The short fiction of j hardy carroll
A measure of knot complexity is the number of minimum crossings that must occur when a knot is viewed as a two-dimensional projection According to calculation (yours, or anyone’s) there are more tangled states than untangled states. Thousands at least, when you shove your headphones into your pocket ready at last to listen It took…
This cruise we were promised boxers: vascular and hungry for victory. These boys would stop at nothing, we were told. The prize was a golden belt marked CHAMPION in genuine rhinestones. When we were awakened and had drinks from a tray, shuffled down staircases to the hold, the newly installed boxing ring, we paid attention…
maybe I got older when I saw something. I got older by something I saw all of a sudden and maybe I might be able to get younger too The Daily Post
the window is the window the glass, the same the wall, the same the same old house looks out on the sea, never the same, not for a moment neither the air nor the water. when I close my eyes to look out the window the sea takes everything: my lungs, my hair,…
my grandfather rode up on his motorcycle and tossed me a wrapped canvas toolkit in my dream. Greasy wrenches screwdrivers so old the walnut handles looked like rocks. He knew I was in trouble had been a long time all my old friends had turned against me for reasons of their own and I had…
Your good mood will you mind if it doesn’t last forever? When you get laughing you must know it all has to end sometime spun sugar stays fluffy only as long as it stays dry but sooner or later you find out it’s a rainy climate The Daily Post
Jamais vu, never seen an odd impression that you see a common thing you’ve seen a thousand times for the first time the face of a relative, say or the face in the mirror But the mirror doesn’t count, does it? Nobody but you knows what that looks like, backwards, with your best expression frozen…
That you said once over eggs the same bird neither blind nor striking disappointed us all Yet again here I mourn debt’s sorrow: an occupant pressed into proper silence whey veins curled in sheets await the occasion yearned to be pinned by anything at all The Daily Post:…
She swore the trench knife she carried in her purse saved her life hitchhiking home. She weighed maybe eighty pounds dirty tight clothes that dared anyone to say shit took the dirty spoon from my dried-up cereal bowl wiped it on her leg tapped out a pile of yellow powder from a film can water…
the window is the window: the glass, the same the wall, the same the same house the same sea, never the same, not for a moment not the air, nor the water. when I close my eyes to the window’s glow the sea takes everything: my lungs, my hair, my hands on the table the…