Heartless​ Jack

Heartless​ Jack

The bar holds its breath. Bogeyed people keep a secure distance to the fight. Smashed bottles and blood glisten on the counter and the tile floor. Someone urges words into their phone.

The emptiness in Jack’s chest is drilling ache. The skin feels numb under his bloody shirt. His fingertips trace the long scar on his breastbone.

The surgeons take his heart and soul. They strip him bare of his past, of all who he was, and hoped to be. The doctors call it amnesia.

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The Stain

The Stain
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I plunked down into the leather couch and tugged the patchwork quilt over my legs. Maria, my ex-wife, made it during the two long years of our marriage. She made it for Ana, our little daughter.

My hand petted the fabric, fingers tracing the sewed ridges, for the hundredths, or thousandths time. Maybe for the millionths time by now…

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