Whenever I start a restoration project, I take before-photos, and when I finish, I take after-shots . . .
Tag: short fiction
The long wooden pirogue knocked lazily against the concrete pillars of the jetty . . .
It was almost dawn when a loud shriek of anguish and pain could be heard at the end of Guayaguayare village . . .
We never give up being wanted . . .
Detective Mercer wasn’t all that sure the man he had bound in the trunk of his cruiser was the right guy, but he was sure enough that he’d risk his badge over it . . .
Brigid Quinlan clutched the corduroy sleeve of Russell Townsend’s blazer and sneered at the herd of journalists being restrained by two burly policemen. She smiled smugly as she and Townsend breezed past them. “Fuck you all,” she whispered under her breath . . .
Albert was cross with himself. He had left Annabelle’s home far too late, at 9:30 in the evening and now faced the long ride back to St. Joseph from Arima in the dark . . .
Marlowe felt his life crumbling around him. He had recently been called before the Privy Counsel, a combination grand jury, federal prosecutor and Supreme Court. His friend and roommate, the playwright Thomas Kyd, had been arrested for treason . . .