The short fiction of j hardy carroll
She ran her hands over her leather-clad thighs, flexed her fingers. Her trusty Bell helmet had been knocked askew in the tumble but seemed sound enough. She pulled it around so she could see her situation. Her motorbike was on its side, about six feet from the cliff edge. She breathed a sigh of relief,…
They used to tell me I was building a dream And so I followed the mob When there was earth to plow or guns to bear I was always there right on the job They used to tell me I was building a dream With peace and glory ahead Why should I be standing in…
He took his time with the adze, setting it against the wood with relaxed precision and drawing it across the grain as though floating a scarf through the air. The bright curls of oak drifted down onto the toes of his boots. He set the adze aside and ran his hand along the smooth board,…
The skylight blazed hot on her face. She opened her eyes. Pain. Oh God, she thought. Not again. She raised up on her elbows and looked around. She was lying on a butcher block table, pots and implements suspended above her as though dropping randomly from some airborne kitchen. Tamping down a swelling nausea, she sat up…
I learn this from Bonifatius Mbwale. He is known to lie, but to tell a proper story both truth and lies are often employed. Bonifatius is a man of such power that it is better to believe him than not, for to contradict him can lead to many evils. Bonifatius tell me, “You walk around…
She lived at the end of the row of squat stone houses. There were seven of them all told, hulking and sullen, tough as old wood. Dorothy was somewhere in the middle, but the largest of any of them, with a soft woman’s body that belied her tremendous physical strength. She was fond of teasing…
Young Nor is not listening. He stares into his phone, rubbing it with an index finger, the old man notes, the way one might stroke a parrot’s head. Old Nor tips his wicker chair to take advantage of the shade cast by the broad-leaf elephant ear plant that has been next to the doorway for…
Kitty sometimes wished she’d at least kept a photograph of the grandchildren. They were strangers anyway, so it wasn’t like she’d have a framed picture of Michael or Kathy hanging on the wall. Just a picture in a drawer of some children. She closed her eyes and thought back to when she’d burned everything. It…