Each issue we try to feature a mini-saga or two, that precise little form consisting of exactly 50 words, no more, no fewer. It is a test of the writer’s craft, to make every word count.
Death is a tenderly quiet gift for a drug runner, thought Jeb as he fed a bullet into the kid’s head. No more rat race, no more scrabbling for the next crumbs of income. In the car down the street, the snitch screamed, “Bloody murder!” and fainted in his seat.
by Kim Eggleston
Frank’s daughter stared numbly downward, enduring the anger spilling from him. His raised voice echoed in his own ears.
“Don’t you know how you worry your mother? She cries at night over the way you’ve wrecked your life!”
The bile in his words sparked self-awareness: the echo of his father’s voice.