group is outside and with your permission we would just like to get some samples to start an investigation.”
    “Now wait a minute what type of investigation?!” Vander bellowed.
    “It’s just initial evidence collection that’s all.” John’s hands shot up apologetically. “In this type of situation the family is always looked at first. Now either you can get this over with now or I will come back with a warrant and do a more thorough investigation.” All three shot out of their chairs and began yelling at once.
    “But I wouldn’t hurt grand pappy I loved him!” Beth pleaded.
    “He was my father! I would never hurt him he adored us!” Mrs. Callaway shook with rage.
    “I had no ill will against the man. I barely knew him before he disappeared!” Vander countered. As each family member glared at him with disgust, a low cackle emanated from the window.
    “See!” Beth’s face flared a deep red. “You’re upsetting grandma!” She marched over to the window seat trying to soothe the elderly woman by rubbing her arms, but the cackling became louder. John’s blood froze. She finally subsided and spoke.
    “Arthur was not as wonderful as these people make him out to be.” She croaked.
    “Grandma!”
    “Arthur was a liar, a cheat and beat me when no one was looking. He gave all the inheritance to my granddaughter just to spite me then he threatened to kill me.” She stared at the crochet needle, the cold steel glinting eerily in the early morning light. “I gave him everything and he tried to take it all from me including the love of my family.” She coldly looked at John as he shuddered at her words. “And that, officer, is why I had to murder my husband.”

  16. 60wildewords

    “April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my Evan used to tell me.”
    We were married the last day in April in the rain but we always celebrated our anniversary the entire month of May. In fact Evan said that with May flowers come the birds and the bees and another year of our love.
    It was honeymoon time every spring for 50 years until this year.
    This year something was different. It seemed I spend most of April alone with the rainy days.
    In fact I had been spending a lot of time alone lately.
    Since we retired, Evan’s been off doing handy man work for people from the senior center.
    Evan and I did everything together and now we seem to do nothing together.
    If I were younger I would think he was having an affair, but who has an affair at 75?
    When I start thinking crazy I usually talk to Laura she’s my best friend and voice of reason.
    I decided it was time to have a chat with my voice of reason, so I went to Laura’s this afternoon.
    When I got there, I knocked and let myself in.
    Hearing the TV in the family room I announced myself as I rounded the corner. Two bodies jumped off the sofa and it wasn’t Laura and her husband. It was Laura and my husband.
    “It’s not what you think.” Evan stammered.
    “You’re naked, she’s naked. Of course it’s not what I think!” I yelled as I ran to my car in shock.
    I never understood the concept of a crime of passion until now.
    I wanted to hurt him. How could he after all these years?
    It was dark; the only light was from my phone which I ignored as I sat in the corner of the room.
    All those missed calls, but I wasn’t in a talking mood.
    The door opened. I could tell by the silhouettes it was them.
    “Laura, would you please give me a minute alone with Evan?”
    “I’ll wait outside, but we need to talk,” she said
    When the door closed behind Laura Evan asked if I wanted a light on.
    “I can see just fine without it,” I replied as I raised the gun.
    I shot him before he knew what happened.
    As I was giving my statement, the officer asked me why I only shot Evan and not Laura.
    “I could never shoot Laura. Husbands are till death do us part, but your best friend is forever. He came between me and my best friend. And that, officer, is why I had to murder my husband.”

    1. natrionia

      Hi. I was reading your story and thought it would be a cool short film for my screenwriting class. Would it be ok if I used your idea.

  17. lyngralee

    “April showers bring May flowers. At least that’s what my therapist used to tell me.”

    She was always dropping pearls of wisdom on me. Which I liked, I guess. At the beginning, I wouldn’t talk, so she would drop pearls like that as she wandered around her office watering plants. I guess she figured I would eventually either chime in or scream at her to shut the hell up.

    So, I chimed in. “Well, my dog died.”

    “I’m so sorry to hear that. When?”

    “When I was six.” I felt powerful by making her take the bait.

    “What about your parents. Would you like to talk about them at all?”

    “They died too.”

    “Do you remember when that happened?”

    “When I was six?”

    “No, Ethan. That happened just last year.”

    Just last year? I could not remember living anywhere before The Anderson Center. I remember my parents, and my dog, but that was from so, so long ago. I had no idea where and when we had lived together. I was just a kid then, right?

