The short fiction of j hardy carroll
Dear Etta & Family, Well, I got here all right and must agree with Dr. Franks that the climate in Arizona is indeed wonderful. That’s about all I can say for it. Jerome boasts but one hotel, and that seems to be perpetually full up with drummers, speculators and engineers of one sort or another.…
None of the survivors was a sailor, so the compass and sextant were useless to them. The featureless horizon of winking sea, the unremitting glare, the boredom. They were talked out after the second day, aware that further conversation might lead to severe disagreement, or worse. Despite the makeshift awning, their skin burned purple in…
The entrance hall hasn’t been used since Doug was killed in Vietnam, the boxes that crowd the narrow space crammed with paper and old clothes and God knows what else. In the kitchen, four refrigerators, two so overstuffed that the doors are bungeed closed, cereal boxes, rotten fruit, stale Walmart muffins in the 30-pack, gallons of milk…
Our township has the lowest crime rate in the Newark area. I’m not saying that I am directly responsible, but it’s worth noting that the rate went down the year after I became Chief of Police and has stayed down ever since. American Lawman did a story that included a sidebar interview I gave when we…
I didn’t participate in the interrogations. My role was to observe. Under no circumstances was I to interfere. Never a large man, he became smaller. Fragile. And in the end, broken. When I first saw him, some of his former power still clung to him. He made demands, threats. Commanded a certain respect, even there. Of course, all property had…
“You know what Jamey said about you?” “Your brother? He’s never even met me.” “About all you Yanks, actually. He said you’re overpaid, oversexed and over here.” “Not original, but true enough for now. Doesn’t change how I feel about you.” She pushed away a wisp of hair, fire-red in the rare sunlight. “So it’s not just…
Her expression is wrong. And her hair. For the first time, he is glad she is dead. This would have upset her. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. They smell like the funeral director’s oily aftershave– flowers and death. He washes them twice, sniffs his fingers. The smell won’t go away. He…
The old man was as greedy with his bottle as he was lazy with his seniority. Still, he was company. And such stories! Geoffrey took his own bottle from his pocket, raised it. “Cheers.” “Bumpers,” said the old man. He drained his pint in a long swallow, holding the empty bottle at length to be sure…
Richaud picked his way down the stairs. Breakfast was included in the pension, and despite her many failings, Madame Flir made acceptable coffee. The stairwell stank of cabbage. Richaud lit a Gauloises to negate this everyday irritation. He settled into the chair as Madame Flir set down the bowl of coffee and pitcher of hot milk.…
By the time he turned eighty-five, the old man was done with marking the day and would have none of it. His granddaughter called herself a “party person” and tried to organize some kind of surprise celebration in spite of his wishes. When he got wind of it, he called the local paper and told them he had died, disguising his voice on the…