The prow of the boat faced black water while the divers found their traps in the wet cold, the howl of their lights breaking windy waves. Jim Carter turned west, away from that hum, past the scratchy-roped buoys and into moon-bright waves, to drop the body: its smell like wasted soil, the dead flower scent of rotting water greened with slime.
The doctor’s anxious hairy arms had waved money at Jim like feed for seagulls, frantic. “Take this, take it, take anything.” Why did a doctor, barely breathing, prone to asthma, twitching into an inhaler, want his wife heaved over a boat?
“Just bury her,” Jim had protested, matter-of-factly. “That’s probably the easiest, ground still soft with spring and summer’s warming coming.”
“I can’t,” the doctor mouthed, between the inhales, gaunt as a ghost, breathing white nothing air, his inhaler back to his mouth.…
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The canopies that cover the street obscure my vision, so it’s not until he’s upon me that I spot him.
Jennifer! – he sticks out his hand – how are you? – and goes from handshake to hug.
Oh wow! How are things? as I come out of his embrace, and scan my memory for his unfamiliar face.
The kids have been a handful; his parents have been ill. Work’s been a nightmare but what’s new. There was a holiday to Europe – that cost a bomb – but what an experience. Another planned to Fiji, without the kids. Do you stay in touch with Gabe and Shan?
If I look nonplussed, it’s because I am. To my knowledge, I’ve never met a Gabe, or a Shan, or this man that stands before me.…
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Before sunrise on January 4, 1909, Frank Ulysses Grant was up and eager to start his day. Over the New Year’s weekend, Frank’s thoughts turned to whether he should remain single or get married. On this day, he felt good about his decision to marry.
While dressing, the movement of his bare feet across the icy floors reminded him how cold Salt Lake gets in the winter. But, having grown up in the Midwest, the cold didn’t bother Frank. What’s more, the flat to gently rolling farmland where he once lived could not equal the majesty of the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains and the intense blue skies that often framed them.
Now dressed, Frank went over his plans for the day. In the morning, he needed to stop by his office to pick up a couple of mining claims and take them to the courthouse.…
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Clarence realized he couldn’t get up. He lay flat on his back on the hard ground. Slowly, he rolled over on his stomach trying to remember what had happened. His legs had given out. But why? That’s right, I was shot. Damn legs are worthless now.
It was dusk but the heat of the day was still emitting from the ground below his prostrate body. He looked behind him, but in his mind he knew what he would see. Yes, they’re dead. All dead. The bodies of his comrades—all members of Seal Team Six—lay strewn along the ground, motionless and silent.
Clarence surveyed his surroundings. He was next to a large shrub and a plastic green recycle bin which shielded him from view from the small field littered with his fallen comrades’ bodies and a deserted country lane just beyond. …
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Their first train was streamlined, modern, and fast—an engineering marvel that streaked through the countryside in a blur. The French called it le train à grande vitesse, and when it ran, it was a source of pride, a symbol of innovation. But now, parked and abandoned at night, it appeared fragile, its stainless-steel skin muted by layers of snow. What was once a marvel now lay dormant, its sleek form buried beneath the weight of a winter storm.
The American couple sat inside a small, dimly lit café in the train station, lost in their own uncertainty, the air thick with the murmur of fellow travelers. They had been sipping wine for hours, their eyes glazed from the endless wait for the snow to relent.…
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Rain was steadily beating against the windshield. Rain — one factor the travelers had not counted on. This was to be a weekend getaway to help Jessie and Scott repair their troubled relationship.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Jessie rolled her eyes at her partner.
“Of course. Besides, I know how to read a map.” Scott smiled.
“This road doesn’t look very well-traveled.”
After a few minutes without conversation, Scott said, “You may be right. Check that page again.”
Jessie reached under the seat, retrieving a worn red notebook: “Campers Guide to the Midwest.” A cardboard bookmark protruded from the book and she flipped to that page.
“Are we looking for ‘Courtney Campground’?”
“That’s the one. Read the directions.”
“Past Woodley, Missouri, on Route 24…”
“Wait a minute.…
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A young man is screaming in my general direction as I walk down eighty second avenue. It is one thirty in the afternoon. I am heading to work. It is Friday. He says at the beginning of time no one needed a name, which I find to be somewhat interesting. He is wearing a torn flannel, torn jeans and three hats, each torn but the last. I am running late, and despite that fact I feel the urge to ask him about himself/how his day is going, but then I see that his tent is overflowing with torn cardboard, empty cans of beer, and a mess of other items indistinguishable from one another, so I change my mind. I avoid him. It occurs to me that I do not fear this man; however, I do fear the unbearable possibility that if I don’t get to work on time, today, or the next time I run late, no matter the cause, it could be only a few short weeks or months until I become him.…
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