You learned three things from your no account deadbeat of a father: --Always wash up…
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Shirtsleeves by John Kenyon
Seamus McCarty’s hands were made for work, rough-hewn tools that had never caressed a woman’s…
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Malcolm and the Burglar: Journalists, Criminals and the Art of Saying Too Much by John Kenyon
“Okay, so this is an interesting phenomenon, you pushing in my door and jabbing a…
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Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell by John Kenyon
You’d never write, “must be devastatingly handsome” in the job description, but Don found it…
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Interview: John Kenyon
When you think about “Things I’d rather be doing?,” generally it’s a more personal thought.…
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Red Head by John Kenyon
Gwen fingered the tooth in her pocket as she dropped to her knees and wondered…
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Circumstantial by John Kenyon
“So, Juanita, let’s go over this, OK?” Briggs was leaning back in the metal chair,…
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Bleed American by John Kenyon
Foley stomped across the apartment, slammed open the sliding glass door to the deck that…
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Pleasure by John Kenyon
The first time he called he asked whether the shoes were available in a wide…
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