The short fiction of j hardy carroll
The plane is rolling back from the jetway. Pushing, they call it. We’re going to push. I watch it, the chill ash of my heart drifting down to fill my entire body like snowfall into an upturned barrel. I remember my grandmother telling me that it’s bad luck to watch your loved ones leave. “You should say…
We strolled through the Old City past soldiers carrying machine guns at the ready. Pops didn’t seem to notice, intent on educating us. “This gate only looks old,” he said. “Ottoman Turks built it in 1898 so the Kaiser didn’t have to walk. Wide enough for a carriage.” An armored car idled in the square,…