They pitched their Good News. He wasn’t buying it. Not on the worst day of his life, not ever. . .
Tag: Paul Renault
Rachel warmed her hands on the cup at my kitchen table. “Daniel came over last night,” she said. “You call the cops?” . . .
This happened at the Market Street garage . . .
I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. It wasn’t the librarian . . .
I sat on a railroad tie along the driveway, with my bad leg stretched out in front of me and the bike wheel across my lap. After deflating the tube, I worked the tool around and peeled the tire out of the rim. I kept having to stop to wipe the sweat from my eyes . . .
He wanted to talk, and you know me—I’m no psychic. I didn’t know what he was thinking, and Jerry didn’t come out and say he was going to crawl into a garbage bag and off himself . . .
On the few days out of the year when the range was closed he’d get out the duct tape and stick the PVC-and-wadding suppressor on his Ruger .22 pistol. He’d load it with subsonics. He’d open the window, take out the screen, and throw some empty beer cans out in the yard. Then he’d stand back in the dark of his room and make them dance . . .
Featured: Black Interest
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- We Matter: Athletes and Activism
- Even in Paradise
- Sale Amiri Baraka 3-for-1 Sale!
- Dance of the Jakaranda
- Sale The Bernice L. McFadden Collection
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- Not for Everyday Use
- Gomer’s Song
- What Is Hip-Hop?
- Black Orchid Blues