• sweeney

    Fiction: The Night Guard

    It had rained all day, and in the late evening mist still rose from the pavement. This made Stan’s job harder. More room for error: distraction, misplaced evidence, footprints. So much more could go wrong when the world was sopping wet. Stan knew there was no room for error. He usually transported the bags himself, and saw no need to involve anyone else this time. Pulling up to the warehouse, he slammed the gear shift a little too jerkily, the restored Chevelle jolting forward. He yanked out the key and rose from the car. Stan tried to blend in with the wet night. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, black leather…

  • harvest

    Fiction: The Boy They Hadn’t Seen

    He had it coming to him, alright. Everyone in the neighborhood agreed that Marty Polks deserved whatever he got. He yelled at the kids who ran onto his lawn to retrieve stray soccer balls. He harrumphed the neighborhood moms who waved to him when he came out to get his paper every morning. His wife hurried in and out of the house after arguments, ashen face inscribed with abuse and neglect. “I heard he’s been beating his wife for years,” Tilda McHuen said, half-covering her mouth so as to appear concerned with not being perceived a gossip. Mary Holt leaned over the caution tape wrapped around the perimeter to get…


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