Mystery Writing Prompts

Archeologists have made a breaking discovery in Turkey’s ancient musical history: the lur.

The lur is believed to be an instrument denoted primarily to funerary settings, as it was unearthed in the site of an ancient morgue— however, interestingly enough, similar artifacts have been found in courthouses and prisons, only they are made out of steel instead of wood.

The lur is a heavy seven-stringed wooden instrument, measuring around a foot and a half in length. A**ll nine discovered artifacts of the lur weigh an average of twenty-two pounds. **Instead of being positioned on a surface to be played, it is hypothesized that the lur was instead carried by its musician, as it is equipped with a heavy leather strap to go around the torso. Though lack of evidence makes it difficult to prove whether fingers or picks were used to pluck the strings.

The strings make discordant, wobbly notes, similarly to a harp or untuned guitar. The lur’s sounds have been recorded in a study to cause unease in listeners, and to “sound like a woman’s gasp.”

As archeological evidence shows, the wooden lur was practiced in funerals, with a linked Turkish poem describing the high and low notes of the lur as representative of the dead’s soul having performed both evil deeds and good deeds.

In matters of law and punishment, the lur’s steel-designed cousin is believed to even play a role in the final rulings. The steel lur produces sharper and longer notes, and may have presented one’s innocence or guilt depending on the sequence that was played.

Slowly, carefully, Hector walks along the narrow path, leading his horse Carrot behind him. Originally he was riding her, but when the mist started, Carrot stopped and he couldn‘t get her to continue no matter what he tried. Something about the mist must scare her. Only by walking in front, pulling her on the lead, and offering her a piece of carrot, her favorite snack, was he able to trick her into moving forward at all. Now the mist had turned into a fog and he barely was able to see the path in front of him, not to speak about seeing anything that was to his sides. If someone or something wanted to catch him by surprise, it would be easy to do so. The sound his boots and Carrots hooves made on the stones together with the rustling and squeaking sounds his leather clothes made seemed to echo unnaturally loudly. He was holding Carrot's lead in his left hand, his right resting on the shaft of his short sword, ready to draw. ‚Almost there, slow and steady…‘ he said in a low and what was supposed to be a calm voice, but there was a trembling in it. With every step the mist seemed to become thicker, the sounds he made louder. The horse resisted to walk forward but the next carrot was a good enough argument to do so despite the fear.

What has now been 6 months ago, he got a letter from a dear friend. He was just sitting at home, eating dinner with his wife and children when there was a hectic knocking on the door that only stopped when he opened it. It was a boy, maybe 16 years old, with deep dark rings under his eyes, disheveled hair in urgent need of a cut, and clothes that needed washing and mending. Out of breath, he handed Hector the letter, and before being able to say anything he collapsed. The letter itself was a cry for help. The hastily written lines were from an old friend Hector owed his life to multiple times, back from when he earned some money as a mercenary. He immediately got his things ready to rescue his friend. He assisted his wife put the unconscious boy to bed but didn‘t wait for him to wake up. He put on his leather armor, which luckily still fit, took his sword, packed some food, and then went on his way, promising his wife to be back soon.

He found his friend's house empty and half destroyed. There was no one there, not even bodies. So he investigated and this path he now was on was where his investigations led him to. At the end of the path, he would, hopefully, find his friend. At least he would find out what caused all of this.

A loud cracking sound pulled Hector out of his thoughts. He immediately stopped and drew his sword. Carrot took some steps back and pawed the ground nervously. Without the lead, she would have run away. Hector tried to ignore the sounds Carrot made and concentrated on hearing footsteps or other sounds that might indicate someone or something coming close. Seeing was impossible now, the fog only allowing him to see what was right in front of him. Even Carrot, only a bit more than an armslength away, was barely visible to him. Even so, he looked around, listening, even holding his breath to maybe hear the breathtaking of another being. His heartbeat got louder in his ears and the louder it got the faster it was.

thump thump, Thump Thump, THUMP THUMP

It got unbearable and Hector dropped his sword to block his ears, getting to his knees and wishing his heart to stop.

