Stories tagged corruption

Under Water

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When I was six, my father brought home a fishbowl. Look out for the inhabitants, he said. You can play Neptune in their microcosm of the sea.

Tired of Dying (7)

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“Antwan was scared to death, Mr. Stone,” Annette said after they'd gotten their coffees and were seated at one of the small tables along the wall. Responding to Blow's raised eyebrows, she added, “He got some people mad at him at his job.”

Tired of Dying (8)

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His first sensation was of heat. Glorious heat. He stood just inside the door and let the rainwater drip from his hair and clothes as the dry, warmed interior air, redolent with the crisp smell of ink and fresh newsprint, assured him he'd made it into a h

Tired of Dying (9)

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Looking up, he saw a dark-colored SUV parked in the street next to the end of the driveway. He saw blue exhaust puffs dart from the tailpipe and merge immediately with the rain.

Tired of Dying (10)

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“Can't get him to wake up. Babbling in the ambulance when they carried him to the ER. Now they can't get him to open his eyes. Out all weekend and today. Hasn't said a word.”

Tired of Dying (11)

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His father dipped his chin and peered over his glasses...A muted growl: “I daresay you don't know what the hell you're saying, boy.”

Tired of Dying (12)

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Wisps of steam rising from the soggy earth into the chilled morning air fed a hovering fog that almost obscured the stubble of stumps and upended trees extending into the distance over a sloping elevation beyond his sight range.

Tired of Dying (13)

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“You heard me, Burt. Before this is over I'm going to prove that Mr. Jackson was defending himself from thugs who worked for you. One of them, anyway. The other one still does.”

Sleeping Bones (14)

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Word was they'd go out to the East End at the end of their shift, when they worked swings, to 'get a little target practice on the niggers', is how they put it.

Nightmare Bones (15)

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The white, legal-size envelope lay in the middle of Blow's desk. It was sealed and had his name written on it in artful cursive. He tore it open. The note was brief. Her name was Yolanda. She needed to speak to him “ASAP”.

Bones (16)

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“My goodness,” she said, her eyes now fixed on the portraits hanging behind his desk. “That fellow with the powdered wig looks just like your father.” “That is my father, Yolanda. And that's not a wig.”

Bones (17)

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Shit, he thought.

Bones (18)

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After the British surrender just down the road at Yorktown, many mercenaries who wore the red coats and who also had tired of the pip-pip crap, shucked their lobsterbacks, donned homespun duds and took up a new life in the New World. One of them was a man

Bones (19)

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The males stared at Blow as he approached. He met the eyes of each, keeping his face blank.

Bones (20)

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“Manny said no, but I got the feeling he was too scared to admit it if he had. That's when he told me to keep his name out of the story.”