Half an hour has passed, and the entire cast's seething resentment towards Owen , the now former actor of main character Hamlet, remains unabated. Owen was expelled after allegedly disfiguring a fellow student in a horrifying act of bullying that shook the entire campus since the news broke out. To make matters worst, the expulsion occurred as the cast began wrapping up the final chapter of the famous Shakespeare tragedy, which means they have to start all the way over from the beginning, and a new actor needed to be picked, dragging Director Judge into a dilemma of whether to cancel the play entirely, or risk a major pay cut and rehire Hamlet . "We're not getting shut down, are we?" Horatio's actor Tim asks, distraught and choking up over the shocking incident. "Please don't cancel, we'll do it over again!" Ophelia's actress Violet begs. From Judge's understanding, the entire cast still want the show to go on, making the latter the best option, even with just 2 days on the clock. "Let's return to Act 1, Scene 1, Elsinore," Director Judge hollers at the cast, dialing the school telephone with a Student in mind, one who initially didn't get cast for the play despite knocking the audition out of the ball park due to being a girl, while Hamlet was always depicted as male. "Hey, Miss Hamilton," Director Judge starts. "Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to know if you could send Avalyn to the auditorium?" "Sure thing!" "Perfect, thank you so much!" Miss Hamilton hangs up and points her attention towards Avalyn , a girl sitting at a desk in the back of the classroom who has been reading a letter her mother left for her before her untimely death 3 years ago from a work accident. " Avalyn ," Miss Hamilton calls. " Director Judge asked if you could go to the auditorium." The request paints a smile on her face for the first time in a long time. She quietly nods and jolts out of her seat before sprinting out the door like a linebacker. "Careful, ma'am!" Miss Hamilton shouts as the door slams behind Avalyn , and she continues to barrel down the hallway towards the audition. Due to the school's massive size, it takes the average student six minutes to get all the way across the school by jogging, but Avalyn was filled with so much excitement from being called back into the auditorium- a room across the school from her classroom- that she wastes no more than two minutes despite tripping and colliding with the hallway tiles several times during her run to the auditorium. eventually, Avalyn is able to shove the main door open, startling the entire cast and even cancelling Tim's crying completely, replacing it with silence, accompanied by a thousand yard stare. "What are you doing here, emo girl?" Violet asks in an unkindly manner. " Be respectful, Violet, unless you wanna join Owen out of the play! " Director Judge shouts, fully aware of her terrible attitude but tired of it nonetheless. Violet snickers and moves on to her script. "Don't mind her behavior, I'm happy you showed up!" Director Judge tells Avalyn. "I tried to get here as fast as I can. What did you want?" "With Owen officially out as Hamlet , I would love if you could take on the role." Director Judge continues. " Your audition is still one of the best I've seen from a female student in all my years as a theater director, so it would be an absolute honor if you could give me the opportunity to work with you! " As someone who knew about the news surrounding Owen, Avalyn knew fully well that she was called into the auditorium to play Hamlet. Still, the update coats her entire body in goosebumps. "Thank you," Avalyn says more than a dozen times at rapid succession like a broken record. "I won't let you down! I've been a big fan of Hamlet ever since I was a child, my mother would read it to me all the time, even my dad would reenact the ending duel with me when I was thirteen," Avalyn rambles on until Director Judge politely interrupts her with a smile. "I'm happy to have you aboard," Judge says. "Stand right here." Judge points at the red plus sign shaped tape on the stage. Avalyn waddles onto the red tape. "Boys and girls!" Director Judge loudly starts. "Meet Avalyn Evelyn, The new actor of Hamlet!" Violet was deeply disappointed because she and Avalyn have never gotten along, but everyone else's faces lit up like a christmas tree as if Avalyn's very existence gave everyone a second chance at life. Tim charges Avalyn with the utmost delight. "Dude, you have any idea how happy we all are right now because of you?" Tim poses, looking at everyone but quickly noticing Violet's look of dread and anger. "Well, mostly eveyone." Avalyn shakes her head, bummed out that Violet still has a grudge against her. The biggest issue, however, is finding out why. Then she finally utters. " How on earth did she get the role of Hamlet? " Violet kicks off her rant. "For one, she isn't even a guy, so as a girl myself, this feels like pandering, and two, We literally hate each other!" "I don't hate anyone," Avalyn interrupts. "Why do you hate me , besides the fact that my character's a guy?!" Director Judge had enough of the arguing, as did everyone else who grew annoyed with Violet, so he snaps the fingers of his left hand and aggressively point at the hallway beyond the main door, signaling both Avalyn and Violet to head out. Violet storms out in a huff, and both Avalyn and Judge follow behind. "What is it this time?!" Violet shouts, echoing the vacant hallways. "We need to squash this feud once and for all because I only have 2 days left, and an entire month's worth of hard work is down the drain because one kid couldn't be bothered to be a good person," Judge stops to take a breath while pacing back and forth in the hall. "Why do you dislike her, Violet?" Judge asks. "She abandoned me at the movie theater three years ago when I needed her the most!" Violet begins to let it all out. "I was cheated on, and when you promised you would pick me up, you instead left me there! All by myself!" "I didn't mean to leave you there at all, Violet!" "So why did you abandon me? What could you have possibly gotten into that you had to do that to me?? I had to hitchhike home because of you! I was across the city from my home!" Avalyn begins breaking down into tears before snapping. "Police told me my mom was killed at work that night! No offense to you, but I couldn't do anything about it! I'm sorry! I tried to tell you, but you blocked me soon after I was supposed to get you!" The hallway grows silence yet again, the disbelief on Judge's face was clear as day, and so was Violet's. For a long moment, they stood still, locked onto each other's eyes. "I.. I never knew." Violet utters. "I know, because you blocked me. I would never try to hurt you, but that's all you did to me!" Avalyn looks at Judge. "Can I go back inside?" "Sure, we can go back inside," Judge says just before being cut off by Violet , who quickly jumps at Avalyn for a hug. "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do to fix this?" Avalyn pulls away from and looks at Violet. "Give me time. Let's finish the play. Just give me time." The girls calmly walk back inside and retrievs their scripts. The cast notice Avalyn's red eyes but decide in unison that it's best to move forward. Everyone opens to the scene Hamlet first appears in, and make an honest attempt at working together.


Trigger warning: domestic abuse “I threw my hands forward and I pushed all of the negative energy towards him. I felt this big 'whoosh' of forces, and when I was done, I knew I had done something I wasn’t supposed to do. I’m no saint, however. You know how sometimes you just can’t help it? The next morning he woke up with a broken tooth. It was hilarious. He came into the kitchen and his tooth was split in half, right up the center! It happened while he was asleep. Serves him right!”

“Wait, a minute? Are you saying you broke his tooth?”

“I’m saying karma broke his tooth. I just directed it at him.”

I smiled and asked, “The same one as me?”

I had woken up six months before to what sounded like a gunshot to my face. I put my hands to my mouth and blood poured out onto them. My phone lay next to me. My husband never admitted to knocking my tooth out in my sleep but I knew he had done it. I tried to believe him for a while. It’s not like I had any evidence that he had been the one to knock my tooth out and break my jaw. But, I knew. Every time I looked in the mirror, the fact stared back at me.

“So, tell me about your man,” she said.

“He’s barely making it. He messaged me the other night sounding pretty bad off. I tried to comfort him. I’m so glad I’m gone. When I think about going back, I can’t breathe. When are you going to get yours out of here?”

“I feel so much better now that he’s living in the garage. You were in my house. You could actually be in there. Before, people would want to get out as quick as they could. But, now, they linger. And the ghost is much happier. It was like a war-zone here between the ghost and the demons that surround him when he was living in the house.”

“So, you see ghosts now?” I chuckled.

“I don’t see ghosts, I only hear them. I have to tell you about the creepy thing the ghost did. You aren’t going to believe it!"

“I can’t wait to hear this!” I said, relishing in the anticipatory excitement of a good story.

“I had this guy over to do yard work and when he was done, I pulled out sixty-five dollars in cash and handed it to him and then asked if he wanted a drink. I went and got him some ice water and when I came back, he asked me, ‘What about the money?’ I said, ‘I just handed it to you,’ and he said, ‘No you didn’t.’ I was sure I had given it to him. He told me that I had pulled out the money and showed it to him and then walked away. We started looking all over for it. I even looked in the fridge. Eventually, I sat down and cried and tried to give him the rest that I had. He wouldn’t take it. He asked me if I’d like to go over to his place for awhile. He’s a nice man so I accepted. On the way there, I told him that we have a ghost in our house and he sometimes steals stuff from me.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that we need to accept our ghosts."

"And?"

"And, so I did. I told the ghost, ‘I know you are there,’ and the craziest thing happened.”

“What?”

