For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“The Redfish”

Skip Horack


Quinn waved a hand in the direction of his warehouse. “All due respect,” he said. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

The cop frowned and glanced over at Luther. He was sizing him up, studying the prison tattos that ran the lengths of his broad forearms. He spoke to Quinn but his eyes lingered on Luther. “Then I’m supposed to tell you something,” he said. “I’m supposed to tell you to write your Social Security number on your chest with a permanent marker.”

“That right?” said Quinn.

“That’s meant to scare you when I say that. Make you go on and leave.”

Quinn grinned. “Shit, Carl. How many sixty-year-old men they got running around this city with a thirteen-inch johnson?”

Luther snorted and the cop shook his head, smiled himself.

“Just the two of us, I suppose.”

“Well, there you go,” said Quinn. “A black one and a white one. That oughtta be easy enough for them to sort out.”

We read it in The Southern Cross.