Nine-oh-eight Glenview Road was the best part of carrying the mail. Ten blocks into my suburban trek, there she’d be, stretched out on a neon towel, sweet and slick as a glazed
Invisible boundaries. The gum lines of aggressive brushers. Chins, if you’re a Hapsburg. The stamped fingerprints of once white shoes. Synthetic beards on aging tires, eroding like rootless rubber hillsides.
Waseem Akbar was a friend of my father’s and my uncles – It was the only thing I knew about him. Naturally, the news of his death did not affect me. The burial was in the night.
Through the open window above the tub, an outcry reaches us from the world. I sink my battleship, but it pops right back up to the surface. More shouts follow.
“Seventy hours,” said the man across the table from Peter Crown. Peter had invited him in for tea on an impulse that didn’t feel like his own. He didn’t even remember hearing a knock at the door.
The Agency hired me so if anything went wrong they could claim I was acting on my own hook. We’d only just opened up diplomatic relations with Dokpur, and things were still delicate.
I didn’t even have time to get annoyed at the man squeezing past me in the stairwell before I realised he was on fire. He didn’t seem to care himself and by then he was already so far ahead it didn’t seem appropriate
I’m sitting there, clicking away at my laptop, working on a new story.
My cousin’s on the floor, playing a puzzle game on a tablet. She’s almost done.
The beaten-up, old leather bag of indeterminate colour looked the most interesting find so far. James brought it down from the attic and dumped it on the kitchen table for further investigation.
The latest item had come in while Ray was out of the office. West Coast – TB17. He looked at it and swore under his breath. He hadn’t signed on for this crap, at least it wasn’t what he thought he was signing on for