Two black spray-painted orange crates, covered with saucer-sized day-glow flowers were the sum total of our furniture in 1970.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Five Sentence Fiction.
This week's prompt is
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The convenience store on Harper and State was a scene of blood and mayhem, boxes of cereal knocked to the floor and the rack of newspapers now tattooed with streaks of red. Jimmy Pantucci sighed with a weariness brought on by more than a midnight-to-dawn shift as he stood over the dead clerk, one more person arriving from somewhere else with more dreams than luggage. The ambulance came and went, the tech team took their prints, and Jimmy wrapped the building in yellow police tape like a big sad package. The new sun was looking over his shoulder when he climbed the steps up to the two-family and unlocked his door, the night falling away with the big belt of cop’s tools he hung over the back of the chair and the gun he locked in the drawer.
Down the hall he opened the one door he was always glad to open, just in time to see his daughter turn over in her crib and bathe him clean again with her smile.