The orange line. Change to the red line. They’re there. Sitting, standing, giving me the quick, disdain laced glances reserved for work booted laborers with tormented hands. . .
Tag: flash fiction
When you grow up in Springfield, Illinois, you’ve heard the stories about Paul Powell and the concealed cash stash. . .
It started when she was quite young. . .
Detective Harry Crenshaw glanced at the pamphlet one more time. . .
I lived on a farm on Falls Road in those days. . .
So there I was being selfishly glum after learning that tonight’s tenth anniversary dinner reservations had to be cancelled . . .
Parnham tells me to come downtown. I stop to get cigarettes. On the shelf behind the cashier are brown paper bags of nuts. I buy one, then continue on to Central and park my car across from the courthouse. . . .
Raindrops glistened about Sue’s minivan the day she left . . .