The Sign-Writer’s Brother

Max Merton pulled up to the curb outside Jim’s Place early on Monday morning and shut off the engine of his 20-year-old pickup truck, which seemed to heave a rattling sigh as it came to rest. Poor thing was almost as old as Max was. He was fond of it, rust and all; it had been with him since he’d started his business three years ago. Esther said they should replace it, that it gave the business a bad image, but she was always saying things like that. Continue reading

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One Night Only

“Strength, endurance, flight, heightened senses,” said Walter Carton. “It’s a package deal. Sun goes down, I say the magic word, and suddenly you’re a god among ants, but for one night only. Couldn’t give you a second go-round if I wanted to. That’s just how it works.” Walter stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray perched on the edge of the grimy kitchen table and shielded his eyes from the early morning sun, which had just started to peek through a crack in the blinds. He turned to look at his latest “client.”

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