Jonni
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

It was a classic New York City brownstone - a building I am used to working with. I had been asked to inspect it and report by a legal firm that often had me do this kind of work. All that I knew was that only 2 or three weeks before, the owner had checked himself into hospital and had promptly died. The law firm would be handling his estate.

His and Hers
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Here is a story told from two perspectives, so it is attached as a pdf.
Please take the time to open it and read it how you like.
Maryanne

Bait
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I came to, laid out on a bed in what was clearly a dimly lit cell. I tried to think back to work out how this had happened. I was on the street. The surveillance van was around the corner. I must have been bundled into a van. It must have been quick. There was a small chemical burn on my chin. I had been drugged with ether or chloroform, was my guess. It must be him – the killer.

Pastries
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

It seems like everybody has a marketing degree, so I could not get the job I was looking for. I hate to admit it but it was my mother that got me the job. She knew Mario, the head chef at Perelli’s Italian Restaurant, and having told him that I was more than capable in the kitchen, in particular in baking, she was able to get me a job in the kitchen.

The Option
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I did not recognise the name when I was told of my visitor. Although it had been a few years I recognized her as one the victims of the Pickton Prowler, a mass rapist who I had been instrumental in catching. After an exchange of greetings I sat to hear what she had to say.

“I was sorry to hear about your conviction”, she said. “There are many of us who truly appreciate what you did for us. We want to help. In particular Annie Haldane and the Mitchell Sisters want to help.”

Dissociative Identity Disorder
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

“As you can see,” said Dr Theobald, “We have had to put him in restraints again.”

Her face was up to the window, but she kept her eyes closed. She could not bear to look. She knew what she would see. Her precious son. The one that she had held to her breast, and nurtured, was insane.

“I want to discuss with you a therapy,” said Dr Theobald. “It is a longshot, but with your consent we could try something.”

Anomaly – A Star Trek Story
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

“I am fully aware of the Prime Directive, Spock.” Captain James T Kirk found himself again annoyed by his friend’s reference to the fundamental rules applying.

Wartime Romance
A Short Story
From an Idea by Erin
By Maryanne Peters

After Pearl Harbor, everyone wanted to get in the fight. I had two older brothers sign up in the spring of 1942. My father said that they were born to be soldiers. He never said that about me.

Thai Plastic
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Rock, paper, scissors. That was how we decided it. Best of three. Somebody had to stay in Thailand. One of our local partners had absconded with some of the profits. We still had a well-connected local who had invested hard cash, but he knew nothing about plastic extrusions. One of us would need to commit to staying to run the factory. So it was down to chance.

Specialist Nanny
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Authors Note: This story is based on the advertisement that appears in it (page 3) which is close to word for word, what appeared in a national daily in 2017.

My sister started out in the business by being best babysitter in the neighbourhood. To do that, all she needed to do was to ensure that when anybody that employed her needed a baby sitter, there was always a baby sitter available.

Mirror Talk
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

As I was about to sit down. I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my balls. A searing pain in both, at the same time. My hand went immediately to my groin. But no, there was nothing there. Just the slit below my trimmed bush, with the nubbin poking out between the folds. No balls. Long gone.

Paralyzed
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

She turns off the television. Bitch.

“Your daughter and her fiance are here to see you, Mr Rixon.”

God, no. And why does she have to talk to me like this, that Nurse Kelly. She even says the words “Mr Rixon” as if I am a small child, not a full grown man lying inert and useless on this bed.

And now I must go through it all again. My nightmare. The loss of my son.

“Hello Daddy, how are we feeling today?”