The short fiction of j hardy carroll
I couldn’t sleep, it bothered me so much. Almost none of it was my fault, but still. Guilt. I checked my watch. Flying international, you always have to be at least two hours early. I wondered if this hotel had a phonebook. I checked the nightstand and there it was, right there with a Gideon…
“Where did you say they are?” “I told you.” “Tell me again.” “They’re in the walls. And other places.” “What other places?” “Everywhere.” “What do you mean, everywhere?” “You know. Wherever. The ceiling. The floor. The electricity.” “They’re in the electricity?” “Yes. Don’t ask me how. But they are there. I can hear them in…
I was born here and never left here until Bishop Aldean set up the student exchange program where a couple of us kids got to go to the States for a year. That was alright. I pitied the poor bastards who come to Manenberg while I go to Kansas City, but I learned later the…
“Hello?” “It’s Jim.” “I almost didn’t pick up. What’s this number?” “Pay phone.” “I didn’t know they still had those.” “It’s at a rest stop on I-35. Lost my cell phone. Long story.” “I bet.” “So what’s happening? You at the hospital?” “No. Not anymore.” “Shit.” “Yeah, brother. You missed it. You’re too late.” “When?”…
In the spring of 1953, an immigrant farmer named Ünger Möller was hit by inspiration while mowing a hayfield. He was convinced it was the voice of God as heard by Noah and Moses before him. God commanded Ünger to create a spectacular carnival on his property. The modern amusement park had not yet been…
Braniff mopped his face and wished for the thousandth time he had not come on the fetching party. Digger Blake had tried to discourage him. “Not necessary, Colonel. Me and my boongs will find ’em for you. See Charlie there?” He had pointed to the black-skinned aboriginal squatting on the dirt, a tin cup of…
Grandaddy Cat was likely the smartest man in North Carolina. It was him outsmarted old King Duke and put himself at the top of the heap of tobacco growers, him who made the most money a season, year after year. So why you never hear of him? Why you see that King Duke name on…
Scott looked up from the heap of papers as Lieutenant Shackleton came into the cabin. “Well?” he asked, his voice brittle. “The dry dock did some good, Captain, but she’s still taking on water.” Scott passed a hand over his tired face, glanced at the barometer. “How’s the tide?” “We’ve about a half hour until…
Your bookshelf says more than you know
Standing at the back of the hushed hallway I could only hear every other word the docent was saying. My husband craned his head to listen. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Something about the woman who lived here and the widow’s walk. I guess the old ship captain died at sea or something.” Little Herbie…