FLASH FICTION – OMIMM

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They called it The Chuck Stop—a hidden clubhouse inside a size 11 Converse, where miniature musicians jammed and cobblers tinkered. By night, it buzzed with chords, caffeine, and secrets.

Last Thursday, the music stopped.

Jazzman Jordan, the harmonica king, was found lifeless in the toe box, crushed beneath a sewing needle. At first glance, an accident. But Doc Stan Smith said otherwise: “Needle was planted. Jordan never sewed a day in his life.”

Suspicions spiraled like a frayed shoelace.

Vans, the bass player, had motive—Jordan stole her solo. Reebok, the sound guy, hated how Jordan chewed his chords flat. Even Granny Asics, who ran the espresso drip from the heel, had once vowed he’d “choke on a bad note.”

Detective Huarache, a former eyelet inspector, examined the scene. No thread out of place—except one. A single shoelace looped wrong over the third hole. Inside the knot? A trace of resin. Yeezy’s bowstring resin.

By sundown, Yeezy was zipped inside a Ziplock, cursing his luck.

Music returned to The Chuck Stop. But now, every note trembled just a bit. Because in a shoe-sized speakeasy, even the softest step could hide a stomp of murder.