Black Leather Required: Stories
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Book by Schow, David J.
most illustrative moments I have experienced while reading fiction have occurred while I was inside of a short story. Sometimes the story itself was as perfect as a showroom gem. Sometimes it was okay or mediocre, bulb served as a cargo bay for an image or thought or sequence that just nailed me, dead chill, to whistle quietly in admiration at what had been evoked there, right before my eyes. Most often, this epiphany sparks because some writer has miraculously managed to express, in words, a
confiscated his yet-unburied journal. When Kopernick managed to cut his own carotid, Sarge added a final entry and sealed the book up forever. He did not sign his name. What would be the point? All I'd like to do now is stop, and hope our fight really meant something, and go home. But of course I am home already. It's impossible to go back because all of time lies ahead. Like time, I can only march forward. Like history, I can only spend my remaining hours waiting for that knife in the back.
As he was putting down the cannister along with Kopernick's corpse, something flitted past Masterson's sweating face. It was a huge, glass-me insect, much like a butterfly, its cobweb wing-work splotched with ideograms of color. It circled his head and lit on the grimed handle of the folding spade. Masterson laughed, gently now, and let it live. Author's Note: This story is presented with gratitude (and a slight grimace) for Ray Bradbury, for obvious reasons. Graveyard Layover. You
papers down after neatening the stack, and tells her to please shut the door. Alone, he sits in his office thinking, well, that's it, the last of them. There are no family photos or memorabilia decorating his wall space. There are certificates of achievement. A couple of civic commendations and a plaque from the C of C. An over-lit 8x10 of Russ shaking hands with the mayor. A color shot of Russ posed next to his factory gate for a Leisure Section article entitled "His Hang-Ups are Our
gook all over her heel, slipped and nearly fell again. This enraged her enough to bash the hand with the bat until it didn't move any more. Both of them squatted down at a safe distance and got their first really clear look at it. Apart from the killer hand and about four inches of forearm, there were Victor's eyes. Eyes that had always been the color of pastel blue enamel, opaque eyes that did not deal in emotional shades, with the hair-trigger flecks of silver buried deep like vague rumors of