Cynda is just going off about the tenants in our garden shed. Stomping, waving her arms, yelling about noise and coming and going at all hours and garbage not taken out on Thursdays and the kids peeing in her herb garden. “Then, the woman comes to me and says it’s too crowded,” she says, getting in my face. “Like that’s my problem? Shoulda thought about that before she gave notice at the overpass. I rented out the damn thing. I didn’t rent it.” Six by eight, dry, not insulated but we ran a cord out there for the space heater. That’s almost fifty square feet for five people. Ten square feet per person. And a bucket for, you know. Better than a fucking pup tent, right? And they’ve got the bunk pallets to optimize space. What do they expect—diamonds? We cut them a break on rent, but people are desperate for places like our shed. I don’t know what we can do but evict. Get a quiet retiree type in there. Widow is best. Widowers probably smoke and drink. Nope, a widow is what we want. Maybe she’ll leave us something in her will.

Stuart Watson

has been honored for his work at newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. His fiction appears in numerous publications, including 433, Barzakh, Bending Genres (Best Microfiction nominee), Bloom, BULL, Fewer than 500, Five South, Flash Boulevard, Grey Sparrow Journal, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Montana Mouthful, Mystery Tribune, Pulp Modern Flash, Reckon Review, Revolution John, The Rush, Sensitive Skin, Sledgehammer Lit, The Writing Disorder, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Yolk. His poems appear in The Broadkill Review and The Muleskinner Journal. He lives in Oregon with his wife and their current “best” dog.

Author’s digital self resides at: https://chiselchips.com/