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Art Thief

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Lighting in the art room was dim. The overpowering smell of oil paints radiated throughout the small room, but it didn’t seem to bother Sebastian.

He spent his time painting the hours away. He stared at the canvas. A small smile slowly shaped on the young man’s face as he scribbled some words on the bottom right of the canvas.

The door flung open. “Sebastian!” a middle-aged man called, “Do you realize what time it is?” he asked, pointing to his watch.

Sebastian looked at his cellphone, which read eleven forty-two at night. “I just wanted to finish the painting for you before tomorrow.”


The Watch

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Despite checking it only minutes earlier, I looked at the calendar on my laptop again. October 25th, 2014. I sighed. How could I have made such a stupid mistake? I looked down at the watch on my wrist. Black hands hovering over an embedded silver SC showed 4:30. I tried spinning the dial. Nothing. No more turning back now – I went too far. I focused my attention on the sound of my parents’ conversation coming through my bedroom door, waiting for the right moment.

“Bananas, yogurt, oatmeal…”


“Not the instant kind.”

“I know.”

“Bread, turkey, ham…”

“Yup, yup.”


The Flame of Reason

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The Malibu's faded paint job mirrors the sooty interior, but the machine is not the real dirty part.  It's the three human beings inside here with me if you can call them that.  The speakers blare out some awful hip hop tune about beating women and getting paid.  The fumes of their intoxicants they need to ingest for the courage to do this cowardly act are on me now and in me.  If it weren't for that dream I wouldn't even be here.

“Hey.  Hey.”

I look up ahead at the rear view mirror.  The driver switches his blood-shot eyes between me and the road.


A Good Meal

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Emma Warren  went to Phil, the Black Water sheriff, for help. "Please help me. Ah'm Emma Warren. Mah  husband, Vern, went to find frogs in the swamp yesterday and he didn’t come home.   A man named  Galt came by and..."

“Was Galt tall with a big chest."


I know the story.  Don't you worry. We know exactly where he went. We'll leave right now.  Try not to worry, Mrs. Warren."

The sheriff and his deputy, Mike, got their rifles, waders, machetes, and canteens,  took Emma home, and then went to their airboat and drove into the swamp.


Heavy Word

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"Hey, Son."

I love it when she calls me that. It's so simply perfect in every way, and I don't think she knows it. Of course, it's a statement of the obvious, but I don't believe that she means to remind me of the biological order of events that needed to occur in order for me to be standing here, today. In order for the implications in that address to hold fast to truth.

No. I'm sure that when she says it, and each time she says it, she means to remind me of the weight it holds for her. And the exponential weight it's gained with each ounce, with each pound, with each inch, with each foot, with each day, and with each year. From the moment she first held me in Balboa Naval Hospital not 25 minutes drive from here, to this moment now; as I hold her in return.


Avoiding Accidents

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“I was just out for a while,” Jason said into the phone.

“You were out way too long!  I knew I couldn't trust you,”  replied Kelly over the phone.

“It won't happen again, I promise.”

“You've already promised.  Your promises are worthless.  I've had it!  If this ever happens again, and I mean EVER, then we'll be done!  For Good!”


Silent Night

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Christmas Eve, it’s always Christmas Eve.

Bare winter trees dotted about the town square glow with festive colour while a trail of small lanterns light the way from the square to the old church up on the hill inviting one and all to join the midnight mass later that evening.

A lonely figure, lost and forgotten wanders through the crowd. No one pays him any attention or even notices him. Yet he’d been coming here for years, too many to remember. He’s no longer warmed by the sweet scents of mulled wine and roast chestnuts drifting over the crowd of carol singers. He always stays close to the caroller’s because they remind him of the life he once had and yet could never have again.


Surgical Strategies

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Cedric Goram had attended many meetings in his time.  Not long ago he had attended one wearing an orange jump suit and handcuffs. Today, as head of Human Resources at Huber Moneda Hospital, he was attending the monthly all-staff meeting wearing a designer sport coat and silver cufflinks.  The hospital’s Chief Financial Officer, Brian Asch, stood at the podium.  Brian wore a fine light-weight pinstripe suit and a toupee.  He was talking about profitability.

Cedric himself had always been a people person, not a numbers geek. His mind wandered.


Valhalla Girl

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Having played the last song of the night, Christian glanced up from his guitar case, scanning the club patrons’ sweaty faces. His attention focused on a stunning blonde haired woman, who stood apart from the crowd. Or rather the crowd is standing apart from her and with good reason, Christian thought. He took mental stock of the woman. Her waist length hair shimmered beneath the club’s lighting effects, but not as brightly as her metal bustier and chain mail skirt, not to mention the spear. Christian turned and nudged the bass player, Vic.



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Once upon a time, Naomi noticed someone posting as her on the Internet. Ordinarily identity theft would be a problem; however, identity theft proved a disaster in Naomi’s case. Her catering supply business ran into danger. While the Internet offered new business pipelines, her catering supply business pipelined into the area catering—parties, dining, receptions for bored brokers and bankers. When High Frequency Trading HFT had been moved from Wall Street and installed in the Middle West United States, Naomi’s catering business moved along with High Frequency Trading. High Frequency Trading profit jumped. Naomi’s business profit jumped. Unfortunately, impersonation and hacking jumped with it.


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