THE WOODEN-SPOON BABYSITTER

By Hank Kirton
Photo By Richard A. Meade

The baby was crying. It wouldn’t stop crying. Alisha, 16, turned up the volume on the television, trying to drown out the sound. She hated the nerve-peeling screech of a crying baby. It was the sound of psychosis. It was the sound of a car collision, of tearing flesh and metal and the shattering of glass and bone.

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FERAL

By dixē.flatlin3
Photo By Richard A. Meade

Johnny didn’t like it when they came in his face. Johnny didn’t like them at all, if he were to be honest. They don’t pay him for honesty, though. Exiting the warmth of the vehicles was the worst. Johnny made his way back to the bus stop where he worked.

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