The short fiction of j hardy carroll
“I appreciate Eretz Yisroel,” she said, “but not Medinat Yisroel.” He raised his eyebrows over the black glasses frames. Aside from the tan, he looked exactly as he had in Brooklyn. “A difference you see? Please,” he said, beckoning. “Enlighten me.” She saw she had offended him, but this was a cherished opinion, a debate…
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…
Scott looked up from the heap of papers as Lieutenant Shackleton came into the cabin. “Well?” he asked, his voice brittle. “The dry dock did some good, Captain, but she’s still taking on water.” Scott passed a hand over his tired face, glanced at the barometer. “How’s the tide?” “We’ve about a half hour until…
Your bookshelf says more than you know
Standing at the back of the hushed hallway I could only hear every other word the docent was saying. My husband craned his head to listen. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Something about the woman who lived here and the widow’s walk. I guess the old ship captain died at sea or something.” Little Herbie…
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,…
Estéban loafed in the entryway, clearly nervous. “You’ll do great,” I said. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?” He gave a wry smile. We both knew the worst all too well. Olivér came out of the back carrying two of the loose jackets he favored for working. “You ready?” he said, handing one to…
I went to the Jungle on the east side of the river. As I suspected, Roughhouse Red was there, all too eager to share my bottle in exchange for giving me the low-down. He took a long pull, the whiskey trickling into his grizzled whiskers. “Ooh, that’s good,” he said. “What was it you want…
It was like some giant had lifted off the roof and dumped in the entire contents of a thrift store. The huge room seemed cramped and choked by teetering piles of boxes, furniture and other clutter. Tall wardrobes bursting with clothes, cardboard cartons vomiting sheafs of paper onto the dirty floor, stacks of chairs missing…
“This is Hauptmann Shulz.” “Guten Tag, Hauptmann. I would like to make a report.” “Go ahead.” “It is about Herr Nordmeyer of Bänschstraße 33, apartment 12.” “Yes? What about him?” “Well, he is constantly receiving visitors in his apartment. Usually women. Many of them are from the west.” “And?” “I believe he is planning to…