The sheriff walked through the tavern’s doors, along the bar to his left, nodding to the other patrons. and took his usual spot at the far corner. The barkeep came over, poured a drink, and became preoccupied rubbing at a stain.
“What’s new, Calvin?” the sheriff asked, and then followed the barkeep’s shifting eyes to a man at a table.
“Says his name’s Aldenberg,” the barkeep said. “Says he’s looking for Bill Weir”
“Why would he do that?”
The barkeep saw Aldenberg lift his chin to show the deep rope burns in his neck. “Because Weir hung and killed him.”
“So, that’s mine. You have any hobbies?” his date asked.
“It’s a little weird,” he said, fingers reaching for his empty glass. Retreating. “You ever buy a used book, and sometimes someone will have written their name inside it?”
“I’m not much of a reader.”
“Oh, ok -”
“But I know what you mean.”
The waiter came by, filled their glasses of water, and left.
“I try to track those people down.”
“Just to see what they thought. I mean, after I finish reading it. See if they liked it as much or as little as I did.”
if you throw comments
below the belt like you do,
dont go crying to mommy
when someone hits
They have to look
Three hundred and sixty degrees.
Lets quit the comments
about me being small
and not a bodybuilder
when you know nothing about me
the most fashionable option here
is actually the particular
you make it look easy
those who have trouble
the correct type on the subject
you are a mass
but you could
also be small. But
I dont know, and
get some rhubarb in!
She beat on his chest. When Kearns managed a hold on her wrists, she began to kick. He gave her a short slap and took a step back. Winstead leaned against the hall’s wall, and slid down until she sat on the floor.
“You killed him. You lousy bastard,” she said, sobbing.
“What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”
“My husband. You shot him. The police just called to tell me. Why did you have to kill him?”
Kearns finally figured it out. Winstead got to her feet.
“You’re going to fry for that, Mr. Murphy,” she said, almost smiling.
30/30 for November
After Hare left, Bullfrog went in to the kitchen, feeling a little peckish. There wasn’t anything to eat, but he did find a half-bottle of whiskey in the back of the cupboard. He set the kettle on, and sat at the chipped and nicked table to wait for it to boil. Something Hare said earlier had him bouncing around. On the inside.
The whistling woke him. He fished a dirty cup from the sink and filled it with water, and then a couple of slugs of the liquor.
Bullfrog took his drink to the window and looked up. Saw nothing.
Lamb and Doe spent Saturday at the zoo. Leaning, back arched, against the exhibits’ glass, eyelashes fluttering, and blowing kisses to rumpled, exhausted, dead-eyed fathers when their wives’ backs were turned. They fed the deer and watched the apes scream. The big cats lazed on heated rocks and exotic birds flew three stories up, only to realize the cage’s ceiling was only painted blue.
They sat in the middle of the food court, slowly tonguing their ice cream cones, licking their lips, barely able to keep from laughing as they felt the glares, longing or indifferent or murderous, on them.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.
The rider stopped to water his horse at the open creek. The animal whinnied. “Thought I lost you a few days back,” he said, warming his hands and lifting his face to the low, winter sun.
“You tried. Almost did,” the ghost said, as it hunkered down and dipped its ethereal hands in the water.
“Guess you knew I’d be coming this way?”
The ghost didn’t answer.
“Can’t you leave me be?” he asked, throwing his head back, as if to howl.
“No,” it said, placing a cold, heavy hand on the rider’s shoulder. “Not until you do what’s right.”
Prompt courtesy of Sue Vincent‘s #Writephoto challenge.