Who wouldn’t love a story about badass vigilante nuns and the end of the world?
Gino Vendetti was nursing a sweaty bottle of Bud. Four ceiling fans along the bar spread the cigarette smoke and a faint odor of beer. Always a few guys from the old high school gang were here. Most had something going. Not Gino. It had been almost two years since Viet Nam…
Probably my tenth trip to the front window in an hour. I’m looking at the yard, cellphone in hand, getting footage of my neighbor’s German Shepherd. He crosses the street, trots up … Continue reading
Shipmates, friends, and family affectionately called him “Captain.” Throughout his long years in the merchant marine, and until his dying day at the age of seventy-five, Thomas Cromwell spun many a captivating yarn, enthralling the hearts of young and old alike.
The ratio of sad men to happy men was tilting toward sad. Single men were sad and claimed to not be attracted to people anymore. They changed their names and dyed their hair. They had dead cats. She was getting used to it.
When he came to the bottom of his street he could hear the screams. Chaos unfolded before him. Houses were burning and women were running hunched over as they tried to protect their children. Soldiers on horseback ran them down, shooting and slashing and impaling people indiscriminately.
The low winter sun streaks through the streets and the dry hedges and barren trees shed a maroon dust. The birds go batty in Appalachia, celebrating an early spring, and … Continue reading
That look on his face. After all these years, I’d love to punch him again.