“I felt the wad of money appear in my hand.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. He didn’t believe me either. He said that I must have pulled it out of a pocket, but I hadn’t. He looked at me suspiciously and I tried to explain to him that my pockets had buttons and I couldn’t have undone them without moving my hand.”

“That’s crazy. What did you do at his house?”

“I was so shaken I sat on the couch and rocked back and forth. I asked him to take me back home and he did.”

“Did you ever hear from him again?”

“Yes, I did. He asked me to dinner and I went. We had a good time.”

“Did you tell him about Steve?”

“How could I tell him that I live with a man who has given me three concussions and broken five of my bones? You think he will come around here after that? No, I told him he was my roommate, which is true, by the way. It’s not like we’ve had sex in two years. And, anyway, he does what I say these days."

“What do you mean?”

“Recently, I asked him to do the dishes and he started to get upset and I saw his eyes do that change we've talked about. I held up the phone and said, ‘leave me alone or I’ll call 911.’ He went outside and when he came back his eyes were normal again. He was trying really hard to be nice to me. He even offered to fire up the barbecue.”

“Funny.”

“Yeah, I should have known he’d been drinking. I was so stupid to not pay attention to that. Like, obviously, he was at the bar. What was I thinking asking him about the dishes? But, then again, you just never know how he is going to respond.”

“So, tell me more about your karmic superpower.”

“You are funny. I don’t know. This is something that I’ve always had. One time a man stole my bicycle and he got hit by a car. Another time, someone hurt me and they died in a surfing accident. I know it’s bad to actively try to hurt people, but sometimes I just can’t help but to stop holding back the cosmic forces from crashing down on them.”

I laughed out loud. When you have a powerless life you fantasize about power. And it doesn’t matter who you are before the abuse starts. Afterwards, it changes you. Others will tell you about their bad relationships and think they understand. But, they don’t. Fyodor Dostoevsky was forever changed by the experience of being put before the firing squad and then reprieved. He wrote about it in many of his books. You might say he was obsessed with it, or that this close call with death forever changed his life. I think he would understand.


If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s only a well-made plan that can change your future for the better. But in this story, I’m about to tell you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It all began in January 1974, just after my eighteenth birthday. I was six feet one inch tall, one-hundred-sixty-five pounds, and had the body of an athlete. Externally, I was physically fit, but internally, I bore an invisible flaw, which eventually changed my future. To put it simply, I was half- blind. An ophthalmologist determined it wasn’t from any fault of my own, but that the retina in my right eye was scarred from an infection during my childhood years. Needless to say, the damage was permanent, and having experienced it most of my life, I learned to adapt and move on. Now, having the body of Superman, the looks of Brad Pitt, and the intelligence of Einstein (Maybe I’m getting little carried away), you’d think I had the world at my feet, but you’d be wrong. You see, when it came to schoolwork, I was no one lazier than me. All the way through high school, I did everything I could to avoid doing homework. In eleventh grade, I developed my first well-made plan. During study hall, I organized homework groups where each member would do one or two problems and share the solutions with each other. Within ten to fifteen minutes, our homework assignments were completed. After two years of cheating, I didn’t graduate at the top of my class, but I did graduate. After the Summer break, I started college, with the idea I would become an automobile mechanic. It didn’t take long for boredom to overwhelm me and ended up dropping out. It wasn’t long after that I decided to move to South Carolina. I was planning to spend the rest of my life there, but as it turned out, it wasn’t meant to be. Something was still missing in my life, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactually what it was. Eventually, I found myself back in New York and from there, I continued to ponder on what I wanted to do with my life. So, there I was, unemployed, and unsure of my future. It was then I decided I needed a new plan, a better plan. As fortune would have it, I wasn’t alone in my boat. Norman, who was my best friend since middle school, was paddling with me. It was a mid-January afternoon. We were at a local bar drinking beers and shooting pool, when Norman said off the top of his head, “I have an idea, Howard. Why don’t we join the Coast Guard? That way, we can make get out of this God forsaken town and move on with our lives. I also heard they have a "buddy" plan where friends can go to boot camp together. What do you think? I knew we were fresh out of the Vietnam war and the draft had become part of history, but still the possibility of returning to war was a dark thought in the back of my mind. But the Coast Guard should be different, I thought. They have nothing to do with foreign affairs. Their sole job is to protect U.S. coastal waters. Not seeing a downside to it, I whole-hardily agreed with his plan and later that week, we found ourselves driving to Syracuse to visit the recruiter. As you can imagine, the recruiter was overjoyed to see us walk through his front door. After a few quick questions, he had us take an entrance exam and scheduled us for a physical later that week. It wasn’t long after that, we were back in his office. “Gentlemen,” he began. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is Norman qualifies to join the Coast Guard. The bad news, Howard, you don’t. Though you had the highest score I’ve seen on an entrance exam, we’re unable to let you sign up. You see, the vision in your right eye doesn’t meet the standards required for you to enlist in the Coast Guard. I went to my commander and begged him to see if we could get you in under a waiver, but I’m afraid that wasn’t possible. I’m sorry.” Sorry, he said. Can you believe it? For my whole life, I dealt with my disability and never once found it debilitating. Now, some regulation buried in a pile of other regulations says I’m incapable of doing something, without even letting me get a chance to prove them wrong. Even so, I knew my chances of convincing the Coast Guard to change its mind was zero. It was time for me to let it go. Just as we were about to walk out the door, the recruiter spoke out. “You know, Howard, the Army’s physical standards are less than ours. If you wish to join up with them, you should have no problem getting in.”         So, a new plan began to develop in my mind. Norman was going to join the Coast Guard and I was going to join the Army. In fact, the Army recruiter guaranteed I would be a tank driver stationed at Fort Carson Colorado. It’s a job and a chance to do something with my life. At that moment, my fate was sealed, or so I thought. A few days later, Norman, of couple of friends of ours, and I were driving back home after a day of drinking and shooting pool. As we were cruising down the snow-covered road, I leaned my head back against the head rest and closed my eyes. I laid there in comfort, thinking about the future, when I heard Norman shout out, “Look out!” Yeah, right, I mumbled to myself. The next thing I remembered, I was waking up in the hospital, stark naked. When I twisted my head, a bolt of pain shot down my back informing me I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. For the next three days I laid there, unable to leave my bed, and during that time, I learned what had happened. As Norman was driving down the road, he hit a patch of ice and lost control of his car. As he slid across the road, he nearly missed colliding head on with an oncoming vehicle. Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid the tree on the other side of the road. Considering he struck the tree at fifty miles per hour, I was lucky I wasn’t hurt worse. Norman only suffered a few cuts and bruises, but as for me, I had a slight concussion, a mild compressed fracture in my back and a severe black eye to top it all off. Though my injuries turned out to be minor, they were about to change the direction in my life. Not long after I was released from the hospital, I had to return to Syracuse for my final physical, before I could join the Army, and when it was completed, I was informed my results were not pleasing. The doctors took one look at my black eye, remembered I was blind in it, told me I was not fit to drive a tank. And just like that, all my plans of going to Colorado and to a better life, were eradicated. When the recruiter heard this, he gave me some words of encouragement. “You may not be able to drive a tank, but you can do something else for your country. How does being a generator mechanic sound to you?” Generator mechanic, I thought. Does that mean the Army does more than shoot guns and drive tanks? I heard myself asking, “What the catch?” The recruiter’s tone was flat. “There’s no guarantee where you’ll be assigned.” Having no control, or no plan, I would be leaving everything up to destiny. So, I was left with two choices. Either join the Army and be a generator mechanic or go home jobless, with no future. Turning to the recruiter, I asked, “Where do I sign?” And that was it. I headed to Fort Jackson for Basic Training and later to Fort Belvoir to learn how to fix a generator. September rolled around when I completed my training and was waiting to receive my PCS orders. The entire company was standing in formation when our First Sergeant came out and read our names off the list. When the tally came in, all those who were not guaranteed an assignment, were ordered to go to Germany. Everyone, that is, except for me. I alone was ordered to go to South Korea. The whirlwinds of destiny and fate threw me halfway around the world. The morning I arrived in Yong San, I was taken to the reception station and waited for further orders as to where I was being stationed. At least fifty of us were mulling around in a conference room. As we waited like sheep for the slaughter, I had a chance to observe unit insignias hanging on the walls. I heard one of my fellow sheep bleating, “Those insignias are the emblems of all the units stationed here.” As I looked at the insignias, one caught my eye. The patch was shaped like a bullet facing downwards and inside it was an image of a missile with a lightning bolt passing through it. Above the patch was a tab, and in it was the words,

