The short fiction of j hardy carroll
Crispy and me see the pile as we turn the block, but he knew this morning something bad was coming. He wore it on his face like a wince before your mama slaps you. Every school has a Crispy, a kid whose clothes are never clean, who always asks if you want the rest of…
Fog over green hills, the smell of leather, my jacket stiff with its newness, the expensive watch peeping from my cuff as I swing my arms. My dog trots at the end of his lead, his white fur yellow like an old newspaper, his once-supple walk stiffened by age and injury. He knows my pocket…
Reposting this story from 2015. For some reason it gets hits throughout the year. Maybe it’s the photos. This was something I originally wrote more than twenty years ago, one of my first short stories. Full disclosure: the first bar I ever drank in was a strip club, Daddy Jack’s Blue Note in Tucson, Arizona.…
Uncle Jock and me is proper pished. As usual on the walk back he holds court, telling a thousand stories. And as usual we pass beneath Newark Castle. “Laddie,” he says, putting an arm around me. “You know the odds between an American and a Scot?” “Accents?” “Aye, true. But you see there?” He points…
“A film is a loosely collected series of events which don’t hold up to scrutiny,” he says. “Untruths which are designed to evoke certain emotions in us.” We are watching an obscure work by a Japanese director he admires. He’s seen it, of course, but years ago. “My memories of this movie are those…
It was the most ominous storm warning she’d ever seen, TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY flashing red. The tornado sirens sounded for thirty seconds, then stopped. She headed up the stairs, assuming it was over. The wind hit then, a roar like a jet taking off. The trees shrieked as they were torn from the ground, hurled…
“The trains always slow when they pass the power station,” Dad had said. “For safety.” Safety, he thinks, watching the rolling wheels. He’s never stood so near. Watching from afar, they didn’t seem to be going all that fast, but from this close it’s different. He feels their crushing mass shaking the ground beneath his…
He spoke of tremendous mysteries buried in numbers. “Right under your nose,” he would say. He’d spend an hour on the symbolism etched into the dollar, fill a notepad with calculations of its hidden meanings. He counted everything. Once I found him in the yard counting the needles on a pine tree, convinced the numbers…
“What’s this?” Big X pointed at the portrait of Jenks. “Tolly painted it,” said Reynolds. “Remarkable. Looks like a photograph. Good enough for identity papers.” “As long as it doesn’t get wet. Watercolors, you know.” “Pity. What is he working on now?” “He was copying the Soldbuchs for a while but was getting rather bored with…
“Another one.” “You didn’t bring it in for me?” “Why bother? There’s more coming.” She purses her lips, knowing that there is indeed another package on its way. At first, it was eBay, justified as a money-making opportunity. Many things arrived, but nothing was ever shipped. When the basement filled, he’d rented a storage container…