The short fiction of j hardy carroll
A small blue Ford stood with all its doors open. A little man in a white shirt and sunglasses stood by with crossed arms, smiling as we approached. We got in. He stomped on the gas, caroming into the flow of traffic with utter disregard. Joe covered his face with his hands and groaned. The…
Germaine opened the door and shook his head. “Really?” I said. “Do you know how long my flight was?” “Sorry, Stephen. Even the doctors thought this was the real thing.” “This makes nine false alarms, Gerry. Nine.” “You didn’t have to come.” “Bullshit. I have to be here. We all do. Who does this? What…
Marshal Gororov sat behind the vast desk. He stirred his tea with vigor. The cup was a Russian one, clear glass in an elegant silver holder. Gororov held up the glass, pointing at the swirling sugar cube with his teaspoon. “You see how it it does not dissolve?” he said. Bergmanis was unused to the…
Luz stood in the foyer with her eyes closed, breathing the old smells, corn and beans and singed chiles, beer and smoke and sweat. She smiled, remembering how Oscar had kept it a secret while he lined up the loans, how he’d led her in blindfolded. It had been an empty room then, not much…
Jammy Doggs stepped into sea and waded out, the pull of the waves sweet against his legs. He bent to feel the water between his fingers, test the temperature against the eighty years of sea wisdom he held in his heart. The gentle fog rolled across the waves, cool and lovely. The white sand shone…
And just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. Dwight raised his head and looked around. Everything was broken and splintered as far as the eye could see. Tufts of insulation hung in the still air like so much snow. The church had vanished, the bare foundation and its few reaching fingers of twisted…
Pricket sat in his cabin and stared again at his chart. Clearly there was no Northwest Passage and never had been. They’d been embayed in ice these last six months, starving and riddled with scurvy and flux. With the slow coming of spring they had a chance to take leave of this damnable wasteland, sail…
Some kind of Buick, left in a stream. It used to be somebody’s dream. -Adrian Belew Chandury walked from the office to the his aged Honda and propped the broken hatch with his shoulder while he set the box beside the others. He let the hatch drop and stretched his sore back. The motel looked…
The woman smiled up from the table, her mouth a wonder of dentistry. “Welcome,” she said. “Remember, cash only.” The house was modest, yet overfull. Every item bore a small yellow tag with its price. I stood in the living room in front of an empty china cabinet, its contents arrayed on the table behind…