A fictional story written by students
December 4, 2016
Written by Alice Daniel
The four suspects, guided by the officers, were lined up to be taken to the police station, all seemingly lethargic and perplexed: the solemn student, the stoic businessman, the melancholy mother, and the scholarly psychologist. All characters that one could pass on a busy street without a second thought but with identities and traits unique to them.
Supposedly, one of them was the culprit, for none of them had alibis and their motives were solid. Out of these four individuals, one must have stolen the art that had remained in the museum for generations, one of the most valuable pieces of art in existence.
I tapped my foot on the cold tile of the art museum’s main lobby, an impatient scowl on my face. It had taken hours to narrow down the number of suspects, but even then, a tiring interrogation awaited. I felt as if this case had made my allergies worsen throughout the day. I was sick, tired, and all I wanted was to go home. Coughing, I reached into my pocket to retrieve my handkerchief, but I was met with emptiness.
‘Oh, that’s right. I misplaced it last night. Where on the earth could it be?’
At first glance, the crime seemed simple. It happened late at night yesterday-a Tuesday of all days. The only individuals there were the four visitors, two night guards (which I assume were sleeping on the job…), and a singular tour guide in the large room that held the art. Based on these facts alone the culprit should’ve been easily found. Unfortunately, due to the lack of physical evidence, the only partially reliable option was witness testimony and logical deduction.
In a few hours, the long road to finding the truth would begin.
To be continued…
Interested? Look for part two on thecrimsonconnection.com
A fictional story written by students
Credit: Pixabay
Written by Ice Sola
How quaint, the atmosphere felt different than the one I had experienced the day before. Nothing unusual, just… distinct with all the people who went to the museum. How I just wanted to sigh all my words out, but that would get me nowhere at all, right?
“State your name!” the detective said, “And tell me why on earth would you stare at a painting for six hours?! Answer me! You were the last person to be seen on camera, so you better tell me or I’ll lose it!” A mouthful of words came off of the detective’s tongue. Quite annoyed if I could say so myself, but I gave my reasons; I didn’t want to get arrested anyways.
“My name is Tetsuyo Kinamora, a recent psychologist from Nagoya, Japan…” I started to say.
Currently, I’m on a project in how the mixing of chromatic schemes can have an affect on moods. What a better way to find out than going to a bright and popular American art museum? The art was lovely of course: the amazing rainbow splattered all over, the complex body formation sculptures, the photography shots that captured realism.
It for some reason overflowed me with feelings that I could not, perhaps never, truly understand. But that stimulus could not compare to this particular painting. I didn’t know why, but it reminded me of memories that troubled me when I was young. I hated it, it made me feel bad, though it didn’t make me feel somber. It made me want more, more to discover my weeping past. Melancholic. A different depression that makes you yearn for more sadness. I don’t know how that works, but I was mesmerized. I didn’t even realize that I had stared at it for six hours, that might as well be the highlight of my research.
But even if I was the last one seen on camera, that doesn’t mean I was the last one in the building.
When I snapped back into reality, I walked towards the entrance door at the same time as someone barged in. I figured that he might have just forgotten something and quickly came in before the museum closed. It was someone younger than me, probably someone in college. But I must say, that whoever stole the painting had a good eye, and if I were the thief, I would have stolen that painting as well…
To be continued…
Part three will be in the next print issue of The Crimson Connection and will be uploaded online once the next issue comes out.
A fictional story written by students
Credit: Pixabay
Written by Sofia Trevino
My eyes stung as a bright lamp shined in my face. I could hardly make out who was in front of me. I knew his voice however. We had been talking only just a few minutes ago when he had first led me into the interrogation room. He was a tired looking man. It was a bit past midnight now, and I assumed he had been working on this case all night. Poor guy. I was glad he had kept his stress mostly to himself or else everyone in here would have been on edge. After all, he was the star of this show, the shepherd herding the sheep, making sure that none of us are wolves in disguise.
Still, the blinding light was just as fear-inducing and obnoxious as it appeared to be in those crime shows. I wanted to leave almost half as much as before.
“Ms. Evert, do you think you’re ready to tell me what happened today? Your side of the story?” the detective inquired, a hint of anxiousness lingering in his words. I nodded and took a sip of water. It was a long story, but it was better to get my alibi perfect instead of forgetting a detail and suffering from it later.
“Um, well… I suppose you can say I’m not the luckiest girl…” I began. That afternoon began like most. As I packed a lunch for my son, my mom called, as she usually did. We talked for about 20 minutes, since that’s about the longest amount of time we can speak without reaching through the phones and strangling each other. After that, my son and I went to the art museum. It definitely left a dent in my wallet, but seeing my kid had taken a liking to art, I spent the whole month saving money to buy us tickets. He had a blast, I live to see him smile like he did today. I began to trail off with my story, but the detective’s irritated and stressed mood began to creep out from the look in his eyes. I quickly wrapped up my story as best I could, the light seemed to get brighter and brighter. Halfway through our trip, I dropped my son off in the activity center for kids, where I ran into my friend from a few years ago in high school who was volunteering. She told me that there was a tour she thought I’d like, and I went on it.
