In Poems & Fiction

Like electrons darting stochastically about an atom’s nucleus, the flies circle the victim’s dead body—a noisy hum against the murder scene’s otherwise grim silence.  I hate this part of the job, but I steel myself, reach into the dead man’s sharkskin suit-coat pocket, and remove his cell phone.  Checking the phone’s call history, I hit redial, and wait as the phone dials the last number the dead man called, only an hour earlier.  A number accompanied solely by the name “Honey.”  Three rings, and a woman’s furious voice commands,Don’t you ever, ever, call me again.”  The phone goes dead.


Appeared in Third Wednesday, 2012.


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