I’m patiently scoping out my next victim, but I’m distracted. Thanks to the news, I’m not savoring the moment like I normally do . . .
Tag: short fiction
The lunch bell begins to ring, so we say our prayers, chewing the words up in our mouths with half-open eyes as we watch our teacher, leather belt in hand . . .
We scampered across the assembly hall to peep out of the wooden louvered windows of our primary school, hoping to catch a glimpse of the parents as the cars pulled up across the street at the porte cochere of the Members Club to deposit their passengers . . .
Freddy scowls when I shine my flashlight in his face. His gold tooth glints in the gloom . . .
This was the ninth time for the week she had noticed it: a splitting migraine . . .
We all sneezed. Or maybe I just sneezed, but we all looked away at exactly the same time and, at exactly the same time, looked back . . .
Laure always believed she would die young, a murder victim. At 40, she had assumed time for the killing had run out. Yet here she was, kneeling on gravel in the middle of the night, about to die in the high-altitude plains of Ladakh . . .
Whenever I start a restoration project, I take before-photos, and when I finish, I take after-shots . . .