Stories tagged short-fiction

The Hound

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I would be the mortal to hand justice to God. It wouldn’t come in the form of steel from a blade or by gun powder of a revolver, but by my disbelief...

The Hound - Part 2

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The temperature would drop rapidly once the sun hit the horizon. I had about an hour before this would happen. I stood and put on my coat. The fire had gone out. There was no smoke...

The Hound - Part 3

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The bullet split her head in half before she could finish her sentence. Her blood sprayed out onto my face and covered my lips. The taste of life as it suddenly ended.

What We See

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One day they will take what remains of my eyes so someone else can use them to see beauty, someone who will value them more than I have, someone who will be strong enough to keep them pointed away from ugly things.

The Hound - Part 4

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My gaze could have gutted any man. Any man, but John Marcy. History would write that John Marcy was a traitor to his country. Public enemy number one in the state of New York. When that probably couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Carver Country

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My first love was a woman of principle. Never deny your man was her motto.


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He imagined them raining down on her and then, like little radio towers, transmitting the sensation of her skin and warmth to him. He could feel her from the other side of the plastic. She could stay there, and he would feed her Chicken and Stars.

Wayne Recalls Rocking and the Power of Positive Thinking

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My mother told me I came out of her screaming and didn’t stop for two years. After that I took up rocking.

Living by Butterflies

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You sit before the mirror, looking at your freckled skin. Squeezing at your pores, you try to get the black heads out.


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Snipers wear camouflage clothing to avoid being seen. It wouldn’t do for a sniper to be seen because then the sniper might become the snipee.

Little Girl Dreams

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She dreams she is sitting on a tripod under the watchful eyes of Apollo, with the bodies of pilgrims snaking up the path, shuffling side to side, edging ever closer to her temple. Bags of grain, and other goods, are balanced on their backs. Young lambs, cradled in juvenile…


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Burn the ships, there's no going back.

Hold the door, please.

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We mistake momentum for locomotion and movement for progress. The scenery whips by, faster now, and we take this as a good sign. Faster means better. We must be doing something right.

The Letter

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You know how it is, one day a good friend sends you this long note telling you how-the-hell they are or aren't getting along in the frigging world


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He took a large sip of his cerveza and watched another one of the prostitutes on la Calle de Montera get brushed off sheepishly by a passing tourist. They operated in a perfect row, forming a slalom course of temptation all the way down the hill...