He woke up from having Carrots nostrils in his face. Opening his eyes and gently pushing the horse's head away he looked around. It took him a bit to remember what happened. He must have lost consciousness. He was lying in the middle of a field. His clothes and hair were wet from the dew on the grass he woke up on. His sword was lying next to him. The sun was shining and only a few clouds could be seen. It was almost noon according to where the sun was. But where was Hector and how did he get here? There was no path around him, though he was sure that he had followed a stone path. There were no signs on him of Carrot dragging him. It was as if he had just laid down in the grass. What had happened? He got up, cleaning himself off as best as possible. Whatever happened must have been some kind of magical defense. If he wanted to get to his friend he must find out how to get through this fog. Seems like his family had to wait a bit longer for him to return.

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her.

Her dark beauty renders the lifeless living and relentless in their worship with a warm kiss to their cheek, a whisper to their ear, and a breath to their lips. 'Twas my fate to her.

The earth was freshly turned my barrow over when she glided in through the churchyard, her draping muslin and vines befalling grave between grave. Her hands of life gripped my soul, and I was alive from my bones, my dust. Free, I thought, and free she told me. But I was not free at all.

While she had brought me to life and she had seemed radiant and good, the notion of the reanimation felt anything but holy. I could think of nothing else as my heavy limbs tried to lumber home, only _her. _Her eyes, the sparkling vacuums of night; the curve of her devil lips; her flood of raven hair against the pale of her skin; the irresistible down of her nape; the soft of her hip. My mind was insatiable.

I even wished to be dead once more, to liberate myself of the lustful torment, but no matter what fate I sought out, I couldn't seem to die. I was destined to be her lover, her devotee, her acolyte. Who was this siren? How had she bewitched me so?

One night, I trudged ten miles, then ten more, then ten more, to her gates. Broken-bodied, crypt-breath whistling through unbeating ribs - the very skin rotted off my sinews, my muscle. The only thing as strong as adoring her was fearing her disgusted of me. But when she saw me, o, those dark and wild eyes, her black pearls, her black sea hair, she was exultant.

A cat, a goat, and a girl walk down the hill, their footfalls synced, their breath aligned. Bound by the strength of the night, the strength of the stars, the strength of _dark, _they do not part. _Cannot _part. Down, down, down, until they’ve reached the very foot of the hill, right on the edge of the forest.

“Even the most powerful and precious of bonds has to break, sometime, right?” Fondly, the goat bleats, his voice hoarse and quiet.

“Goat, but we cannot leave each other, simply _cannot.” _Hisses the girl, afraid to make too loud a sound.

“I think, _girl, _that hissing is my job, not yours. Joking, you must be, to use the word ‘cannot’, as it is physically possible to leave each other. Kindly use the term ‘will not’ as it shows we have chosen to take such a path.” Leers the cat.

More loud than anything they have ever heard, the silence crashes down upon the three. Never have they experienced such dread, such loss, such loneliness, but in these terrible things there is still a deep sense of comfort and connection and understanding. Overhead, the moon rises, casting strange shadows with its eerie glow, and three tiny figures stand on the edge of the forest, not a word spoken between them, but their heartbeats, one and the same. Perhaps, in these few minutes, they come to realize something, something that very few seem to know. Quiet bliss, in the crashing silence, the unmistakable sound of a soundless night. Rolling, smashing, cracking, falling, down, down, down, _down. _Sounds of the hush that can only be heard in a devastating moment of night. Together, the three figures take a step into the forest. Undoubtedly, they will never see each other again. Voluntarily, still, they walk into the forest, knowing with full minds the loneliness they will feel. With heads of feathers and hearts of steel, they walk, towards a new kind of silence, one that isn’t as soulful, isn’t as loud. X-ray their bodies, however, and you will find that their hearts still beat as one, their breath still rattles their lungs as one, and the blood that pulses through their veins is one and the same. You will never find a friendship like theirs - it is indescribable, unbreakable. Zealous is the bond of the three- the cat, the goat, and the girl.

For the first time in a long time, I dreaded going to work. Not because work was terrible, but because she would be there. She was Viktoria Meir.

