Fiction
The Home Jar
Most of the travelers who come through our doors are not at all like Mr. Smith. They are polite, honest, what my night manager calls decent folk, and as thoughtful of others as they can be in the midst of their purposeful lives. Guests do not come to our hotel simply to vacation. We’re not …
Sitting Ducks
He notices the ducks in the charity shop on his way to the hospital. Closing his eyes, he sees them floating on goat’s milk in a marble vat. Their yellowness, warm as sunshine, benign as an egg yolk. “Do they float?” Carl asks the woman behind the counter. “Rubber ducks are made for baths,” she …
Swan’s Home
For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draweth nigh unto the grave. —Psalm 88 The call comes at high noon, with the sun bright on the rocks and sage, not in the dark midnight hours like Ferrell Swan always expected. On her cell from his old Ohio home, his ex-wife Rilla asks …