by Rod Drake

When Carrie walked into the small but tidy kitchen, her husband stood by the sink, grim faced and holding a revolver. She looked at the gun, then up at Wayne and wondered if he intended to kill her or himself. Or maybe her and then himself; murder-suicide Carrie had heard it called on the news. Wayne looked at her, his eyes full of pain and regret. His left hand was shaking a little, but his right hand, the one holding the revolver tightly, was steady and set. Carrie could only think of one thing to say: “So you don’t want any supper, then?”


Rod Drake. Las Vegas. His name, his byline. He writes them like he sees them. Check out Rod's longer stories in Flashing in the Gutters, Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.