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A Short Story |
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Ugliest
Pumpkin
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“This is so lame, Mom.”
“It is not lame, Mel. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s
what we do.” Coral Holden braked to avoid hitting a young
man on a bicycle jumping the green light.
Actually, it did feel lame this year. Maybe pointless was
a better word. Coral didn’t feel thankful about the pile
of unpaid bills Jared had left when he skipped town. She didn’t
feel thankful that his whole family blamed her for the breakup.
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Making Waves
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"Get
out there. Bid on the darned boat," Fred X. Keefer hammered
his desk top. "Pay any amount. Be sure no one outbids
you!"
Sam Dooley, loyal bean counter, saluted his boss and scurried out of the office,
his "Yessir," hanging in the air like a piece of dry jerky.
Fred X. needed that yacht. Mildred's body was on it.
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Poe's
Grave
July
in Baltimore. A killing heat.
It roasted Marty the minute he stepped foot outside his office. It sweated him
of hope. Two blocks down, the Greene Street bus stop shimmered like a mirage.
Marty knew he didn’t stand a chance of getting there without an alluvial
overflow of wetness dripping down his crack. And a mouthful of the grit five
o’clock traffic whipped up. Or the wince of white-hot sidewalk nuking the
bottoms of his ancient Oxfords. For a second he stood blinking in disbelief:
Marty Childs, bookkeeper. Age forty-six. Sporting creased uppers and a baggy,
summer-weight suit. Circle of hair scruffy from neglect. And a pain in his gut
that felt like a midget pounding him with a polo mallet every time he took a
breath.
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Invite the Devil In
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I
stare at my melted keyboard and blank monitor and the CPU
humming nonstop, and I don't dare unplug it. I'm not sure
what would happen, but it would be ugly. Somewhere early
on there might've been a bail-out point. The best thing I
could've done - and jeez, I never thought I'd hear myself
say this - was listen to Mom.
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Spark
of Evil
Billy
Ray Jones eased the station wagon onto the highway, skirting
a pothole at the edge of the shoulder to avoid bouncing the
corpse around.
This was the third time in two years he'd hauled a body for the state prison
system. The cheap administrators had never yet provided a transport box. At the
other end, the country church that donated burial space would have a pine coffin
waiting, but that didn't help Billy Ray any now.
He could just see himself trying to explain a corpse to the highway patrol. So
far he'd never been stopped, but he kept the transfer papers tucked right up
here on the visor, in case that ever happened.
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