Sure, I had a gun, but I kept it in a locked drawer most days. All I needed to do the job was a pack of Pall Malls, a suit, a comfortable hat and the head it contained. Ok, sometimes a slug of liquid courage.
But right now I needed the key to that drawer.
I spread ink on the A torn from a dead man’s typewriter. Pressed to paper, saw a matching scar in the crossbar. “It’s not a suicide note.”
The deadline for submissions to the New Times’ 55 Fiction contest is three weeks prior to publication, scheduled for July 7. Check here for information, rules, and last year’s winners.
“Where was she headed when you saw her?” I asked. She’d been the only witness; the only one that could prove my story. When he told me I ran there, to the bench near the bell tower. No one there, it was silent. No bells. No birds. No scream. Silence, until she hit the ground.
The results are in! Two of my stories are in there (I’m wondering if being in Shanghai helped…makes their competition seem more “global”). One is Destroying Evidence – Part 1, which I never liked all that much, and the other is the first one I ever wrote. Of the other stories published, my favorites are:
Pym’s Song
Skyscraper
Cadaver Clearinghouse Hotline
Progress and Poverty
Making History
La Fortuna
Check them all out here.
As he reached out I saw he had French cuffs. No cufflinks. I checked his pockets looking for one that matched what I’d found near the body.
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