Flash Fiction


Pot City ’77 by Greg Smith

The mark would be in an assembly of dealers selling loosies on William and Stone Streets. He would be our first guy. Sitting in the unmarked unit and drinking bad coffee from cardboard cups, Mike argued Billy Martin should sit down Reggie Jackson for the late summer push for the pennant. I was con. Mr. October was due to heat it up. With the two way radio off, we killed time.

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From Champ To Chump by Greg Smith

Ozone Park, Queens NY, 1975, I kneeled on the punk’s head wishing a passerby to call it in. Off duty and out here to get laid; I didn’t have hand cuffs. My prisoner’s car, a rusty Cadillac, was nose in into the disputed parking space. The victim leaned against his truck; his eyes were glassy and his arm dangled impossibly with the hand facing outward. The hash marks on his face where the tire iron had struck swelled red.

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