A PLACE FOR BROKEN AND DISCARDED THINGSThe sheer size of Save-A-Bunch Furniture impressed Shane Carroll the most, initially. He hadn’t expected it to be so large and sprawling. Also surprising, it was a re-tasked high school, which was unexpected in itself. Such a modestly-sized town as Clifton Heights not only having two in-use schools but also an unused high school on its outskirts. Converting it into Save-A-Bunch also impressed Shane in its utilitarian efficiency.It hadn’t taken long, however, for another feeling to impress itself upon him as he and Amanda strolled through its labyrinthine hallways, past recliners, sofas and armoires. He couldn’t name the sensation, exactly. A nagging sense of unease? Discomfiture? An odd displacement which made everything feel slightly out of place?He didn’t know what it was. Something about the old school’s halls—now lined with refurbished and used furniture of all kinds—set him slightly off kilter. He didn’t know why. Everything looked clea

THE BLACK PYRAMIDReverend Norman Akley perused a table of odds and ends in front of Handy’s Pawn and Thrift, which offered its eclectic collection as part of Clifton Heights’ Monthly Sidewalk Rummage Sale. Norman’s right hand flitted from object to object, never quite touching but considering each as if his fingertips could judge value by intuition alone.Norman loved rummage sales, but only occasionally did he find anything worth consideration. When he did, he picked it up and examined it, wondering if it would plead to be taken home. Most often, however, he shook his head, noting a slight imperfection here, a stain there. He’d replace the item, offer the table’s curator a polite smile, and move on to other tables, their contents varied, sublime, ridiculous, amusing, or simply odd.The items on Handy’s table were varied indeed. A pewter beer stein, its embossed Viking bust glaring. Neat rows of used but polished tobacco pipes. Not-so-fine, yellowed china. A felt-lined box of

WHEN WE ALL MEET AT THE OFRENDAThe horizon above Hillside Cemetery was slowly bruising a crimson-purple, shading to the velvet darkness of an autumn Adirondack evening. Night birds sang. The crisp air nipped Whitey Smith’s hands and face. Dry leaves rustled underfoot as he shuffled along the path leading toward the cemetery caretaker shed. His assistants, Judd and Dean, had raked leaves all week, but it hadn’t mattered. Never usually did. When autumn came, leaves covered the ground. This was the way of things.Flowers bloomed in spring. Crops grew during summer. Leaves fell in autumn, and things died during winter. Except Maria, who died a month ago of pancreatic cancer, which was the way of things.People died.He shuffled to a stop, grasped the knob on the shed’s door, swallowing a grimace as arthritic pain arrowed glass slivers into his knuckles.“Sonofabitch.”He turned the knob and tried to open the door but couldn’t. It had rained yesterday, and the door had swelled as it

11.Did I pull the trigger?It’s a helluva cliffhanger, to be sure. Maybe I pulled it, and the round in the chamber was a dud, or I got one of those two empty chambers. Or maybe it went off, but by some freak chance—you read about them, from time to time—the bullet got lodged in the chamber or something, and all I got was a painful mess of powder burns in my mouth.Did I pull the trigger?Helluva cliffhanger.I sure as hell wanted to. I was done. Maxed out. Brains fried. All that crazy shit happening to me? On top of a useless, nomadic life? I’d been carrying that .38 (which I recognized, now) around with me forever, always alone and never having nobody, coming from nothing and no one, with no place to go, nowhere to belong.So, yeah. I wanted to pull it. Bad. My finger tensed on it and everything.Putting the muzzle in my mouth and swallowing its business end while staring into that old mirror triggered it. Made me remember everything. My dad, Barry, the mill worker, who e