Short Stories from the Heartland
By BJ Roshone
In the recent days, BJ has been inspired to write about a varity of things. In a similar vein as Eunice’s Ladybird Mystery, BJ took a stab at southern gothic inspired fiction. BJ hopes to add more short stories here and on her Substack in the coming year.
Clock Tick (BJ sucks at coming up with titles…)
In the dusty, sunbaked town of Fremont, Missouri, the air always seemed to hum with the quiet buzz of everyday life—until that hot July evening when the unthinkable happened.
Tommy McCall, a beloved local farmer, was found dead in the back of his barn. His throat slashed so deep the blood had soaked into the dry earth. Nobody could understand why someone would do such a thing. Tommy wasn’t rich, wasn’t a troublemaker. He was the kind of man who tipped his hat to everyone, who helped with harvests, and who always brought a sweet smile to the faces of the town’s children.
The news of his murder spread faster than wildfire, and by dusk, nearly every soul in Fremont found themselves huddled in the corner of the old general store. The small wooden building was the town’s heartbeat, its shelves packed with canned goods and everyday necessities, but tonight, it served as something else—a place of fear and whispered secrets.
Mr. Holloway, the storekeeper, was a stout man in his fifties, but even he couldn’t seem to keep his hands steady as he dusted off an old countertop. “Heard anything, Charlie?” he asked nervously, eyes darting to the men sitting around a barrel stove.
Charlie Meadows, a grizzled farmhand, wiped his forehead with a rag. “I don’t know nothing. Just that someone did it, and it weren’t no accident.” He looked over at the others, but no one met his gaze.
Sally Jenkins, the schoolteacher, had arrived shortly after, her face pale. She was usually a voice of calm in the town, but tonight her eyes were wide, and her breath was short. “You think it’s someone from town?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Could be,” muttered Frank Thompson, the sheriff, his boots scuffing the wooden floor as he paced in circles. “But who in their right mind would kill Tommy McCall? I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”
The crowd fell silent. Everyone had a theory, but no one dared speak it aloud. The town of Fremont had its secrets, and murder—well, it just didn’t fit with the peaceful life they’d all built.
“You know,” said Old Man Rogers, sitting in the corner with a chew of tobacco in his cheek, “Tommy did get mighty close to that Cora Davenport. The way I see it, someone might’ve gotten jealous.”
The mention of Cora’s name sent a ripple of gasps through the room. Cora was the young widow who’d moved into town just a few months ago. She had her share of admirers, including Tommy, who had been seen walking her home on more than one occasion. Some had said there was something between them, others had merely speculated.
Frank turned sharply toward Old Man Rogers. “You think she did it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Rogers shrugged, the weight of his years making him appear less certain. “Could’ve been. Or maybe someone didn’t like it. People don’t like what they don’t understand.”
A chill settled over the room. The air was thick with suspicion, and every eye was now on Cora, who had just entered the store, her face a mask of sorrow and confusion. She’d heard the whispers, had felt the stares, but tonight they were unbearable.
“I heard what you said,” she said softly, looking directly at Old Man Rogers, her voice barely audible. “And I don’t know what you think, but I didn’t do anything. Tommy was my friend.”
For a long moment, there was only silence. The town’s suspicion hung in the air like a thick fog, as if the very walls of the store were closing in on her.
“Well, someone’s gotta know something,” Frank finally said, his voice like gravel. “And if no one speaks up, I’ll find out myself. Someone’s hiding the truth, and I aim to get it.”
The group grew quiet, each person’s mind spinning with possibilities, each face a mirror of their fear. It was clear to everyone now—the town of Fremont wasn’t the same anymore. It had been broken, its trust shattered, and there was no going back. The murderer was still among them, and they’d have to live with that knowledge.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than it ever had before.
JP Brand Books 