Viktoria Meir was queen bee in all she did. From the day she learned to form coherent sentences, she had the world wrapped around her little finger. Her peers willfully did her bidding and flocked to her to grasp at any loose strings of attention – as no loose strings would ever be found on her clothing. Both parents doted on their only daughter to give her the sun, moon, stars, and every opportunity without the necessary qualifications. Even her superiors at the bank her father owned refused to acknowledge any failings despite her lack of knowledge and simple arithmetic skills. Most people in Viktoria’s life could find no fault in her.

But I wasn’t most people.

I could see through Viktoria’s act; every mistake and flaw stood out in plain view, flashing like a neon sign lighting up the red-light district. Her flaws dug into me, grating at me like sandpaper, yet no one else saw what I did. Initially, I tried bringing it up to my coworkers; their oblivious looks and defending praises cut short that conversation. I dare not take it higher for fear her father, my boss, would catch wind. I needed my job for survival; I didn’t dare make public my dislike. Viktoria was the type of person who believed her shit didn’t stink, and as someone who used the bathroom after her many a time, I can assure you it definitely stank!

“Alex, can you come help me, please? This isn’t working.” A whiny, insistent voice reached out to me from down the computers.

I ignored the call and continued counting out the twenties for my customer. “…one twenty, one forty, one sixty, one—“

“Alex, I need your help to figure this out.” The persistent voice continued.

Sighing heavily, I hung my head and gave my own customer an apologetic look. I then turned my head to look at Viktoria and put on the most convincing fake smile I could summon. “Certainly, Viktoria. Just let me finish with my customer, and I will be right over.” I renewed my counting from the beginning, painfully aware of the eyes boring into the side of my head.

“Thank you, sir. Have a great day.” I wished my customer a farewell before making my way over to Viktoria. “What’s the matter?” Peering over her shoulder, I observed the client’s account.

“They want a cashier’s cheque, but I don’t remember how to do it.” Viktoria intoned.

Summoning every patience granted to any living being, I walked her through the steps, having to take over for the majority to ensure they were not messed up. Having finished with her customer as well, I made my way back to my desk, but heard over my shoulder:

“I’ll be right back.” Before I could open my mouth in protest, Viktoria sauntered away, leaving me to deal with a line-up encroaching on the door.

After helping my fourth customer following Viktoria’s disappearance, another one of my coworkers came up behind me. They relayed a message quietly into my ear. My stomach sank into my feet. A frustrated exhale issued from my nose and I nodded. 

“You wanted to see me?” I stood in my boss’s office door not two minutes later. 

“Come in, Alex. Shut the door would you.” My eyes drifted across the nameplate ‘Konrad Meir – Bank Manager’ as the door shut behind me. I settled nervously on the edge of one of the blue fabric chairs and waited for the hammer to fall. 

“Viktoria just had a chat with me and explained that you were reluctant to provide her with assistance when she asked.” I stared at him dumbfounded. “You know we are a team work environment, and it is important for us to help each other when we ask for it.”

“That is not true. I did go help her when she asked as soon as I finished with the customer I was helping. It didn’t seem right to leave hundreds of dollars sitting out to run off and help her with a task she should know how to do.” I knew I had messed up as the overweight man’s eyes narrowed to beady little pinpricks. 

“She explained you were less than willing and put it off longer than necessary, making her and the other customers in line wait. Forgetfulness is not a reason to deny a coworker assistance.”

“I have no problem helping her, but she has been here longer than me. Really, she should know more of this than I do…”

“And she does! But sometimes she forgets, and sometimes so do you. Now, Alex, I don’t want to make this a big deal. For today we will call this a warning. No official write-up in your file, but there will be next time. Just remember to be compassionate to your coworkers and help when it is requested. You may leave.” The dismissal waving of his hand indicated that the conversation was at an end. 

Silently, I rose from my chair and left the office. All of the curses I wanted to shout aloud, I simply muttered in my head over and over like a mantra meant to keep me sane. The remainder of my day passed in relative quiet. It was a struggle to ignore the smug looks Viktoria kept shooting my way. 

I woke with a heavy stomach the next morning and hauled my leaden feet to work. The bank was oddly quiet. Normally me and Viktoria opened, but she was nowhere to be found. My supervisor spent most of the morning on the counter with me, waiting for the next person to come in. 

During my break, I wandered past Konrad’s office, but it was dark and shut up tightly. 

