Long Fiction

And who’d bother with the sheep anyway? All yellowed teeth and daggy-arsed, worn out from too much living.

For once she’s slept soundly, a full night in her own bed without being punched or meowed awake by Fluffy whose reign of terror typically began well before the sun came up.

I looked down at Fay, who was again eyeing the gumball machine. While she did that, I glanced over at the door, plotting an escape, possibly before our gear was all the way loaded into the truck. She wasn’t even being bad, but it wouldn’t be the first time her behavior—or the risk of it worsening—forced me to flee a public location and abandon an adult obligation prematurely.

Where there’s a cub, there’s always a bigger bear.

One of the skinheads in the front column has a switchblade. He’s shifting it back and forth between his hands. I swig what’s left of my Natural Light.