4th Missile . Before long, in-processing began, and I quickly dismissed the insignia from my mind, but by the end of the day, it had become a part of my life. While most of the wandering sheep were assigned to the 2nd Infantry Division at Camp Casey, I, alone, was assigned to the 4th Missile Command at Camp Page. I thought the odds of this happening to me were incredible, but I was soon to learn fate wasn’t done with me yet. About a month after arriving in Camp Page, I decided I needed to further my education. So, I went to visit the education center to see what they had to offer. Unexpectedly, as soon as I walked through the door, the Director of Education rushed up to me and introduced himself. After we had a brief discussion about my education, he suddenly changed subjects. “It’s a strange coincidence you came in just now. A few minutes ago, an employee of mine quit. You see, I run a class, just outside the gate, teaching English conversation. Who would you like to teach that class for me?” It was something I would never have planned and the last thing I expected to hear from him. If I had been a bar hopping, girl chasing type person, I would have said no. But I wasn’t. Most of my time was spent staying on the base and had little to do during my time off, so I agreed to teach. If you think fate was finished with me, think again. The next night was the first time I went to the classroom. As I climbed the stairs, I began to wonder. What will it be like, trying to teach anything to anyone? I’ve never done anything like this before. What will they think of me? Before I could answer my own questions, I found myself opening the classroom door. As I did, I was greeted by a class of six people, waiting patiently for me to arrive. Most of them were a little older than me, both male and female. But there was one young woman that caught my eye. I had to force myself not to stare at her. If was as if I was gazing at an angel. She was about my age, slender and incredibly attractive. To me, perfect. My heart began to race, for I never felt such an attraction before. Yes, there were other women in my life, but none of those relationships felt as powerful as this one. She looked at me with her beautiful almond eyes and smiled. From that moment on, I was hooked. Today, I laugh at those who say they can plan out their lives and love at first sight doesn’t exist. As for me, I know better. It’s been over forty-six years since we first met and as of today, we are happily married. Somedays, I look at the past and try to count how many coincidences and acts of fate intervened, taking me halfway around the world to meet my true love and every day I count, the number is never the same. I figure the odds for my life to turn out as it did are close, if not beyond the odds of winning the Powerball jackpot and the way I see it, I’ve won more than the greatest payout it’s ever given.


It was a dark morning still when I woke up in bed, too early. I was in my hometown, at my parents’ house, in my childhood room. Reluctantly I went downstairs and sat for a simple breakfast my mom had prepared. My dad moved around, getting ready for work. He would take me to his office; I would check it out. I had said I’d rather not work that job, but my parents insisted, gently. “What do you got to lose, hon?” My mom said. I put on some business casual clothes: workman’s leather shoes, khaki pants, a non-iron shirt whose crisp collar I could feel on my chin. We got into my dad’s pickup and drove off towards the highway. It was autumn, I had a leather jacket on, but it was hard to get lively. Before the highway we pulled up to a coffee shop. Dad had already had a coffee at home, and he thought buying coffees outside was a waste of money. I found that home coffee doesn’t quite do it for me - it’s too weak, and I don’t really mind paying two bucks for someone to prepare me a big, fresh cup. We sat by the window of the shop, looking onto a grey parking lot. The sky was grey too, but more beautiful than the view below; it had splashes of purple and orange. I got busy smelling and sipping on the coffee. Dad, having nothing to do, looked at me, smiled awkwardly, and tried to say something cool, something I would like. I imagine that would require a lot of creativity on his part. “A little tired, huh? Too much party last night?” He said. “It’s okay. Drink up your coffee. I don’t mind stopping by a coffee shop, really, if it makes you feel better.” “It does make me feel better,” I said. “It’s dark in here. Back south it was warmer.” I had moved back from the south to my hometown after I broke up with my girlfriend there. At least I thought we broke up. We didn’t really discuss it; I had left suddenly, making a vague suggestion that I might return. Since I got back to my hometown though I didn’t call her at all, and it’s been several weeks. She didn’t call me either. So, guess we broke up. Now I was unemployed, starting from scratch. I had missed my family, but not my friends. When I said I was starting over, I meant not going back to my old profligate ways. “Wait till you get married,” said dad. “Wait till you get married, have children. Then you will know the meaning of true exhaustion.” “Kids, family?” I thought, “Sounds terrifying. This whole grey place is populated by kids and families. It does not look inviting.” A friend of my dad’s then walked into the coffee shop and came to greet us. He was very fat and he was smiling; he had grey mustache and wore glasses. He shook hands and sat drown next to me with his coffee after my dad invited him to chat a little. The man ended up talking about a mutual friend and recounting a party at that man’s house: “It was a big, big barbecue. He got a roast pig from somewhere and treated us all. There must have been thirty people that came and went. We must’ve finished ten cases of beer. Luke got real drunk, started singing.” My dad laughed at that, and so did his friend. I could imagine the party – a group of miserable, overworked men in their fifties stuffing themselves to an early heart attack, their wives hanging out in a separate room exchanging unhealthy recipes and gossiping. “His son was there too, with the younger boys,” continued the friend in the coffee shop. “They were swimming in the pool. It was already cold, but they jumped in anyhow. One of ‘em even tossed his wife in.” “Marky simply does not give a hoot about anything,” my dad said, admiringly. I remember Marky. Obese, tattooed moron with zero sense of restraint. A total asshole to his mother and sister, and probably also to his child’s mother. I get a headache thinking of that man’s eating, drinking, and smoking habits. The friend wraps up his story and leaves the coffee shop, shaking hands and smiling for goodbye. My dad and I walk out too and proceed on our drive to his office. We get stuck in traffic, a vast serpent twisting left to right and up and down through uptown. My dad curses and complains about the traffic, but his words come out prepackaged, automatic. He does it every day, but he never quite loses it. “Don’t worry about the job,” he slapped my knee. “You will handle it easily. They will give you time to figure out the software. The boss is a good guy, don’t be afraid of the boss.” “I’m not afraid of the boss,” I said. I had met the boss before, when I interned at the place as a student. Some goofball wearing silk shirts and lording it over a crew of refugees. Nice guy, takes pride in being a job provider, but a bit of a goof. My dad continued: “It’s a safe, cushy job. You can save up some money here. If you are patient, they will promote you. They will like you. And if the economy goes south and you lose your job, remember you need only nine months of work experience, and then you can go on unemployment benefits.” “Unemployment benefits! Now that’s something to aspire to!” I didn’t say this, I only said it to myself. I resented the low expectations. I am too young, too ambitious for that. I don’t want a safe job; I want an interesting job. In the south I worked as a teacher. It was unpredictable and didn’t have the safety factor, but over a couple of years I ended up making more money than I ever made here. And it was interesting. It energized me. I didn’t even know why I agreed to check out this stupid office job. We arrived to the industrial area and parked in front of the office building. We walked out of the truck and my dad walked a bit ahead of me. He got to the front door and opened it and walked through. I walked towards the door, but strangely, it was taking me a long time to get there. I walked harder, but the more I pushed, the slower I moved. My breathing became heavy. I looked towards the glass door, and pushed with my feet, but couldn’t quite get there. Maybe I didn’t want to get there; maybe my unadmitted but profound dislike for the place had created a spacetime warp between the parking lot on which I stood and on which I walked and that glass door. It got dark suddenly; it was night. My dad didn’t walk back out, the place was deserted. I remembered only my dad’s big office shirt floating in through the door, and I felt my office shirt rubbing against my own chin. I woke up. Where was I? It was a bright summer morning. I remember now. I was in my own apartment. I was down south. It was the first day of my summer holiday after I finished teaching a semester at a local school. It must have been six o’clock. My three-month son had woken my wife and me at four-thirty of course. Then my wife took him to the other room to breastfeed him, and I went back to sleep gain. It wasn’t a deep sleep, but I did have a rough dream. It’s okay; I can’t wait to play with my son. I know that will fix everything. The summer will be glorious.


My feet won’t fit into my shoes, maybe a villain came and shrunk them with a shrink ray while I was sleeping.

“Hurry up!” Mom says as she grabs her purse.  Mom takes my hands and sticks them into the sleeves of the jacket, she turns and twists me, and out of nowhere a hat lands on my head like a space ship. Whoosh. I spread my arms out and wobble like I’m in space.  “Put your shoes on, I’ve already asked twice!” It’s mom's angry voice.

 I try again. This time the feet fit, maybe the shoes got bigger like a balloon, but no one blowed in them.