The morning was quiet, pleasant, peaceful. All hell broke loose and rumours flew after lunch. 

At lunch, the police showed up to question each of us who worked there. I remember little of the precise questions they asked, but knew that they had to do with Konrad and Viktoria and their relationship. That’s where the rumours stemmed from and from there they circulated the bank like spreading wildfire. 

Viktoria was murdered. Viktoria was murdered by her father. It was murder suicide. Viktoria murdered her father. Viktoria was kidnapped. Viktoria eloped. Viktoria’s step-mother, notorious for hating her step daughter, murdered her. Viktoria’s step-mother murdered her and her father. Viktoria is reporting her father for rape. Viktoria was sold into the sex industry. 

So on and so forth the rumours spread. I didn’t start any myself, but I did listen to them all and weigh each accordingly. 

That was the most pleasant day of work I had to date.

In the realm of the written word, there lies

A powerful entity, which holds the keys

To unlock the hidden treasures of the soul

And reveal the truths that lie within us all

I am the poet, the weaver of words

I craft my verses with care and ardor

Through the ink and the paper, my thoughts unfurl

And my heart's deepest emotions are laid bare

With each line, I strive to capture the essence

Of the human experience, both joy and sorrow

To paint a vivid picture with my words

And transport the reader to another world

I am the reader, the listener of tales

I glean wisdom from the poet's verses

In the cadence and rhythm, I find solace

And in the imagery, I see reflections of myself

As I wander through the stanzas of a poem

I am transported to a world unknown

Where I am free to explore and contemplate

The complexities of life, love, and fate

I am the observer, the witness to it all

I see the connection between poet and reader

In the dance of words and emotions that ensue

I watch as the poem weaves its magic spell

Bringing together hearts and minds in harmony

As the poet spins their tale, the reader absorbs

And together, they create a symphony of thought

That resonates through the ages, timeless and profound

In the timeless dance of the written word

The poet, the reader, and the observer unite

To celebrate the beauty of language and art

And to ponder the mysteries of the human heart

So let us raise our voices in praise

Of the power of poetry to inspire and amaze

For it is through the written word that we find

A greater understanding of our shared humankind.

• November 1st, whatever year it is

I woke up in the middle of the road again, my head resting against the asphalt as if it were my mother’s legs. This time, there wasn’t a second before I realized I was terribly alone. And that it was still the end of the world. And that I could do nothing to fix it.

Sometime in the 2nd grade, my teacher told us to throw away all of our broken crayons and I asked “why?”, she replied, “because they’re broken.” to which I confidently stated, “but they still work.”

It’s a distant memory that lives in the back of my mind. This morning, if it was morning, I reached to pull my cover over me but it wasn’t there. What does that mean? I don’t know.

• November 2nd

I’m realizing that there is no reason to live. Sorry to start off so straightforward, if you wondered, it is still the end of the world and I am still alone. I feel like there is something I should do. There is a reason why I’m still here, right? Or am I just so useless to the world that nobody cares if I live or die?

In the dreams that I rarely have, I see myself as a child looking out of a window, looking at me now.

You know what? Forget this. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Who’s going to read it? This doesn’t matter.

• November 3rd

Sacrifice. One word: sacrifice. That’s what I have to do. I slept in a bed today, not my bed, and I slept with my head hanging off the side of it. The dream I had was like no other. It’s true, I don’t matter. It’s true that I was invisible and alone far before the world ended but I… how do I explain this?

It’s sacrifice. I was dreaming and I heard someone speaking to me, like I was awake, and I couldn’t completely make out the words but I heard “one shall sacrifice themselves”

That’s me. I’m sure of it. What if I have to die so that everyone else can come back? I have to kill myself, basically. There is no reason to live! I was right, my only reason is to die.

I have to die so that other people can live. I’m fine with that. I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’m fine with dying. I don’t care about being known. I don’t care if nobody knows my name.

I just fixed the end of the world, didn’t I? I didn’t think it could be fixed. Anyway, I better get going. If this didn’t work, then this notebook will stay in the middle of the road and slowly disintegrate with only me having memory of it. If this did work, then you’ll be reading this right now.

So, goodbye. I still don’t know what year it is.

