Old Mr. Willman’s head twitched, and with some difficulty he pointed an arthritic finger at the gigantic oak tree with the peeling bark. . .
Tag: flash fiction
They found Clarette on her porch that morning, a wax figure in her robe, barefoot and clutching a nearly spent half-pint of brandy. . .
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. . .
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 . . .