 She puts her hand on my head and steers me out the door. The snowflakes are falling and I want to catch one with my tongue, but she is moving me towards the car. She opens the door, and I climb into my car seat. My car toys are all here. I have three Hot Wheels cars, two transformers, and a stuffed owl. The stuffed owl is the softest, but the cars are the fastest, they like to race each other. I am halfway into my car seat when she picks me up and puts my butt into the seat.  “I want to buckle,” I say, but she is already pressing the metal claws together. I like to do it myself, it’s like doing a puzzle, I can put so many pieces together easy, but she does the buckles and now I’m sad. I can feel the tears coming to my eyes.  “Not today baby, we are already ten minutes late.” She slams the door.   Now I can only see her back. She is driving. We’re going to story time and it always takes a long long time to get there. I pick up a red transformer, he transforms into a fire truck. Oh no! The evil owl is attacking him. He tries to fight back, but then the owl uses his super beak power, and the transformer is hurt. He calls his friend the blue transformer for help. The blue transformer transforms into a police car, he will arrest the owl and put him in jail. “I will get you, trouble maker!” The blue transformer yells. He goes in with the handcuffs. CRASH!  Someone pushes me so hard I almost fall out of my seat, but the buckles keep me in place, they are too tight and hurt the front of me. Everything is spinning. My blue transformer flies into my forehead. Where is mom? I don’t see her. Everything stops moving and I’m scared and all my body things hurt. I start crying. Mom? It takes a million seconds for her to open my door. The tears are burning my eyes and I reach for her. It isn’t mom. I cry much harder. It’s a man, a stranger, and he takes my buckles off. He takes me out. He is holding me, his beard is scratchy and he smells sour. I push away with all my might, but he must have super strength because he is still holding me. “MOM!!” I yell. I twist my neck to see. “MOM!”

The man walks away with me, then he turns so I can see the car. It’s the same color as ours but the shape is all wrong. The front is crumpled like when we do crafts, the car is made of metal, not paper, how did it crumble? “MOM!” I am crying so hard I might throw up. There are three people around the car, but not mom. Did the big push make her disappear? I need to find her, she’s the best at hugs and kisses and playing with me.

“It’s ok little man, your mama will be alright” The man’s voice is deep, I can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks. “You hear the sirens? They are coming to help. You’ll get to see a firetruck.” I look up from the crumbled car. The firetruck needs to hurry and find mom.

“It’s going to be alright” The strange man keeps repeating. We stand there and wait. I don’t have the energy to fight him anymore. My face is wetted from tears and the snot and the snow. I wipe it with my sleeve. I can see the fire truck and the police car now. The sirens are too loud, I don’t want to look, but if I don’t look I might miss it when they find mom. The firemen get out and they walk over to mom’s door. There is a saw, but I can’t tell what they are doing. I didn’t know firemen used saws. I hope they don’t cut mom. I’m very scared, not just pretend, like when we play at home and mom is a zombie.

I can’t tell if all this is real or pretend, cars aren’t supposed to bend like paper. The noise from the cutting is too much, I cover my ears. The man keeps saying something, I can feel it in his chest, but I can’t hear the words because of my hands. Another person comes. The man gives me away. I start crying again. This person is a woman but she isn’t mom either. “No need to fret buddy, what’s your name?” She asks Peter, but the words won’t come, only tears. I hit her with my fists, I can’t tell if she feels me hitting her at all. She puts me down in the back of a truck. Where will she take me? “I am going to check you out. Make sure you are ok. My name is Melissa, and my friends are working to get your mom out of the car. She is ok, just stuck in there. They have these cool tools to open up the door and let her out.” Melissa is touching me all over.

“Ouch,” I say when she gets to my forehead. “You got quite a shiner there. But no worries, I have a special bandaid just for you, do you like Paw Patrol?” I nod.

She puts the bandaid on, it feels big. “Want to see? I bet you’ve never had Marshall and Chase on your face before.” She smiles at me.

I nod again. She walks me over to the front of the truck. I wasn’t sure I could walk after the big push, but my feet still work. We get to the side mirrors and she picks me up. My face is all red and puffy, but there is a brand new bandaid on my forehead, it raises up a little where the booboo must be. I touch it. “Ouch!” “Yeah,” Melissa says. “It will hurt for a few days, but it can remind you of how brave you are.”

In my games brave doesn’t feel like this. Brave is saving mom, ripping the car apart, and not getting hurt at all. “Peter??” Someone screams. I don’t recognize the voice, it’s all high. I turn and see mom, she is on a bed with wheels, there is red on her skin and her clothes. Melissa puts me down, she grabs my hand and we run over to mom. I want to give mom a hug, but Melissa holds me back, I want to hit her again. Mom lifts her head. “Are you ok?” I have never seen mom cry before, not even when she cutted her finger when she was making soup that one time.

I want to hold on to her and not let go, but someone is wheeling her away. I want to run after her, but I’m not fast enough. All I see are people’s legs and the bed wheels being loaded into an ambulance. I can’t see mom anymore. I might explode. I pull after her, and Melissa picks me up again. I wish I was bigger and taller and stronger, I wish I could hug mom, I wish the car didn’t crumble, and mom wasn’t red. I let Melissa carry me into the ambulance. She puts me on a bench and ties belts around me. I can see mom, she is sleeping. I wish she would hurry up and wake up.


