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Shacking Up by Guy Hogan

  Joe Morris came into the house from work and said to Carol Jordan, “I just told old man Schwartz today was my last day.” He wore a black and gold Steelers jersey, the number twelve with Bradshaw on the back. The jersey was old and worn and Bradshaw had been retired many years.


Hearts and Darts
by Eddie Bruce

  Placing his darts and cigarettes in his windcheater pocket, Dod Kelman peeked in on the contented face of his sleeping one-year-old son, his smile changing to a grimace as the knitted cot blanket brought mother-in-law Elsie to mind.

“Are There Any ‘T’s” by Bob Church

  “Dr. Abercrombie, wake up, sir…”Rutherford Whitbread Abercrombie, MD slept at his desk, oblivious to her voice. The jungle heat and humidity had once again overcome him, though it was barely mid-evening. Nurse’s Aide Bomidgie Hatamagunda lovingly slid her ham hock-like hand under the doctor’s face, lifting it from the desk, while the other hand gently patted his cheek.

Fatal Flaws by Dan Beams

  Some memories are better left lying dormant. Although we wish to believe we’re in complete control of our mind, make no mistake, we are not. Occasionally unsavory things bubble to the surface and demand to be dealt with. One such memory from many summers past now begs to be recorded, and so it shall be.

Fearful Symmetry by Budd E. Wilkins

  The Berenson Clinic – set with a jeweler’s precision within a paradoxically treeless office park just off the interstate – is one of those postmodern architectural train wrecks, its façade a gallery of mirrored plate glass.
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