“Killing a snake is the same as having a snake”
– Joan Didion
A large, clay and plaster likeness of Saint Patrick, holding a crook and pointing at writhing snakes on the statue’s base, dominated the right side of our church. He was wheeled in face up on a donkey-cart, wenched upright by strong men when St. Patrick’s Church on Ninety-Fifth Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, was built in 1847. “Black Forty-Seven” my dad called it.
Continue reading “Snakes in The Garden by Gerald Coleman”
First thing is this: You didn’t catch me. You aren’t smart enough to catch me. I gave up. I confessed. That’s it. Make sure you get it right.
Second thing is this: I have regret. I mean it. I really feel bad about killing those people. Except that first guy, but that’s different, because he deserved it. But the other six? Okay, yeah, maybe some more than others, but I have regret.
You want me to run through them? Fine. Take notes, because I’m not doing this twice.
Continue reading “The Confession of the Mayo Killer by Thurman Hart”
Kemp emerged from the dark woods behind the little St. Andrew’s church and took a moment to look things over. One car sat in the small lot and a few stained glass windows glowed with feeble light. His watch showed 8:58 p.m. All good for his scheduled private confession.
Continue reading “Passing On by John J. Dillon”
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