It was 3 AM and I was digging a hole in the desert.
Christa stood next to me.
In the torch light, she was a fidgety monster patting a bundle in her arms.
“Is it done yet Tess?”
Her voice was gritty in the smooth silence.
“Almost there hun, you just hang on.”
She went back to poking at the swaddle and cooing in delirium.
“Uh-huh, I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry. Momma’s gonna try and make this better you hear? I’ll be better next time. I’m so sorry.”
I’ve been here three times before; digging holes for Christa in the desert.
You could call me a good friend.
Dependable. Complicit. Fucking insane.
Continue reading The Buried
Tag: pulp fiction
sam plays his spade and his maltesers
She walked into the room like spring came early. The kind of broad that makes men weak in the wallet. This gumshoe saw trouble. But he wasn’t the type to turn his back on trouble. Especially when it had blonde hair and a pout that said, “I need your help Dick, he’s after me and I don’t know where else to go…”