I was a captain on a ship of the royal navy when we encountered an abandoned vessel in the midst of the Atlantic Ocean. The Winchester was a formidable ship with around 60 guns and a crew of 50 men. It was a dark night with turbulent winds and high waves constantly crashing against the vessel. I was sitting in my cabin waiting for more pleasant weather like anyone else, when I heard the cry from the crow’s nest. The man’s voice was shrill with terror, causing me to take look for myself at once. Yet nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Fog in the colour of sickly green filled the air and covered the sea’s surface. An odour of death and fear tainted the usually salty air. I kept my mouth firmly shut for the thought of tasting the stomach-churning stench made me almost lose my last meal. Taking my own spyglass, I proceeded to scan the sea around us. There, not far ahead in the distance, steadily becoming more distinct was another ship. The longer I looked the more I felt the urge to turn away and shout the order to turn around. And yet as if bound by some invisible, dreadful force my eyes were glued to the strange ship. An eerie feeling started to course through my veins. Finally able to look away I turned to my first mate, planning to finally get away from the strange phenomenon which made me more uncomfortable with each passing minute. Upon turning around however, I saw how most of the crew were sitting or lying on deck. Succumbing to the poisonous stench their skin had taken on a greenish tinge, similar to the one in the air. Concerned for my own wellbeing I looked at my own hands, but the skin was normally coloured. The sudden sound of cracking thunder made me nearly jump out of my skin. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the approaching ship. It was bigger than any ship I’d ever seen before. The sails torn and battered; the wooden body showed several holes as if it had just fled from battle. A soft tremble seized my legs out of fear as much as out of wonder. Despite the sinister atmosphere accompanying the vessel, something seemed to reach out for my soul. Like the tentacles of the mythical kraken, the ghostly ship tried to drag me towards it. And I had to admit to myself it was getting more and more difficult for me to resist the urge to jump into the sea and swim to the strange vessel. The thought had barely crossed my mind when a splash sounded, resulting from one of the sailors doing exactly what I tried not to. With morbid curiosity I observed the situation in which the sailor took hold of a rope ladder reaching down from the ship’s deck. With frantic determination the man climbed upwards, his features concealed by the thick fog as he reached the ship deck. I strained my ears to listen for any alarming sounds, but the sea and wind had grown awfully quiet. Unable to keep still I started to pace around. Occasionally crouching down to examine on of my fellow men, who were still comatose due to the fog’s unnatural effects. Effects to which I was apparently immune as the only one. Out of nothing a shriek of unutterable terror echoed through the night. It came from the ghostly ship, which now stood right next to the Winchester. It’s deck, surrounded by the ghastly fog, still unreachable for my eyes must have been twenty feet higher than our own. Thick, slimy algae covered the ship’s outside, giving me the impression of fingers or tentacles waiting or some unfortunate victim to come into their reach. More shrieks shook the night, with the voice growing higher pitched with each outcry. Whatever the poor man endured before mercifully falling silent, it must have been horrifying even painful. Turning back to my remaining unconscious men, I decided how we had to get away from the accursed vessel. Another man stirred, throwing open his eyes he got up and towards the railing. Acting on impulse I ran up to him, trying to prevent the man from jumping. I screamed for him to stand down. Achieving nothing, I threatened him with severe punishment. As nothing else worked, I even begged him to stay. But as if hypnotized the man stared blankly at the hellish ship, following the call of unknown horror. Being of higher stature than me, the man shook me off. Exhausted I fell to the wooden ground, watching helplessly as the next one made for the ladder. Again, I felt the strange call to follow, to go aboard the other ship. The thought of being led to my doom by some supernatural force made me shudder. I could feel my rational sense going numb, the longer I looked at this monstrosity. Afraid, I might obey after all, I went into my cabin. When I heard the next man die, I covered my ears. There was no escape, without wind the Winchester would sail nowhere. And without men I couldn’t hope to drive the ship by oar. Another splash announced the doom of the next man, causing my heart to sink. How could I sit here, when they swam to their deaths. Restless and shaken by the horrendous sounds I went outside again. A bottle of brandy accompanied me as I faced my enemy again. What was it? Where did it come from? And why was I the only one immune to its charms? Again, screams filled the empty night. But the brandy muffled them for me, so I could endure. Gathering my thoughts again I tackled the next man to the ground, who attempted to rise. I knew him quite well, for he had joined the navy only months before. Being very young he sometimes needed someone to point him the way. The alcohol had made me confident enough to believe I could save the young man from his fate. Yet despite being skinny he managed to push me away and get up. Quickly I grabbed his ankle, he walked on in a way that suggested I was nothing more than a piece of cloth. Right before the man jumped, my courage yielded and I let go. Still the guilt infected me at once, while I listened to the sounds of my failure. Perhaps I as mad, I certainly am now, or the call finally triumphed over my will. All I remember is how I found myself in the cold ocean making for the ghostly ship, well aware of my inevitable and probably hideous end. Nevertheless, if there was any chance of saving my men, I would gladly plunge into the depths of hell itself. Shivering due to cold, fear and anticipation I entered the deck. The increase in the concentration of decay’s stench made me double up until I managed to compose myself in spite of the sickening air. If I wanted to save the young man I would have to hurry, but whereto? Just like the outer side the deck’s floor was covered in slimy algae as thick as grass. A faint path of slightly trampled green told me where to go. Carefully not to slip I made for the stairs leading down into the ship’s belly. Darkness engulfed me. A strange clamminess defined the air below deck. Something moved in the shadows, slowly and dangerously. I tried to find the member of my crew, but could find no trace of him. Instead, I perceived a slithering, sucking sound. The kind of sound that would make any sane person search for the next best escape route. Managing to find some matches I lit one, for I could not bear any longer to stand in darkness. I would rather face the terror of this ship than stumble blindly into its arms. My wish was granted. For the few seconds the flame illuminated part of my surroundings I saw. What I saw was beyond what humanity had found out about the world we live in. Like a parasitic overgrowth, a green, fleshy mass covered the ship’s walls and partly the ground. A soft pulse ran through it with the rhythm of a heartbeat. Unable to contain my hunger for knowledge, I lit another one. This time it revealed to me the grotesque tentacles several feet long and moving steadily. Yet nothing was as unsettling as the dozens of eyes, located everywhere in the biogenic mass. Differently sized, they were brightly yellow with a slitted pupil. Cautiously I started to move, litting a new matchstick as soon as the old one stopped to burn. I didn’t want to step on the creature in fear of making it aware of my presence. Desperately I looked for my man, until I found him wrapped in tentacles still wearing the same blank expression. Drawing my sabre, I planned to free him, when at once all the eyes in the room looked at me. There was no benevolence behind those eyes, no human intelligence. They seemed to belong to some primordial creature from the dawn of time, above humanity’s understanding and yet succumbing to its own instincts. Or did it just not care about us, who were naught but food to it? Forcing myself to move, despite the paralyzing horror that started to seize me. I went towards the tentacles holding my man hostage. Alas, I should have turned around. For I was too late in any case. The moment I took another step, the young man’s eyes lost their blankness and filled with indescribable terror. In a crazed frenzy he tried to wriggle himself free. Uttering his own version of those shrieks I had to witness several times before. I entertained the idea that those terrible eyes showed a hint of malicious glee upon seeing the poor lad scared out of his mind. Slowly, very slowly the tentacles dragged the young man towards what seemed to be the amin body of the monstrosity. The moment he touched it his screams turned from those of fear into those of pain. His body started to dissolve into its elementary structures. Skin, flesh, bone and blood everything fell apart and was absorbed by the creature. My heart dropped, swiftly I went back to the stairs as far away from the horror as possible. My matches were almost empty when I lit another one. The eyes had followed my every movement, hungrily they examined me. Studied me. It mocked me, dared me to do something. Why didn’t it attack? Not waiting to be caught, it went back to the deck. The moonless, black sky loomed over me, magnifying the sensation of dread residing in my guts. I could hear another distant splash and knew; this creature would soon feast upon the next man. I couldn’t let that happen. Trying to find some help I went into the captain’s quarters of the ghostly ship. Inside the cabin the walls were covered in the same green tendrils. This creature whatever it was, grew through the ship. Through the very structure. On the rotting table I found a mouldy logbook. I was just looking through the weathered pages as a sudden movement made me topple to the ground. Looking outside the windows I saw that the ship had started moving again. Hastily I made for the chamber’s door. The ship moved with horrendous speed, leaving the Winchester far behind. I would have to jump and swim if I wanted to escape. Suddenly, a thick tentacle burst through the wood beneath my feet. I avoided its grip but had to hurry, for it seemingly searched for me. Clasping the logbook firmly in my hand, I hurled myself over the railing into the sea. I sank deep enough to get a glimpse of the ship’s downside before swimming to the surface. Nothing gave away the creature living on the inside, whose stare I still felt in my very bones. Breaking through the sea’s surface I saw the man who had almost become the next victim. His eyes showed sincere confusion about him finding himself in the midst of the salty water. Our crew soon fished us out of the ocean. Even after warming up, I did not stop shaking. I couldn’t. I resigned from the Navy as soon as we made port in England. But the certainty of me being onshore didn’t change the condition of my frayed mind. I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and I am back in the dark ship, surrounded by tentacles and eyes. Those haunting eyes! Each night I fear they might come down to me from the dark sky. Leering at me with this malicious glint. I can’t bear it. This gun I am carrying around with me looks friendlier by the day. After deciphering the book, I had carried with me, I burned the damned thing. It was an ancient language and most of the writing had fallen victim to time and water. I dare not speak of what I read. Dare not think of it, out of fear dwelling on it might drive me insane. May God have mercy on my soul. There are things in this world, we are not meant to see.


This short story was inspired by Tom Waits. From the Tom Waits' album "Mule Variations" (1999). ‘I saw him again today.’ 'Saw who?' 'You know...him.' 'No hun, I don't know who you are referring to when you just say him?' 'You know, our neighbour. The old man.' ‘Really? Humf, I thought he would have left the neighbourhood after your last note. Maybe he didn’t get it?’ ‘No, I’m sure he got it. He opens his front door at least once a day when he walks to that disgusting old looking mailbox. Who would send him mail anyway? He’s sooo creepy. So when are you coming home? The kids miss you and I don’t feel safe, you know, with him being right there.’ ‘I’ll be back soon. We’re finishing the plans for the new South side of the building. I would say, I’m home on Tuesday.’ She gave a long purposeful sigh over the phone, ‘All right. I guess that’s fine.’ ‘Honey, come on. It’s not that bad.’ ‘It’s just that old creep. He’s always staring. I saw him open his door yesterday while the boys were playing innocently on the sidewalk. The kids say he didn’t say or do anything but I know. I know what he wants. He keeps whistling that tune as well. I don’t know where it’s from or why, but every time he sees them he would start whistling the same old tune. Do you think he’s trying to lure them in? Do you think he’s tried? Her voice slipped into a sinister tone, as he heard her adjust the phone in her hand. ‘I heard he has no one. No family, no pets, nothing. That’s why he wants my boys. He wants their company. I can tell.’ ‘That’s a bit…extreme.’ He said trying to lighten the tension. ‘Extreme! These are my boys! My sweet baby boys. I don’t want that dirty old man to touch them!’ ‘Okay, okay. Jesus Christ.’ - - ‘They’re my boys too. Don’t you think I worry too?’ ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’ ‘F—‘ ‘Excuse me?' ‘Never mind.’ ‘Just tell them to be careful around him.’ ‘Don’t you think I do it everyday!!?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ - - - ‘Also, I’m pretty sure he's a sex offender and he hasn’t gone around to tell people. That’s illegal right?' ‘Honey, I don’t—‘ ‘I can call the cops for that, I’m sure.’ ‘Jesus hun, don’t call the cops again. Last time you thought you heard some moaning from the shed, meanwhile it was just his cat. At this rate, no one will take you seriously.’ ‘What about that smell!?’ ‘What smell?’ ‘That one day when the whole block smell like a bleach bomb went off. That’s the kind of cleaning of someone who did something awful.’ - - - ‘Either way. Please don’t call the cops again. Or sneak into his yard for that matter.’ ‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.’ - - ‘Don’t ask me then…? Also, I’m just saying. He’s never bothered us really. You seriously have to find better things to do during the day.’ - - - - ‘Are you staring at him now?’ ‘No.’ ‘I just heard the curtains draw.’ ‘I’m just checking if he’s there.’ - - ‘Yup, there he is. In that god-awful backyard of his. The lawn is dead and he doesn’t care. Just working in that wooden shed of his. All closed up and secretive. It sounds like he is slamming in nails into the floor of the shed. What’s he building in there? Maybe he is covering something up. Or someone. Buried it underneath the house. Buried his ex-wife underneath the panels? What do you think he’s building in there?’ He sighed softly on the other side of the line. Like a person patiently waiting for a train to pass before crossing the rails. - - ‘You still there?’ ‘Yup’ ‘So, what do you think he’s building in there? I can hear him at night, hitting and sawing. With that blue light that shines out from underneath the door.’ ‘Honey. I don’t know.’ ‘I bet you it’s some sex swing or dildo machine.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘I bet you he’s not Christian either.’ ‘I wouldn’t know hun. I’ve seen him fix an old chair. He could be a repairman.’ 'No holy carpenter there, no sir.' - - ‘I’ve seen him whack a mole dead. No sympathy – that old wretched man.’ ‘Hun, you know they are a pest there.’ ‘Yea, but no man of God would hurt an innocent animal.’ ‘Hun, I’ve seen you pull out the rat traps with their squished heads… and you know, smile.’ ‘That’s different. And don’t say that.’ ‘What?’ ‘Squished heads. We’re Christian.’ - - ‘Okay.’ ‘Okay, what?’ ‘I don’t know hun, I’m off to bed. Please don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.’ ‘Like what? What do you expect from me!?’ ‘You’ve already threatened him with your letters and sending cops to his door for no good reason.’ ‘A mother has six sense about these kinds of things. That’s why I’m here, protecting my babies, and you’re not.’ - - ‘That’ not fair. You know I need to finish this job. Also. Seriously. He’s just an old creepy man minding his own business. I suggest you do the same.’ - - - ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just stressed.’ ‘Okay’ - - - ‘Unless he does something fishy again.’ ‘No Chloe. Dammit. Just call me if something is weird or happened. If you want me to call him, I’ll do.’ ‘Like you’ll be able to help. Also, he cut his phone line with some scissors last week. It’s not like you can reach him, and I doubt he has a cellphone.’ ‘He cut his own line with scissors?’ ‘Yup. Normal right?’ - - - - ‘Night Chloe. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ ‘Yea’ Click. X Dial tone Dialling Ringing ‘Hello’ ‘Matt.’ ‘Hun?’ ‘You better come over now. The cops are here… ’ ‘Dammit Chloe why did you call the cops again. He’s just an old man! What could he have possibly done?' ‘There is so much blood…’ ‘Wait. What? What blood - who’s blood! What happened?’ - - - ‘Chloe!?’ - - - - ‘The cops aren’t here for him.


