One shot, center mass, and down he went.
Just in the last three years, I’d been forced to move five times as police department after police department switched to voiceless dispatching. Although my equipment was top of the line, it still couldn’t intercept communications sent out over secure IP networks.
The first time I ever saw white crosses to mark the scenes of fatal crashes was the day we moved to New Hampshire. My wife, Lindsey, pointed them out as we drove along Route 101. She wasn’t impressed. “Oh my God. How fucking depressing.â€
“…so Billy says, ‘But Mommy, I came straight home!’ Then in the next panel here he draws this dotted line showing all the places Billy went to on his way home! See, he stops at the playground, runs through the sprinkler over here, plays with a dog…” Ralph chuckled softly at the newspaper funny pages and wiped a small tear from the corner of his eye.
Peter Larson recently had his first published work appear on EspressoFiction.com. He spent many years living in New England but now resides in Las Vegas, where he dedicates his time to wearing sandals. More of his hopefully humorous stories can be found under his profile at Writing.com.
Ben straightens his back and adjusts the heavy new briefcase in his left hand before he rings the doorbell of this non-descript house. He’s never carried a briefcase before, yet somehow a briefcase seems necessary to give him an air of authenticity. Dana helped him pick it out. They sat in front of the computer for an hour and ordered it online, along with the other things they’d need, and then they climbed into bed and she was crying. And although Ben is used to her tears, it continues to disturb him in a way he cannot explain.
I’ve been published in Lily and The American Drivel Review and have a story forthcoming in Little Sisters, Vol. 1.
Rachel Zambri knew she’d have to tell her husband, Randy, that her book club had kind of turned into armed robbery and when she did, he said, “Kind of?â€
My first novel, Dirt Sweet, was published by ECW Press in Toronto last year and will be published in the US in trade paperback by Harcourt in spring ‘08. At the same time, Harcourt will publish my second novel, Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. I’ve had a few flash fictions posted at Muzzleflash (and one in Out of the Gutter #2), and a short story of mine will be appearing in an upcoming Demolition Magazine.
Arizona sun leeched blue from the sky, scorched blacktop.
The heat got so bad Joe Pender abandoned his office for the front stoop of U-Save Storage. A wind picked up and spat warm dust at him, but it was movement, at least. Air circulated past his armpits. The sweat clinging to his Dickie shirt started to dry.
And then: two shapes approached along the frontage road.
He was waiting for his luggage at Schiphol Airport when he spotted her. She was wearing the somber, seal-gray coat he had given her last Christmas, and it was only the crimson in the scarf at her throat that caught his eye. They had decided it was silly for her to meet his plane. He had outlined the reasons against it; she nodded her acceptance. But here she was anyway looking lovely, standing as still and pale as a porcelain figurine amidst the stolid Dutch pea-soupers in their bulky winter dress. Almost involuntarily, his hand rose in a greeting. She placed one gloved hand up to the glass in response and smiled. The delicacy of her movement encapsulated all that he loved about her.
Moments later, he pulled his bags off the carousel and walked quickly through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ gate. She turned for his kiss and they bumped noses. He wondered whether other married couples miss each other’s lips as frequently as they did.