• Anonymous

Matilda crouched to get a closer look at the scene in front of her. She was careful not to disturb anything on the dirt floor, hopefully leaving only bootprints. Hopper, her gremlin, climbed out of the leather satchel at her side and perched on her shoulder. He took a deep inhale through his nose.

“Poison,” he murmured in her ear.

She nodded, noticing the sickly sweet scent in the air. Her eyes locked onto a small broken vial next to the body.

“He drink it?” Matilda asked Hopper.

The gremlin took another deep inhale. “No. Too much scent in the air. He breathed it. Fumes atrophied his lungs. Suffocated him.”

Matilda looked to the gremlin on her shoulder, alarmed. Hopper merely shook his head, anticipating her worries as usual.

“Too much time has passed. No danger from fumes now.”

Relieved, Matilda surveyed the scene again. Hopper stayed quiet and waited. After a few moments, Matilda nodded, confirming something to herself, and pulled out a leather bound notebook from her satchel. She opened to a fresh page and gently laid the book open on the dirt floor.

“Agent Matilda, two nights post-full moon,” she said aloud. As she spoke, words appeared on the page as if written by an invisible hand. “Residence in Bairns Hollow. Victim is of satyr blood, male, approximately mid-lifespan. Found deceased on floor. Broken glass vial next to body suggests poison inhalation, damaging the lungs. Healer to confirm.”

She paused for a moment and scanned the scene again.

“End notes,” she said, and the notebook closed on its own. There would be more notes later. Pages and pages of notes as she dove deeper into the satyr’s mysterious death.

The final embers of the setting sun took cover behind dense clouds, dispelling a grey veil across the horizon, erasing any remnants of colour and warmth. Waves lapped voraciously at a modest, wooden vessel as though the navy depths were famished. And although the hours progressed, her hunger never ceased. Each swell ascended, leaping into the airs embrace, then proceeded to crash back into abyss, in an exquisite choreographed cycle. As beautiful as this spectacle of nature was, a peculiar, melancholic tinge weighed on the atmosphere, like an anchor itself.

On the deck of the boat stood a withered man, whose youth had escaped him prematurely. Stray stands of grey were speckled across his angular face. Like sparse, silver shards, they emphasised his cutting temperament. His eyes, though warm like honey, possessed a dissonance that evoked pity from all who locked their gaze upon his own. He adorned muted rags, tattered and moth-eaten, baring spots of sallow skin that glowed ivory in the present twilight hour.

He drew in the salty air and observed the wispy exhale that escaped his sullen mouth, dancing before him like a pearl-coloured fairy. As he watched it fade, he was overcome by a sudden craving for a smoke, which gradually became insatiable. After fumbling through his hole-ridden pockets, he placed a cigarette between his lips and began flicking the rusted spark wheel on a lighter. His trembling, skeletal fingers only delaying his desired gratification. Finally, a reddish flame burst to life from the hood of the contraption, rupturing the sudden stillness that had settled upon the sea. It was in that moment, the man had become disturbingly aware of the eerie gloom that possessed the ether. He became involuntarily unsettled, as though a sixth sense had been revived and was forewarning of imminent peril.

He had heard folklore and tales of the creature that walked the seabed, in fact his mother had recited such stories to him as a young boy. However, with age and a crafted arrogance, he dismissed such tellings and coined them “chronicles of the simple”.

The boat began to creak incrementally, as though imitating a metronome. The frail gentleman, edged towards one side, furtively yearning - for the first time in a long time - for company. Although he had always taken respite in solitude, in this very instance, it provided no solace.

His knuckles turned ashen as he gripped the gunwale, before averting his gaze downwards at the inky water. Albeit general visibility had become obscure as the night had settled, it was conspicuously evident that a shadow lurked below. He jolted upright, pressed his eyes shut, and shook his head. “It must have been a trick of the light” he uttered. “A trick of the light is all, nothing more.” Before he could catch his breath, a rapid gust threw the man across the deck without warning. A towering silhouette surged from the waves engulfing him, like a mere morsel.

Just as fleeting as the action was, it ended all the same. Leaving behind nothing besides an abandoned watercraft, a waning stub of a cigarette, and a horrifyingly unsolved enigma.