SORRY RUNNING LATE. BE THERE SOON.

Mark stared at the text message as though it was in a foreign language. Then he forced himself to count backward from ten, to slow his breathing. What else was going to go wrong today? He gave a thumb’s up, letting Veronica know that it was fine. He was fine. Even though he didn't feel it. He’d spent hours preparing this picnic. Everything needed to be perfect. A perfect, memorable day that would live in the history of their relationship long after the last sips of champagne were sipped from the beautiful, engraved flutes. Mark frowned, thinking about the glasses. The engraver had thought Mark had said “B” rather than “V”, so now Veronica’s glass had the wrong initial. But it would be okay. Veronica had a great sense of humor.

He got up and paced, careful to avoid the flowered tablecloth on the ground. The picnic was spread out under a large oak tree in the prettiest section of the park. The sun played tag with some thick white clouds. Cotton ball clouds, Beatrix used to call them. Birds chirped in the branches of the trees, chatting about their days, maybe making plans for the evening.

Mark looked over the picnic area one more time. There was the large basket he’d borrowed with the proverbial loaf of French bread sticking out of the top. Grapes, crackers, caviar, and cheese were laid out on a green vintage plate his mother had loaned him. Chocolate-covered strawberries graced another plate and a flask of hot coffee was nestled in the basket along with two insulated cups from his camping supplies. A large arrangement of pink tea roses and Veronica’s favorite flowers–Queen Anne’s lace–sat in the center of the picnic cloth. Perfect .

A plane passed overhead and Mark glanced up. He wondered if Beatrix was on it. She was scheduled to come home today. What would it be like to come back to the States after eighteen months in the South Pacific? Jarring, probably. Disconcerting. Good thing he hadn’t gone with her after all.

Mark continued to pace around the picnic cloth, then ventured further out, onto the wide sidewalk that crisscrossed the park. He didn’t want to go too far, didn’t want squirrels running in and gobbling up their lunch. But he needed to get everything worked out in his mind. Walking helped.

They’d eat first. Enjoy some of the champagne. And then…Mark patted his pocket. The hard, square reassured him. The ring was still there. Safe.

He glanced at his watch again. Twenty minutes late. A hard kernel of irritation formed in his gut but he pushed it down. There had to be a good reason. She’d probably gotten caught in traffic. Or had to stay late at work. Veronica’s boss was a jerk who didn’t appreciate her. Mark pictured him waltzing in with a file at the last minute, giving Veronica some urgent project. He imagined her looking longingly at the door, shoulders slumping as she realized she’d be late. Poor Veronica .

He walked back to the picnic spot. A flash of movement–something skittering from the cloth and toward the big oak–caught his eye. He broke into a run just in time to see the striped bodies of two chipmunks race up the tree. Glancing at the picnic, Mark groaned. They’d gotten into the bread, nibbled off the end of the crusty loaf. And was that…pawprints in the soft cheese? Hurriedly, he scraped the tainted cheese away and replaced it with a fresh supply. Veronica didn’t really like cheese much anyway. Or bread. But he’d wanted to make the picnic traditional, wanted it to be just right. It looked like things he’d seen in movies.

Another glance at his watch. Twenty-eight minutes. “I’m here, I’m here!” Veronica’s voice cut through the birdsong and the muted sound of traffic passing on the busy street above the park. “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

He turned and watched Veronica, breathless, approach. She looked…disheveled. Her normally perfect blonde hair tumbled from its clip and her face was flushed. Her pencil skirt was askew, the zipper which he was pretty sure was supposed to be in the back, was over her left hip.

“So sorry,” she said again. He hugged her, a cloud of her expensive perfume engulfing him. “It’s all right,” he murmured, running his hands over her back and nuzzling her neck. “Did you have to stay late at work?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” She pulled away, her brows pulled together. “Fritzi needed me to dictate a recorded call for his meeting tomorrow morning. I don’t know why he couldn’t have told me before four o’clock, but,” she gave a little shrug. “You know how he is.” She laughed but it sounded forced.

“Well, now it’s time to relax and enjoy yourself.” Mark flourished his arms, as though the picnic was a bull and he, a matador. “This is for you.”

Veronica bit her lip. She looked from the picnic to Mark and back again. “Oh, wow. I’m…wow. Mark, I didn’t expect–”

“Please, sit,” Mark took Veronica’s arm and walked her to the picnic. She hesitated, glanced at him, and then slipped her shoes off. Tucking her feet underneath her, she sat at the tablecloth’s edge. Mark sat across from her, extracted the bottle of champagne, and pointed it at her with a grin.

“To my beautiful Veronica and our future.”

“Oh, wow,” she said again. Her eyes filled. “Mark, I really didn’t expect this. When I said I needed to talk to you–”

“I know, I know. You weren’t expecting a spread like this. I wanted to surprise you.”

“But–”

“Shh. We'll talk, I promise. But right now, let me get you something to drink. And eat. You must be starving.”

Veronica stared at him like he had two heads as he handed her the nearly-full flute of champagne.

“Sorry about the initial–that was supposed to be a ‘V’."

“What?” She looked dazed. Fritzi and his stupid last-minute projects. Mark would make this afternoon special though, in spite of the obvious stress she’d carried with her from work.

“To us,” he lifted his champagne glass at her.

“Th–thank you, Mark, this is,” she motioned with her glass at the picnic. “So unexpected.”

He sipped his champagne, the bubbles pinging uncomfortably in his empty stomach.

“What would you like?” He grabbed a china plate and filled it with strawberries and a glob of caviar as requested. They ate in silence for a few moments. The sunshine on his shoulders was warm, the scent of the flowers on the cloth fragrant, and Veronica prettily nibbled her food. Just like he’d imagined. Except for that whining sound. Mark looked at the bouquet.

“Oh no,” He swatted his napkin over the flowers.

“What?”

“Hornets, I think. Or wasps.”

He swatted again. Three of them flew away but seconds later, five more replaced them.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Mark’s napkin attacked again but when he brought it back toward him a sharp stab of pain exploded on his forehead, directly between his eyes. Yelping, he jumped up, clutching his forehead.

“Did you get stung?”

Hopping backward, Mark didn’t see the short railing that protected the nearby flower bed. He crashed over it and onto the ground before Veronica even had a chance to stand up. Laying among the pansies and petunias, Mark heard laughter.

