Sunday Photo Fiction

News to Me

I didn’t listen because I never listened to him, but I saw he didn’t care, his gaze drifting past my face to the construction on the street behind us and back, then down to the beer I bought him, talking the whole time. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It was the last

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Tell Me Again

“Where did you say they are?” “I told you.” “Tell me again.” “They’re in the walls. And other places.” “What other places?” “Everywhere.” “What do you mean, everywhere?” “You know. Wherever. The ceiling. The floor. The electricity.” “They’re in the electricity?” “Yes. Don’t ask me how. But they are there. I can hear them in

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Neverland

In the spring of 1953,  an immigrant farmer named Ünger Möller was hit by inspiration while mowing a hayfield. He was convinced it was the voice of God as heard by Noah and Moses before him. God commanded Ünger to create a spectacular carnival on his property. The modern amusement park had not yet been

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Grandaddy Cat

Grandaddy Cat was likely the smartest man in North Carolina. It was him outsmarted old King Duke and put himself at the top of the heap of tobacco growers, him who made the most money a season, year after year. So why you never hear of him? Why you see that King Duke name on

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Old What’s-His-Name

For decades it seemed that time had no purchase on the old man, save for the barely noticeable graying of hair and beard.  He worked the bar of the White Horse six days a week, knowing each patron by face and preference, yet  universally cold and rude to all. To the men of the town,

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Just Gone

The sheriff stood with his arms folded, dead cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Dogs been all over the damned forest. Not a trace.” The mayor sighed, ran his hand over his weary face. “Well, we gotta keep looking. That’s all.” The sheriff shook his head. “It’s been almost three weeks. I think

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Bow Oar’s Lament

A thin winter’s moon cast its watery light across the pool beneath the Tower gate. A pair of boatmen rowed the prisoner with muffled oars.  Beneath the stinking  burlap hood, the chained man was also gagged, lest he attempt to bribe the rowers. He was known to be a silken-tongued devil, and Cromwell was taking no chances. The oarsmen backed water as they waited

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The Master of Angers

    Abbot Gírad d’Cist took an avid interest in the drawings the master mason etched in smooth plaster to help guide construction, especially those that depicted how Angers Cathedral would look to an observer.  He clapped his hands in delight. “You must understand, Excellency,” said the master mason, “we are years away from what you see here. Decades.”

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10-54

I was early shift on Sunday, so I caught the call. My partner  was AWOL, so I stopped by his apartment on the way to the scene, dragged his booze-reeking carcass out of bed. A lady patrolman was putting crime scene tape across the door when we got there. “Hold on there, Darling,” said Bill.

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Señor Palomino

Though he spoke nothing but Spanish, he insisted he was Italian. In all the years he worked for us I never saw him wear anything but twill workman’s coveralls and boots, the soiled black Basque beret as much a part of his head as his nose. Señor Palomino was never addressed by his first name and seldom spoke

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