Samuel D Carter
There is a house at the end of the road. I live there with two dogs and a famous dancer. All my life, I've been the observer. I'm the tall guy in the back of the room watching everything. People. Dynamics. The flow and mood. Reactions.
Long ago at a kitchen table was a woman, my mother. She read furiously about the realities of cults, political cults, religious cults, and she railed against the false prophets, daily, and for years. She would read and take a pull on her cigarette, a sip of her coffee, shake her head, and continue reading. Beware the false prophets, Sam, she said. They will suck your soul and spit it out, empty.
Every day I read like she did. I quit smoking. I try to drink tea. I feel her fury and focus in my bones, nonetheless. She knew God. I'm still looking. If there is a heaven, she's there looking for lightning bolts. Can't say I blame her.
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by Samuel D Carter
Rowan Walsh lay dead. Big and dead. My new boss. My former employee, and now my partner. Surprisingly little blood. God, we'd seen blood. But no more Liquid Absolution for Rowan. We would find one of his murderers, but no, maybe there were two. Two murderers? Grab your shot glass. You may need Liquid Absolution, too.
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