Skip to main content

Three Shorts by Charles J. March III

 



FEBRUARY 8, 2023
“No-Reply”
We knew that when he was unresponsive, he was living his best life.
x
x
x
“Trident”
A client of mine accidentally died during a surfing outing, so the lawyers have started to affectionately refer to her as “Aquawoman.”
x
x
x
“Veteran’s Day”
His hospice nurse started stealing his pills to help her dying dog.

 

 

Written by Charles J. March III

Labels

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world.                But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not.                In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed ...
Post a Comment
Read more

F.A.M.E - Ryan Lambert

CHAMBER  A barren room with textured, off-white wallpaper holds a black sensory deprivation tank, sleeping quarters that hew more closely to a mausoleum. Who's inside? The outside of the device is coated with flashing screens cycling through a dynamic assortment of imagery, replicating the chaos of a social media newsfeed: bathing suit thirst traps, overly-composed lunch photos, war crime footage, ads for every imaginable product, and digital detritus like glitching links, disembodied thumbs, and floating hearts. This semiotic sensory nightmare is scored by thick droning noise.  CHAPEL  Darkness recedes to the edges of a small pentagonal shrine, the perimeter delineated by prayer candles of a distinctly commercial variety. In the center sits Iris, goth attire, shock of vibrant ginger hair draped over her shoulders, intertwined with glowing green vials of toxic waste. Spread around her are an eclectic mix of esoteric spell-books and tabloid magazines. Her eyes are closed i...
Post a Comment
Read more

In Terminal Gridlock - Jim Meirose

  How the hell much longer will it be before we inch up one foot again damn . and that and that and that and-d-d . where the hell’s the cops eh . late to the dentist again damn they’re going to say sorry find yourself another . with a screaming child in the back to boot I got all the . y’know they ought to do this damn stuff in the middle of the night not . who the hell died, God themselves . . . .   Inch up, up— stop . . . . damn thing’s going to flood out again hear that . the one time I leave on time and look at this can’t win . what is this gross thing they’re building here anyway . ought to have brought a book with me or . and you know, BackWhang!  I swear—when I get in first thing I’m going to do is call the God-damned town . there’s time got to get out and look at that tire. It’s low again . what time is it . gas on E got to get there come on Jesus Christ . I think I read it’s going to be a Jai alai center . how many more hours is this going to go on for...
Post a Comment
Read more