Here is my story: I am simply typing it below so you can read it here and leave your comments here. If you feel like it, please share your stories, or else just do me a favour and share your opinions about the story. What changes will make it a good story.
Those of you who write flash fictions please let me know if it is one, if not then why!
The inspector stooped down to pick up the final letter from the ground, placed beside the corpse, a stone was placed on it, so that wind won’t blow it away.
This was the ninth corpse. One letter with each corpse, and they were the only proof that these were murders and vendetta, not the works of a serial killer.
The letter was neatly typed.
Whoever reading it, this is my final murder. This should be shared with all Indian parents, to warn them about their tendency to meddle in the lives of their children.
The first body was of my father. The man who snatched away the only love I had in life. Because he wanted me to marry someone of his choice, someone who will be beneficiary to him!
He with the help of other eight people, four of them cops, installed hidden cameras in her home and created a website and broadcasted those clips over there. Making it impossible for me to marry her! But I did, I ran away with her, to a distant town outside India, hoping no one will find us there, and he will give up! But he did not and found us out, he started to post the clippings of that site in the local sites of that town.
She came to know of it and killed herself.
I decided to avenge her death.
I don’t think I have done anything wrong, so by the time you are reading this letter I have had a plastic surgery, and have bought me a new identity in another country. I won’t wish you luck, but if you can, catch me! I dare!
“What does the letter says?” a constable asked, trying to read it. The inspector folded it and placed it in his pocket.
He went home and opened a file, there were eight letters in there he placed the ninth with them. Then he sat down on his typewriter, typed nine letters but in a way that one will think that they are the works of a serial killer.
Then he tore the original letters and burnt them, stood there watching them reducing to ash.