None of the men in my wife’s family ever changed a diaper. Not one. Not ever.
Tag: flash fiction
Max Renzi was running out of time. Scurrying through the crowd, his beady eyes scanning over the policemen, the TV reporters, the children clogging the sidewalk, he figured he had an hour, maybe two, before D.C. got too hot for him.
He’s a cop. I’m not. It’s a Ride-Along Program. I did one before. With a cop who wouldn’t talk.
It was Mama who bought Lal his first mask. That was more than twenty Carnivals ago and now he had developed a great fondness for wearing them.
Rosalie took one look at the tarot cards this morning and gazed up at me. “Molly,” she said, “I need to get away from you.” Then she bolted down Psychic Alley.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think I may be a psychotic serial killer.”
Little scientists my ass! Left alone for a few minutes and they managed to do this.
The man sitting in my living room says to me, “I heard what you did for that other guy.”