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Stealing the Stolen Friend by Liz Welch
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George was happy to wait. He likes it when I'm wearing my proper clothes, not the vile stylish-casual-football-shirt uniform that has "Oaks Special Needs Residential Home" plastered on the front of it. He thinks my clothes are cool—especially the black vinyl mini-skirts and the riot grrrl boots with all the buckles. So I put all my piercings back in, shed the shirt and put some human clothes on, did my hair and make-up—especially striking, for George, and for the evening ahead, and we went off to the shop. I saw old Here's-me-nose the manager glaring at us as we left. He's told me plenty of times about "dressing professionally on the premises to show respect to the clients and their families", but what the hell, I was off-fucking-duty. . .
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The Red Chair by Emma Lee
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And besides, what could I tell them exactly? There's an old man wandering around talking to a wheelchair, who doesn't appear to have had a bath for a long time? He's not dangerous, not a threat and this is the first time I've seen him. Besides, wasn't I almost caught the other day talking to a photocopier in exasperation because a customer wouldn't understand that if you have a crap original, you get crap copies. So who am I to judge an old guy talking to a wheelchair? . . .
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Road Kill by Deirdre Day-MacLeod
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Sitting there on the wooden step she looked out at the river's brown and listened for the cows on the other side and noticed with a beating of fear that the brick pile where she kept her extra key was different. A random pile of bricks, but one she'd looked at every day for the time she'd been living alone. One of the markers of her life and now the arrangement was not quite how it had been when it had fallen after her son had handed the stones into her hands and she'd dropped them there, because it was heavy work. And that day it had rained frozen rain. That day in February, the first in her new place . . .
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Dinner at the Bigelows' by Linda Boroff
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One Saturday night, Mr. Bigelow was gone, in his place at the table had materialized a man named Warren, handsome in a decadent, pouchy way, with sleek, dark hair combed straight back. Warren wore a gold ring with a large blue stone and insignia that he flashed at every opportunity. The arriving guests all greeted and hugged him without a single hesitation or puzzled look. Whenever Tessa stole a glance at him, he was looking at her . . .
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Granda by Paul Cuddihy
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At my ordination I told the story of my first ever goal, my most precious childhood memory. I used to believe it had some spiritual significance during my search for those 'signs' I was supposed to have received on the road to realising my vocation . . .
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A Bed of Ice by Janice J. Heiss
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We stood side by side looking into the display case, the glare from its snow-white bed of ice swallowing us. When his arm brushed mine, I almost did a somersault. He's trying to pick me up, yes, he's absolutely trying to pick me up!. . .
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The Short and Shorter at the Heart of It
by Carolyn Moore
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She sits in the darkening room, watching him through the window. She does not turn on lights and give her position away. At hand are a battery-powered spotlight and the bullhorn borrowed from her sister, a soccer coach. . .
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Notes on contributors
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