“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in
two five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like shooting free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
There had been many theories about how she had been murdered — all of them wrong. You see, they’d gotten a key fact of the whole affair wrong from the very beginning.
Lisa Blatner had never been murdered. In fact, she’d never been dead to begin with. She was living quite happily at 29 Whimsbury Lane with two cats and an electric kettle. The mail came every day but Sunday, and when her crossword puzzle was finished it was usually just about time for a cup of tea. She even had a gentleman caller, a wiry old man named Albert who had come highly recommended when her roof began to leak. Their seduction of one another had been a slow, quiet thing, and by the time he finally shucked out of his underwear and stood naked for inspection in her bedroom (with a matter of fact statement like “well, here’s me, then”) Albert had been over nearly every inch of 29 Whimsbury Lane, and some of them more than once. Indeed, the depths of her prodigious bosom proved to be the last nooks and crannies he got to explore on the entire property.
And so they did things to one another that would’ve provoked scandal if they’d been younger, and now generated merely remark. All the while, the Turk never knew that she still lived. And it was better for both of them that way, in the end.