The stolen painting, one that we passed by towards the end of the tour, had definitely caught my eye. Firstly, there was a man who I saw staring at it for much longer than I suppose most people do, and secondly, it was magnificent, surely it had a larger net-worth than me! Whoever stole that painting… boy…how their life would change…
A fictional story written by students
Credit: Pexels
Written by Isabela Salinas
Terror gripped at my heart, my stomach churned, and my lunch threatened to resurface. I glanced around the room I was in, taking in the gray uninviting walls and plain, monochrome decorum. The only thing that immediately caught my attention when I entered the interrogation room was the whirring recording machine, a little out-of-date but still carrying out its purpose efficiently enough to maintain relevancy. A heavy cough broke my trance and I started to talk, almost on the verge of a panic attack. The detective who uttered the sound made a soothing hand motion, attempting to calm me down.
“It’s okay son, I just need you to tell me what you were doing in the museum after hours, you’re not in trouble.”
I knew from the heavy pause that he was going to say that I wasn’t in any trouble… yet. And I knew it was ridiculous that I was nervous, I hadn’t done anything wrong, my heart still raced with a dread I couldn’t seem to shake off. I retold the events leading up to that day, careful not to leave out any detail.
“I had an essay due for my photography class, we had to write a 20 page paper of an important art piece that impacted the French society at the time,” I stammered, trying not to sound as frightened as I seemed.
I quickly finished off my story, “I had woken up late that day, luckily I didn’t have any classes that I had to go to. I spent the whole day relaxing until I realized that I still had to write a paper for my class. I panicked, I looked up the nearest museum, which happened to be a few blocks down my apartment and I relaxed, until I noticed that it closed in less than ten minutes. Racing down the street, I managed to make it into the building just as the last few people exited. I quickly found the exhibit I was looking for and took a few snapshots of French aristocrats laying on a field or drinking from dainty cups. I guess I must’ve lost track of time because the next thing I know I’m looking up to the face of a Goliath of a security guard. Needless to say I got kicked out of the museum very quickly, but before I left, I could’ve sworn I saw movement out of my left eye towards the center of the museum.”
The detective wrote down a few notes on his yellow pad as I finished telling my story, making some very pointed underlining in a few areas. “Much to my relief, I was quickly dismissed from the dismal interrogation room to continue and go about my day.”
A fictional story written by students
By: Meagan Edwards
As I walked into the interrogation room and sat in the cold hard chair, I scoffed. It was such a preposterous idea that I could steal such a painting. I mean, when would I find the time? I couldn’t believe the police would interrupt my busy schedule for such a ridiculous matter as this. I had clients to meet with, phone calls to take, and meetings to attend. With my insurance business doing so well, there simply wouldn’t be any need for me to steal such a valuable work of art.
The detective burst into the room looking familiar but angry and disgruntled. Impatiently, he asked why I had been at the museum, and I answered as truthfully as I could manage.
“I was taking a client out for a sort of… treat. This particular client was a fan of the arts, and I thought I’d take him to the museum to discuss some of his private business affairs afterward.
“Only, right when we got to a rather stunning painting, the ringing of his cell phone encompassed my ears, and he had to excuse himself to take the call. It seemed important as he did not return. By this time of night, the museum halls were practically empty except for me and a couple others. Realizing my client would not return, I left.”
The detective then inquired more on my client but seemed disappointed by this possibility. I couldn’t imagine being able to pull off a job like stealing a painting as masterfully done as that one. Whoever did complete the feat must have known what they were doing and known how to do it well.
the conclusion
Written by: Giselle Peralta
I huffed. I didn’t want to steal it. No, well–part of me loved it. I loved it so much. It made me feel. I could feel everything. My heart pumping. My lungs flooding. My eyes watering. I could hardly believe it wasn’t made by a celestial being of complete perfection, but with a brush, paint, and a few careful strokes. It was so much more… I was certain no one who stood before it felt the way I did. It seemed to reach out and pull my heart…
I shake my head. I need it. I really need it. This painting… it’ll make life so much better. I need it more than the passing people that stop to glance at it for maybe once in their life. I remember time seemed to stop when I would set my eyes on the painting. I thought that maybe time did stop. My need for the painting is more than my conscience. The museum has plenty of art anyways. They make plenty of money.
I unhinge the painting from the wall, careful not to make a sound. I had seen the security earlier today; they were not very friendly. I remember trying to stay in late; the scrawniest security guard would eye most innocent child. I remember seeing that.
I eye the dark hallways wearily.
For a moment I wonder if I’d lose my job.
No. I need this.
With a final nod, I take the painting. I check my pocket and feel the coldness of my car keys. Life is going to be better…
I can feel my stomach churning as I load the painting into the trunk of my car. I dry the tears in my eyes with a handkerchief. This is either going to ruin my life or make it. I’ve taken things before in the past. I shouldn’t be so nervous. Nothing ever happens.
That doesn’t stop my shallow breathing.
“Everyone’s a sinner,” I grumble to myself. I think about the people I work with. The people I see every day. The people that matter. “This chance is worth it.”
I slam the back closed and take the wheel of the car.
“Everyone’s a sinner.”
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