The short fiction of j hardy carroll
She loved the city cloaked in rain and fog. The wet gray mist seemed to her romantic. To me it was funereal, from the back of the cab watching the wipers smear the rain but she was almost giddy sitting on the edge of the seat craning her neck to see the building-tops wreathed in…
At first I denied it, telling myself autumn was coming early. Leaves can begin to turn in July. It had been a dry spring. But there were the birds. In the three weeks since coming here we hadn’t seen a single bird. I took up the satchel of food I’d scavenged from the deserted grocery.…