Short Stories

This dream is always the same, because it’s also a memory. She sits near the end of the dock, her delicate frame perched on a small black cooler, her back to him, her face to the sun.

Damn thing could have sat on the man’s front porch since afternoon the day before, there was no way of knowing for sure.

By four o’clock, Kris is clean out of fucks to give. It’s the Friday preceding spring break. There’s no aftercare today, no other underpaid employees to push her last few kids off on.

After turning the washer dial to the heavy soil setting, she shook her head and spoke to the laundry basket at her feet. “I can’t believe this is still happening. At your age, honestly,” she said.

Andre de Corcy cursed under his breath as the charcoal split in his hands, smudging the rubbing of the sarcophagus seal. It was his fourth copy, so the mishap was hardly surprising if still inconvenient.

The angry roar of heavy metal screamed from the amplifier at ear-bleeding decibels. Kip Daniels stood nearby, his fingers expertly navigating the fretboard of a blue Ibanez six-string guitar.

It had started with the funny feeling in her belly.

From time to time, murmurs and mutterings concerning the carnival spread amongst the houses of town like an unseen plague This signals the carnival’s imminent arrival.

It wasn’t the time of the call; Blake was used to that, and he was a light sleeper - call it the nature of the job. When the call at 1AM is from your doctor, that raised both eyebrows.

“This is the Qualicare Refrigerator Customer Service Line. My name is Natalie. How may I help you?” “This is Eileen Mayers. Is this who I call when my fridge acts funny?”