A short story by alum Maryse Meijer (fiction, ’09) appears at The Collagist:

He steps around the body and its shadow of blood. The head, where’s the head? He leans closer; some kind of mashed in. Pulverized. But it’s all here. Kneeling he sniffs, pokes, prods, guesses, wonders. A bit of brain like putty dried on the oven door. One of the cops whistles. The detective stands. Peeling off gloves, giving orders, pages of notepads flickering. Making the usual jokes. He turns his back on the other guys, rubs his eyes. Somehow he is expected not to go crazy. Blood even on the flowered wallpaper. He squints. The flowers and the blood compete for white space. He is sure a woman was here. Circles of blood on the linoleum left by a pair of pumps. Either she did it or she watched it and didn’t make a call and that makes her a bad lady.

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