The short fiction of j hardy carroll
“Get Tall Charles up here. He’s a good reader.” The boy was fetched. He puzzled over the parchment. “From what I can make out of this, they gonna take all our land for what they call the greater good of New York.” Owens was indignant. “They can’t do that. We own this land. We own…
He knows the old man is waiting for him downstairs, on this, the first shameful day of his retreat. It’s not hard to guess what he will say. The recriminations, the guilt. You dreamed about Harvard since you were in third grade. And the worst of all, What the hell happened? He thinks about this as…
He walks through the oh-so-familiar entryway, taking his usual pleasure in seeing the name on the side of the building. His name, his father’s name. He imagines how this will go, his last day. The slideshow of company history, anecdotes. There will be smiles and maybe tears. Above all, respect. Of course it isn’t like…
A porcelain vase, once shattered, will never be whole again. Mother must have said that a hundred times. Of course mother had other sayings, too. If there’s any doubt, there’s no doubt. Happy people never wonder if they are happy. All true, she thinks. She closes the laptop. Now she can’t see the emails. She…
There’s one in every Jersey town. More than one, probably. Named the same. Fat Tony’s. Greasy Joe’s. Vince’s. They all look the same, with the grease-slick linoleum floor that was never new, faded posters of barely-remembered movies, maybe a Pong or Pac-Man machine, maybe out of order. The smell of cheese, of vinegar, of frying…
Ex-Cia nod and wink when they meet again years later.
I want to reach back to that San Francisco rowhouse, talk to that long-haired kid whose only goal was to get a real Les Paul and open for the Airplane or Moby Grape. I want to tell him to pay attention, to enjoy the small moments as much as the large ones. The summer tour…
I walked out of the Sheraton Waikiki half-drunk, the warm air heavy with the smell of sea and flowers and grilled food. Kalakaua Avenue was jammed with thousands of Japanese tourists, most of them a full head shorter than I. I drifted against the crowd as the sky above us turned a sudden purple, vivid…
The dump entrance was chained shut. Cringle swore and smacked the steering wheel. “I am so sick of this pandemic shit.” “So now what?” “This is what. ” He popped the truck into reverse, spattering dirt and gravel against the city’s CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign. He slammed the shifter to drive and fishtailed up…
Gino walks through the dining room, smoothing tablecloths, straightening chairs, lining up silverware. He picks up a wineglass and holds it to the light. Spotless. In fact, the entire place is spotless, the staff having stayed late to make sure their restaurant will be at its best for this, its last day. Gino walks to…