The heat above the track didn’t just rise—it shimmered. It was a midsummer night, long past midnight, and only the headlights of two powerful cars cut through the darkness as their V-8 engines rumbled. Beyond them stretched pitch-black emptiness and a sky crowded with stars.
Tag Archives: short stories
Strange People
It’s me, Tommy, you know Master Jerry’s cat. Elsa and I had this strange visit the other day by these strange people that just came in out of the blue. At least I wasn’t aware they were coming. It does explain Master Jerry’s strange behavior before they arrived.
Under The Bridge
“You got the shit?” The angry appearing Black man sneered at the dwarf with big mutton chops and one patch over his left eye. They rendezvoused at Monroe Street Bridge. The Hunter’s Moon was full and white and bright; there was no need for streetlights as the satellite showed everything this October night a little after midnight.
A Man on the Cross
Trust me, I’m not trying to be blasphemous. But many years ago, back in the eighties my BFF sat upon a cross that overlooked Flat top, a hill in the middle of West Richland. You can still see pretty much anywhere in the greater Tri Cities area; the cross not so much.
Co-Depending with Ernie
Long ago when was just starting my life as an apprentice alcoholic, I became friends with my boss, a cook at the Elks Lodge in West Richland. I remember his first name, Ernie, but not his last; not that it matters. Suffice to say he was the journeyman alcoholic that I strived to become.
Natural Pastime
Oh, the seventies growing up, so much to do and a teenager like me enjoying every moment of it. There were the bicycle rides to Lost Lake, a shallow pond within an oasis of trees, mostly Alder and Russian Olive. Not far from there was the old Tri-City Raceway, a quarter mile tri-oval track for wannabe stock car drivers.
Book Two of Search for Justice is Live
“Four Seasons Book Two: Search for Justice,” is live and available for you my loyal readers to buy and read.
The Mailbox: Part 2
“Oh, to relive those days again,” Carl chuckled. “You were a handful that’s for sure.” He walked up the slight grade. His breathing, though steady became increasingly labored. He searched for that chair to sit upon before he became too weak to walk further.
The Mailbox
Carl used his white cane to guide him to the mud room where his black boots sat on the floor next to a chair from the last time he put them on, this time yesterday. It was a chore of love toward his daughter Susan that he did this each and every day except Sunday.
Lost Highway
“In all the years we’ve been investigating homicides, how many times have you counted when the medical examiner or pathologist was wrong?” Mark turned his head quickly to Hector and saw a look he couldn’t describe upon his face. “What is it Hector? Do you know anything about this?”
Jerry Schellhammer 