During their friendly Friday night poker game, Captain Jones' quarters was smelling of cigars smoke and expensive whiskey. It was their night for drinking and gambling.
Lieutenant Brown and Lieutenant Smith were letting off steam. That's what the other card players thought. The verbal exchange escalated. Their intoxicated ramblings and false accusations lasted approximately twenty minutes.
Unfortunately, they weren't able to iron things out. Lieutenant Brown grabbed a steam iron from the kitchen counter and wrapped the iron's cord around Lieutenant Smith's neck strangling him.
Afterwards, the officers went back to their card game.
About the Creator
Babs Iverson
Barbara J Iversen, also known as Babs Iverson, lives in Texas and loves her grandkids to the moon and back. After writing one story, she found that writing has many benefits especially during a pandemic and a Texas-size Arctic Blast.
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UP IN THE AIR
Flying, flying, flying! Of course, I knew how this flight began. It started a day ago. Eight-year-old Carrie with strawberry-blonde hair was my friend and companion. She was sent to visit her grandmother in Panama City, Florida for a week. When traveling, Carrie always placed me in her backpack. Naturally, we did a lot of traveling together.
By Babs Iverson3 years ago in Fiction
A Badge in the Smoke !
Dear Diary, 👋 Bye Bye David! Those were the last words Lena wrote before sliding the diary across the counter to the officials. She’d pressed the pen hard on that final line, then shut the book as if closing a door. She’d met David in the Hyatt Regency lobby during his medical conference. She was wiping the marble floor, eyes down, feeling the familiar ache of being alone in a place full of travelers. He’d asked for directions to the elevator, lingered, asked her name. Over the next three days they met in quiet corners — near the potted palms, at the service elevator — talking in low voices. He was polite, careful, always checking his watch. She felt seen, and also like she was living in the space between his words. When he left, he promised to write. They did, for a while, but the letters thinned out. Then ICE came to the hotel. Lena — whose real name was Christina Perraira — was taken across the border to Mexico. Rumors followed her: she’d escaped, she’d been taken by a cartel, a gang leader had offered her protection in exchange for favors, and she’d ended up in a trafficking case. No one could say which was true. Years passed. Christina lived under a new name, Ms. Alt, raising a child on her own. She never sent David an address. She kept the diary as proof that she had told him not to come. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone around her acted as if they knew it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained the rule; they just honored it. David never came. *Twenty-three years later, a different envelope arrived at Christina’s door.* Inside was not a letter, but a photocopy of David’s conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: “Lena: if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.” Below that, a second line in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” Christina stared at the badge. No return address, no signature. Just the badge, the two lines, and the faint imprint of a hotel key card tucked beneath it. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone who knew Lena—later Christina, later Ms. Alt—acted as if they understood it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained it; they just honored it. Christina settled in a small town across the border, working as a caregiver at St. Clare’s senior home. Her final abode was a modest room above the kitchen, with a window that looked onto the courtyard and a thin mattress she’d learned to make quickly between shifts. She kept Lena’s diary tucked under the mattress, the last page still reading “👋 bye bye David!” One rainy Thursday a new resident was admitted for terminal care: David. The name caught her breath, but she didn’t say anything. His file listed no family, only a contact number that went to voicemail. She was assigned to his floor. He was frail, his voice softer than she remembered, and he wore the same habit of checking his watch even though time meant little now. She bathed him, brought him tea, sat with him when the pain spiked. He never asked her name; she never offered it. On his third night, he slipped a folded paper into her palm while she adjusted his blanket. It was a photocopy of his old conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: _“Lena — if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.”Below that, in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” She recognized the handwriting instantly. The paper also had a hotel key card tucked inside. She stayed with him. He opened his eyes, looked at her face, and whispered, “Lena?” She nodded, tears slipping down. He reached for her hand; she held it. A few hours later, a kettle she’d left on the small kitchenette boiled dry, the coil overheated, and a small fire started. The smoke alarm wailed. Staff rushed in, got David out, but Christina went back for the diary under her mattress. The room filled with smoke before she could get out. They died the same night—David in the hallway on a gurney, Christina in her room above the kitchen. The diary was found charred at the edges, the final page still legible. The staff filed the incident, placed the diary in the home’s lost-and-found, and followed the rule without ever naming it: they didn’t try to trace who David had been to Lena/Christina. © conceptual right , March 30th, 2026 ✍️By Madhu Goteti P.S: A rose is a rose is a rose like a rule is a rule is a rule!
By Madhu Goteti about 7 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (24)
So much happened in so little time; very well written!
Yikes! Wow, was I surprised at that one
That escalated fast 😁😱
They weren't able to iron things out, so they used an ironing thing to iron things out. Cause that's what ironings about. Well, if Lieutenant Smith's at sea with the rest of them, wouldn't surprise me if they tossed his body overboard to hopefully be eaten by the sharks. That being said, even if all went their way, they're still gonna fall under suspicion.
Nice twist! That's a good story 💕
Holy crap, that was a crazy twist!! Well done, Babs!!
Well, at least, there was action! LOL!
Telling so much in so few words. Very dramatic and effective!
The movies make death seem so commonplace. Just grab a gun and go get it done. Yep. It is that easy.
always wondered why those chords were so long 😂😂, great story Babs 😊
Oh my, that was quite an unexpected ending. Well done.
Oh man, that is so intense 😅 Awesome job, Babs!! 😊❤️❤️
Pretty intense card game! Good job Babs
Oh I certainly wasn't expecting that from sweet little Babs! Lol! I loved this!
Aw this is a lovely story
They'll all sleep it off. Some longer than others.
Great pressing story Babs.😁❤️
Oh my!!! Don’t deal me in! haha
Sounds like a card game in my family. I wish I was joking.
I have a feeling someone else will get the cord before the nights over! Awesome story, Babs.
Great story😊😉💖
That escalated quickly! Such it is with whiskey and poor temperaments...
Nice job of micro-fiction storytelling😉❤️
That raises the ante! Fun stuff, Babs!