“The Sunset Premium” by Andrew Jetarski
He spotted the guy with the poodle a block and a half away, as he did every morning . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
“Stabs in the Dark” by Tammi Browne-Bannister
Late one afternoon, Hazel and I were strolling around the Garrison Savannah, when a little voice called out my name: “Fernando.” When I saw who it was, I was mortified . . .
“You Must Really Want It” by Marie S.
I woke up feeling cold this morning and the clouds were fighting their way in between the bedroom blinds that were left open in the middle of the night. I found my body naked and bent and I thought about Nicole duFresne and her star quality blonde hair and blue eyes and perfect teeth and I wondered how her hair and face and body fell onto the concrete ground on Rivington Street after she was shot in the chest by that nineteen-year-old boy . . .
“When You Need to Outsource Revenge” by Mickey J. Corrigan
“I don’t care what it costs, I want that man dead . . .”
“a murder of crows” by Antonio Hopson
In their black eyes, one could see morning’s sun rise into sweet rapture . . .
“Coot Song: A Tragic Love Story” by Madeleine Angevine
Green Lake in the hour before dawn: Seattle’s beautiful, teeming dark heart, its still surface broken only by the skittering of hundreds of phosphorescent coot feet, its quiet violated only by the self-conscious chatter of female walkers seeking fitness in cautious herds, or the indigestive squawk of a disturbed heron. A headlamped solitary jogger, disappearing into pools of darkness along the intermittently lit trail, then reappearing triumphant, steeled herself for the prolonged period of darkness that awaited her at the lake’s poorly illuminated southern end . . .
“The Revolution Will Not be Televised” by Susan Daitch
They were lying about the weight. Flip worked at the New York Racing Association, and he heard: Fredo here, Maximiliano there, five pounds here, even ten there. They were heavier than their declared weights. And if you knew the real numbers the jockeys were weighing in at, you knew the lighter. The honest jockey had a better chance at winning. Better than better. Flip had been watching all summer from opening day up to the Travers, and he’d been right on the money every time . . .
“Rendezvous” by Katia D. Ulysse
Chloe Zolovská had sworn never to return to Southeast Baltimore’s wasteland of condemned rowhouses, abandoned factories, defunct railroad tracks, pimps, hookers, junkies, and the babies they had by accident—including her—but there she was . . .