The short fiction of j hardy carroll
Adams slouched in an elbow chair, snoring softly. Jay set down his pen. He sprinkled the wet ink with sand, blew it off in cloud that also extinguished his candle. He held up the document. “Mr. Adams,” he said. “I’ve finished.” Adams started up, blinking. “The proposal? Excellent.” He stood and stretched, not much taller…
Since my seventieth birthday I have assiduously avoided mirrors. I find it is better for me not to remind myself of my appearance, for it belies my inner man. This is not to say that I have the boundless vigor and flexibility of youth, but I certainly feel better than the shrunken visage of sparse…
When Tamura Takashi was growing up, his grandmother told stories of the terrible night American bombers turned the sacred city of Nagoya into a lake of fire. “The next morning was so odd,” she said. “There was nothing left. No buildings, no trees, no people. Only miles of ashes as far as the eye could…