The detectives examined the body at the bottom of the deck stairs. “Dust the wheelchair for prints, then get photos.” The chalk outlined her where she died.
Lenny straightened his tie in the mirror. A couple was coming for dinner to talk about a business deal. Lenny had inherited his mom’s estate recently. Lacy thought it was a perfect fit, already hearing the pitch on a playdate.
The doorbell rang. He heard his daughters squeal to see their playmates again. Even as a thirty-three year old man, his stomach knotted. He ached for this to succeed, after all Lacy had told him.
Calli took the book from Table 6 to the register. She’d be sure and wash her hands after taking it back. That diner looked like he had the plague. She felt sorry for the old man, but she couldn’t afford to get sick. Inside the book was a twenty dollar bill. The total was nine and change.
Rank pocketed his winnings at the Las Vegas counter. Right then, he decided it was time to begin his campaign. He’d get famous.
On the Today show, Rank sat with Savannah under the hot spots, the green light glowing over the camera. “Would you explain again for all of us how your ability works?”
The oak door swung open and a disheveled woman bound in, tripping a little on the flat threshold. She scanned the room, like she was trying to figure out what to do.
Many people credit the well known six-word novel that exemplifies micro fiction to Ernest Hemingway. But the link can’t be substantiated, and in fact, many possible connections to other sources exist, both before and
He became aware as the pencil slipped across the paper. First he had just eyes, then his face grew complete while the artist sketched the rest of his head. He fretted about his oversized nose while the lines became more
Nicola Amati wasn’t a lecherous man but an artist with impassioned emotions that coursed fiercely through his veins. When the ripe French lass surrendered to his amorous advances during his court visit, she was simply naïve. She accepted his gift of the violin, a token of his devotion, he said, a violin he slipped away from the order he was to deliver to Catherine de Medici for her full orchestra.
Dyllyn was an average man, a common sort, who had a wife and a boy. Common for a man living in the North American Union when they celebrated the 150th anniversary of man walking on the moon, when technology had come so far moonwalks were available to anyone with means.
Inside the train carriage, a young woman was crying. Jane had enough problems of her own, but guilt from ignoring the girl so long compelled Jane to change seats and check on her.
“Are you all right?” Jane said, handing over her handkerchief.
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