by Henry F. Tonn
One evening as I was humming my way along a lonely stretch of road at dusk, I noticed a red light flare up on the dashboard. Being totally ignorant about cars, I stared at it perplexedly for a moment, trying to recall what it was supposed to mean.
by Leslie Pietrzyk
Ten days ago Brenda’s forty-five-year-old sister had killed herself. Five days after that, the body had been found by a couple of unemployed men who were fishing off the Maryland side of the Potomac, in some distant town only vaguely familiar to Brenda, Indian Head.
Their mother had insisted that Brenda pick her up and take her along to the morgue, too, but once there, she had refused to leave the car.
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