    What was I doing a year ago? It was so hard to remember. I think I was sitting here, in this very chair. Listening to my therapist yammering on about showers and flowers. Time was funny that way.

    “Do you remember how they died?” Her voice kept changing, and it was hard to concentrate. I tried to rub my face and was confused to find that my hands were handcuffed to the chair.

    “Where is Doctor Malfi?”

    “What about Doctor Malfi?” someone asked.

    “I’m right here, Ethan. Are you alright?”

    I laughed out loud. She was sitting right there, in her chair. Is that blood? Things sometimes shifted right before my eyes. Maybe there was something wrong with me. That is blood, but it’s on my mother’s face, and she looks older than I remember. I yell for my father, but he is already there, and his face is covered in blood, too. It’s matted into his graying hair. But he has black hair. “Where is Doctor Malfi?”

    “I’m right here, Ethan. Are you alright?”

    I was distracted by the mirrored wall, by my own reflection, and the strangeness of this place. “Yes, I was just thinking about my parents. And the flowers.”

    “What flowers, Ethan?” Asked the someone that wasn’t Doctor Malfi.

    “The ones you, I mean my therapist, promised me after the April showers.”

    “And what about your parents?” Malfi was wearing some sort of police uniform that seemed hysterically funny.

    “I stabbed them in their sleep.” The voice sounded like mine, laughing. “Where’s Doctor Malfi?”

    “I’m right here, Ethan. Are you alright?” Doctor Malfi was wearing a badge that said Officer Duncan.

    “No, I’m not. It’s May, and there are no flowers. Where am I?”

    “You’re safe.”

    “I’m safe.”

    “So, it’s May, and there are no flowers?” asked Officer Duncan. “And that is why you had to murder your therapist?”

    “And that, officer, is why I had to murder my therapist.”

  18. zenia_grzebin

    April showers brings May flowers, or at least that’s what Ms. Henderson used to tell me. Every day she would sit by the window staring at the drizzle of rain drops falling down on the green grass. “We really live in an ugly place, don’t we Rae?” I rolled my eyes, “That we do Ms. Henderson that we do.” It pained me to look at the old withered rose who sat in her overstuffed chair day in and day out gazing at her dirty window. Ms. Henderson was dancing on the border of life and death; her colorless features all blending into translucent gray tones making her look like a shadow. She could have once been beautiful, however time won the battle. Her pale raisin like skin clung to her frail bones and her wiry silver hair reflected off the daylight. She was a lonely woman having no one with the exception of me in her life for the past two years. Over fifty years ago her would-be husband left his pregnant fiancée at the altar to care for his future child alone. The only other love she had was her son who grew up, married an incredible girl and created a beautiful family. This period of joy however was short lived since her son, daughter in law and two grandchildren died in a car accident just two years ago.
    Drop by drop Heaven’s tears would fall as well as her own and with every drop that fell, peace began to consume her dying mind. The poor ghost was being haunted by pain and sorrow, so I felt a duty to put her warring mind to rest. I strode into the kitchen and produced a syringe containing transparent liquid that had sat there readily for months. Thoughts whizzed through my mind like bullets as I constantly reminded myself that even though what I was about to do was inhumane it was for the greater good. I cleared my mind and in one fluid motion I pushed down letting the clear liquid pulse through her veins. Her beautiful soul slipped out of the body that had trapped it and I could imagine it going to dance in the April rain. And that is why I had to murder Ms. Henderson.

  19. cdmartinez

    April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my Grammy used to tell me.” Of course, when it does get the opportunity to rain in Central Texas, I am thrilled and I can’t wait to see blooming flowers instead of the dried, dead and withering “carpet” we call grass. So, when I had the opportunity to have my peonies bloom, I took it upon myself to make a flower arrangement and bring it to my office. I thought maybe a little color would not only brighten the atmosphere of my personal office space, but that my co-workers would feel bright refreshed and renewed so that we could be more helpful to our patients, uhhh customers to be politically correct in this business we call health care, but I have this burly unkempt co-worker with a bad attitude who decided he did not like my flowers or my arrangement and had the audacity to throw them out of my office space and then he got in my office yelling, and cursing like we were hood rats instead of office personnel and that officer is why I had to murder my co-worker.”

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