The short fiction of j hardy carroll
Ilnah lay back on the cot, the blood-spattered handkerchief in her limp hands. Every few minutes her bony body was wracked by shattering coughs that sounded like her lungs were coming apart. Sister Ignatia stood in the doorway of the hospital hut, running the Rosary through her fingers. After Henintsoa’s death the previous afternoon, Ilnah…
The office felt small as a cattle stall. Hat in hands, Billy stood peering at the framed paintings of horses and prize bulls. None bore resemblance to any living creature Billy had seen. “Mr. Groom will see you now,” said the man in the glasses. B.B. Groom sat small and hunched behind a vast wooden…
Dr. Soames rinsed his bloody hands in the basin provided for the purpose, then wiped them dry on his smock. The patient lay back, pale and gasping, his clay-like face mottled and streaked with broken blood vessels. Despite the leather gag, he had done a good deal of screaming as his leg was amputated. Soames’s…
His dark eyes darted from face to face, hollows in his cheeks giving him a death’s head look. His voice was strong, and he spoke good English. “My friends, I will now to show you something not seen anywhere outside Germany. To the free world, these are only ugly rumors of unspeakable acts. Many deny…
Ari ordered a Turkish coffee at the counter. The cafe was crowded with men sitting in groups of ones or twos, talking or doing business. These days it was impossible to tell at a glance the Jews from the Arabs. Young men with dark hair and golden skin, all of them with cellphones in their…
We have no name for the people who came before us. Some call them “The Builders;” others, “The Destroyers.” Stories told in ceremony and song, but no definitive history. There were many, many of them, and everywhere they went they marked the land with roads and bridges. Many of the elders ponder how they did…
“Where are you going, Tupac?” Marisól asked. “Out,” he said. “With whom?” She stepped in to block him from the door. The combination of her bulk and moral authority were impenetrable. He sighed. “With Carlitos and Nando.” “Always those boys with their spray paint and skateboards and slang.” “They’re good guys, Mamá. Carlitos is at…
“Should be a good turnout, Father. With the snow.” Father Loris squinted up through the window at the swirling flakes. A gust of wind rattled the glass. “Better add more water to the soup, then.” Sister Claire placed the bucket in the sink and turned the tap. “What I mean,” she shouted over the thundering…
Note on this story: It’s one of the Überhaus Diaries I wrote in Portland during the late 1990s. The photo Karen selected this week is the inside of a bar around the corner from where I lived in Portland. The Überhaus was perhaps the last bandit lofts in the city, a 2000 square foot apartment…
“Explain it again,” she said, looking up at me with those pale green eyes unique to our family. “Please.” “The physician and the surgeon will make me comfortable first.” “How will they do that?” I smiled. “They have special physic. After this, they will take me into the operating theater where they will take out…