“Bro, did you see that? What a klutz!”

Mark rolled onto his side, shook his head, and tried to get to his feet. Two boys about ten years old had pulled up on their bikes to see the show. One of them had a camera pointed at Mark.

“Hey,” Veronica waved her hands as though shooing a dog. “Get out of here!”

The boys continued laughing but climbed back on their bikes. Mark heard one ask the other, “Did you get it all?” but couldn’t hear the second delinquent’s response.

Great.

“Are you okay?”

Struggling to his feet, Mark nodded. He felt a little dizzy and the bite throbbed. “I need some dirt,” he mumbled. Scooping a little from the flower bed, he spit in it, making a thick paste. “What are you doing?” Veronica asked.

He spread the mud paste over the bite. Within seconds the burning pain had subsided.

“Why did you do that?” She asked again.

“It’s to get rid of the stinger. Something in the dirt helps get it out. My Nonna showed me when I was little. I used to help her in the garden a lot and…” his voice drifted along with his train of thought, as he saw the picnic. Two dogs chased a neon green tennis ball that bounced directly toward the basket.

“Oh no.” Mark ran back toward the picnic, but it was too late. The first dog, a medium-sized black one with a mohawk of grayish hair leaped into the air to catch the ball. The second dog, a large white one, ran straight, right underneath its companion. It didn’t seem to notice the food or tablecloth or basket until it tripped on the plate of cheese and landed with a soft “woof” in the bowl of caviar. Lazily, it licked this until its friend got to his feet and the two started wrestling over the bread.

“Hey!” Mark yelled and ran toward the dogs. Their owner was nowhere to be seen–or had gone in the opposite direction to avoid a confrontation, Mark thought–but he managed to scare the dogs off. Not before one grabbed the ball and the other the rest of the bread though. Broken crackers and smushed strawberries littered the tablecloth. The champagne bottle was tipped on its side, the cloth underneath it soaked.

Mark wanted to yell, to chase the dogs, to shake his fist. Instead, he looked at Veronica. “I’m sorry.” The mud on his forehead cracked as he spoke, little flakes of dry dirt cascaded down in front of his eyes. “This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.”

Veronica had a hand over her mouth. At first, Mark thought she was crying–her eyes were damp. But then he realized she was laughing.

“I’m sorry, Mark. This was such a beautiful….gesture.” A laughing wheeze came from her chest. She valiantly tried to turn it into a cough. “Can I help you clean…” Another burst of choked laughter. Then a snort.

Mark wanted to see the humor in it. He wanted to laugh along with her– ha ha ha, what a story this will make –but all he could think of was how perfect this was supposed to be, how much time he’d spent to make it just right. What was he going to do? Re-plan the entire event? Come up with a whole new way to make this the perfect engagement?

No. He’d do it anyway. Ask her. The picnic didn’t matter. They’d look back on this years later and laugh about it. Well, sure, Veronica already was but… Mark took a deep breath and dropped to one knee. He pulled the small black box from his pocket and cleared his throat.

“Veronica, I didn’t mean for the picnic to turn out like this. But life is unexpected right? Things happen that we can’t predict. And I know that you’re the woman I want to share all of those things with–the good ones and the bad. The predictable and unpredictable.”

Veronica had stopped laughing but still had her hand up to her mouth. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

“Veronica, will you marry me?”

A whining buzz came from behind Mark. Further away a kid cried about ice cream and a dog barked. Time stopped. “Oh, Mark. I’m so sorry. I–I can’t marry you.”

He remained frozen in place. He couldn’t move. The buzzing grew louder and then Mark felt a sharp, burning pain on his right shoulder and another on his neck.

Yelping, he swatted at the wasps. Veronica hurried to his side and waved her hands around him, trying to shoo them away. Arms flailing, Mark accidentally smacked Veronica in the head at the same time her fist connected with his chin.

“Oh ow! I’m sorry–”

“Sorry, I–”

Mark ran from the ruined picnic and toward the fountain in the middle of the park. He heard Veronica’s footsteps behind him, her voice telling him to stop, to wait. A toddler splashed in the fountain’s basin and beyond him, a gull washed its feathers. Ignoring the sign that said, “Stay out of the water,” Mark jumped in. It was icy. He let the water wash over him, barely submerged, and closed his eyes. Veronica yelled something but under the water, everything was muted, hard to make out. Maybe he could just stay here, he thought. Forever.

*** “Hey, your mom said I might find you here.”

Mark looked up from the park bench where he’d been sitting for the last–what? Two hours? Three? He’d lost track of the time. But the sky was turning that pearly blue-gray it does at dusk. So, a while then. He’d been here a while.

“She told me…well. That you might need a friend,” Beatrix said, settling herself beside him on the bench.

“Hey, B.” Mark’s voice sounded reedy, thin. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the airport today. I had…plans.”

Beatrix shook her head. “It’s fine. My parents were both there and Matthew and Jake. They’ve gotten so big since I’ve been gone, it’s hard to believe…” her voice faded away. “I’m so sorry, Mark. About what happened. Veronica…I know you really loved her.”

Mark shrugged. True. Now though, he just felt hollowed out. Like Veronica had taken his mother’s melon baller and scooped out his heart and everything else. He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t gotten so angry he’d broken anything. Not when Veronica had told him she couldn’t marry him. Not even when she’d said that the reason she’d wanted to meet him this afternoon was to break up with him. It wasn’t him, it was her , blah, blah, blah. She never meant to hurt him but she’d met someone else.

“Yeah. It sucks,” he said.

Beatrix rested her head on his shoulder. She smelled exactly as he remembered, a mix of patchouli and vanilla. He glanced at her. She was tan, her hair longer and worn loose not in the braid she usually had. Her glasses were gone, he realized. It made the sprinkle of freckles on her nose stand out more. And her eyes…He glanced away and then back. Beatrix smiled. Her eyes were the same warm brown he remembered. Only, had her lashes always looked like that? They were long and thick, practically touching her cheeks when she glanced down, tugged at her shorts.

“Want to walk?” She asked and pulled him to his feet without waiting for his answer. “Come on, you’ll feel better.”

He fell into step beside her.

“You know, there is a possible silver lining to the Veronica situation.”

Mark doubted it. He walked woodenly beside Beatrix.

“What?” He finally asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.

“You could join the Peace Corps now. Remember all the plans we’d made to go together?” Beatrix squeezed his arm. “They’re looking for people where I’m stationed.”

Mark mumbled “hmm".

“Just think about it. I know it’s too soon now, but I’m home for another four weeks. I’ll keep working on you,” Beatrix laughed. She stopped walking and pulled Mark to a stop too.

“You’re too good for her, you know. I always thought that.”

Had Beatrix’s eyes always had those gold flecks in them? He cleared his throat. “But you liked Veronica.”

Beatrix made a face. “For your sake. I always thought she was a little flighty. And stuck on herself.”

They walked again. “Anyway. I know you don’t want to hear it now but I'll give you the standard parent advice. You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, yada, yada, yada. Better to find this out now than after you’d married her and had kids together.”

“She didn’t want kids.”

“See? One more reason not to like her. But I guess you could’ve gotten a dog or two. That’s kind of the same thing.”

Mark chuckled. “She didn’t like those either.”

Beatrix rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? What exactly did you like about her?” Then before he replied, “Don’t answer that.” They walked in silence for several long minutes.

“I’ve missed you,” Beatrix said. “I’ve missed you, too,” Mark said. And he realized suddenly just how much he had.

“Can we stop talking about Veronica now? Because I can’t wait to tell you all about the village I’m working in. You’d love it. There are these mountains, Mark, they’re gigantic. And the beaches near the coast are completely unreal…”

As Beatrix tried to distract him Mark realized he’d put everything on hold–his interests, his friends, his life, really–to accommodate Veronica. They always hung out with her friends, met with her colleagues, visited the museums and art galleries and posh clubs she wanted to go to. Maybe Beatrix was right. Maybe it was time to remember what he wanted. Who he was.

“...and then there are the people themselves. They're the most generous...Hey,” Beatrix grinned up at him. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing. Just…possibilities, I guess.”

Beatrix laced her arm through his. “I like the sound of that.”


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** *Originally titled “Controlled Burn -Take 2-”* **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Genre: This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required. *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Crit Star** - u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - And shoutout to u/wileycourage for being so supportive and encouraging to a new writer on the thread! *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"No! Don't use your left hand, use your right hand", pounces onto Hana's mind. She lowers her, half raised, left hand and exchanges it for her right as she picks up her coffee. "You shouldn't use your right hand, go for the left", intrudes on Hana's thoughts as she attempts to open her car door. "Don't listen to this song, skip this song", Hana tries to find music to listen to on her commute to work. "Not this one either.. damn, I really love this song though. It should be fine if I listen to this one.. no, no, let me not.", she skips another tune. Hana arrives to her job, she's established a good career as a nurse. While she is grateful to have the stable career that she has, it's never been something that she was passionate about. She enters the building with her daily routine; finish coffee, take a five minute pseudo break in the bathroom, and then greet every coworker with a wave and a slight grin. It's been seven years on the job, she loves being able to help people, but each day feels like a reduction on her happiness and sanity. "I feel like my life is controlled by three minds, two of which are forces and one is but a whisper of a whimper." On the menu for lunch today, a chicken and lettuce sandwich with a side of chips. The same meal as yesterday, and the week before, and the month before that. She sits with only the noise of her, rapidly, tapping fingers, on the table, to break the silence. She daydreams of all of the bright ideas in her head. All of the scenarios of different paths that she could've chosen to be anywhere but here. It's a reoccurring "dream", but today feels more intense. There's conviction behind it. It feels like a breaking point with a slow, quiet tension. After another "bathroom break", Hana decides to take off work early. She's feeling a little "sick". On her way home, Hana decides to pull over at an empty park. A nice, quiet, sit outside sounds pleasant. She sits and, further, reflects on her previous thoughts. "I feel like my life is controlled by three minds, two of which are forces and one is but a whisper of a whimper." Hana has long struggled with deep anxiety, which gives her a lot of nagging habits that protrude on her day-to-day tasks. She feels as if these habits, forces.. voices are outside of herself. Voices that shout over the whispers of her own voice. She often feels that bad things will happen if she doesn't take heed to her anxious feelings. Whether it's a minor inconvenience or a week altering event, something always seems to go wrong whenever she talks herself out of giving in to her anxious thoughts. Hana was raised by a single father. Loving, caring, providing. Her mother was never part of her life, she disappeared without a word when Hana was just six months old. Hana's father did everything he could to give her the tools to be successful. The two have always had vastly different personalities. Hana with her head in the clouds, her father with his feet planted, firmly, on the ground. She's always been, hyper, aware of the efforts that her father went through to provide for her. So, she promised herself that she would do everything in her power to return the favor. Be, "successful". He pushed her hard to pursue success, while neglecting her dreams, her interests. His visions were never her own, but she felt it was the minimum that she owed him for all that he's done for her. A force guiding her footsteps to prosperity. Hana realizes that she's never really been happy. Stable? Yes. But happy is somewhat of a foreign concept to her. She's become this "successful" person, her father is proud, so why can't she do what makes her happy now? "I'm going to run towards happiness", Hana speaks, gently, aloud. "You don't want to use your left hand, use your right", Hana begins to put her left hand down before firmly placing it back on the car door. Equal parts worried and excited, today is the day that she no longer gives into the anxious voice in her head. "That song I skipped earlier, yeah, I think I still want to listen to it", she cranks up the volume and sings her heart out. Hana awakes the next morning with a new found moxie. She revisits the coffee shop, giggling, as she alternates picking up the cup with whatever hand that she pleases. She makes it in to work, greeting everyone with firm handshakes and eye contact. "It feels so liberating, how have I been living the past thirty-two years this way". She even starts debating careers, is this the time to make a professional pivot? Daydreaming of every aspiration of middle school Hana, "oh, she would be so proud if I wrote that comic book. Or what about joining that orchestra?". It's looking like Hana is going to feel "sick" for a second day in a row, "You know, I've never been out of the country.. well, I've hardly been outside of my city. I've always been too worried". Hana gleefully plays hooky, again, from work as she plans out a mini road trip to a restaurant that she's want to try for years. It's about a four hour drive away, and she couldn't be happier about that. One stop to fill up her gas tank, then her drive to inner freedom begins. Someone's calling her phone, a number from work. She doesn't usually pick up on calls when she's "out sick". "Well, what the heck, we're doing things different now". She answers the phone, "Hello, you've reached Hana, I'm not sure if anyone mentioned it, but I left early due to not feeling well". A long pause. "Excuse me, could you repeat that?". A long pause. Hana speeds back to work and rushes inside, "Which room is he in?!". She was informed that her father had been admitted into the ICU. He's had a history of heart attacks. "This! This is why I have to always listen! I should have never allowed myself to get too confident!", Hana thinks as she runs to her father's room. She arrives to his room and halts before entering. "Don't use your left, use your right. No! Wait. Use your left, not your right", her left hand trembles as she slowly reaches for the door knob. She slowly approaches her father and sits beside him. She grabs his hand and holds it in stillness. "Hana, I'm sorry. I'm sorry and I'm so proud of you", he gathers the energy to speak. "I'm not proud just because of your career, I'm proud because of how strong you are. I know you didn't grow up in an ideal situation and you always held together, even when you were hurt. I'm sorry because I didn't give you an outlet for all of the things that you were feeling". Hana's eyes begin to tear up. "I'm sorry for being too goal oriented. I'm sorry for not allowing you to just be Hana. I want you to know that you don't owe me anything, I owe everything to you. For giving me a purpose. I've always had these fears, these thoughts, that something bad would happen to you if I didn't approach everything in specific ways. I allowed it to shape the way that I raised you, but I don't want that to be your life. I want you to live." Hana, now bawling, embraces her father, "Please don't have any regrets. I'll promise to not live with any, if you promise me that you won't die with any."


The stranger rode into town, stirring whispers about his gunslinger's jacket, and the revolver on his hip. He guided the chestnut mare past the gawking crowd, past the children pursuing a stray dog through the muddy street. He dismounted at the heart of town, secured his horse to a hitching post, and patted the beast on the neck before walking off toward the nearest building. The spurs on his boots rattled as they knocked against the half-rotted planks of the veranda. He pushed through two swinging doors and savored the smell of stale tobacco, sweat and booze. He loved smalltown taverns. He strolled to the bar and planted his elbows on the polished burlwood countertop. He slicked his stark black hair with sweat from his forehead and perused the tavern. Elderly folk ate hearty dinners while the farmers, craftsmen and cowboys mingled over whiskey and ale. He counted thirty people at most, and that surprised him. Half the population must have been there. A sightly barmaid appeared behind the bar, eyes puffy with sweat, wild hair stuck to her reddened cheeks. She seemed to the stranger overworked, and quite upset. She glared at him for the longest time, evaluating him. “What kinda man are ya?” The stranger blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “Ain’t gonna ask twice. Simple question.” “I . . .” He weighed his words for a moment. His eyes caught two unruly cowboys sitting at the far end of the bar, laughing like devils and making lecherous gestures toward the barmaid. He suddenly understood the question. And he realized her eyes were red from tears, not sweat. “I’m the kind of man you need.” “Please.” Without another word, he departed from the countertop and strode directly between the two men. His broad shoulders nearly shoved them off their stools. “What the fu-” “Afternoon, gents. How’s the cold drinks on this blistering day?” “Not that cold,” replied the smaller man. “Don’t talk to him, ya clod. He was just talking to Lucy over there. And he came right over here. Ya aim to protect her honor, mister?” The stranger turned and leaned backwards on the bar, facing the two men. “More or less.” The big man tottered off his stool and tensed his shoulders attempting to look fierce. It would have worked if he wasn’t swaying all over the place from being so drunk. “Listen, mister.” The man leaned in awful close. He wreaked of booze. “Ya can’t just waltz in here acting like ya’ve gotta big prick. This is our damn town. I think ya’ve over . . . overstay . . . overstayed your welcome.” “I’m not looking for trouble. I just want you to leave the girl alone.” “Why’s that?” The small man climbed off his seat and joined his companion. “Ya don’t even knows her.” “She asked me nicely.” “Is that so?” The big man snarled at the barmaid. She blanched and tried to look busy wiping down the countertop. “Tell ya something, stranger. She may have charmed ya with those huge eyes, but she ain’t got a lick of honor. Let a tramp be a tramp, I say.” “Leave her alone.” “Plow yourself. Now get the hell outta Appledown. Or else I’ll beat ya till your eyes fall outta your skull.” “I’d like to see you-” A fist went flying for the stranger’s face. He sunk to the floor as the big man missed and stumbled into a stool. The small man predicted the dodge and swung low, thudding the stranger just below the collarbone. A boot collided with the small man’s crotch, sending him howling onto the floor. The stranger pulled himself up, grimacing at the stinging pain in his shoulder. He hauled the big man off the stool and steadied him with one arm, pulling the other back to strike. “Big mistake, jackass.” There was a sickening crunch. A tooth ejected out of the big man’s bleeding mouth as he crumpled to the floor. The stranger rubbed his broken knuckle as he marched right up to the small man. He grabbed the bastard by the collar and slammed him against a support beam. “Got anything to say?” “Uh, I . . .” The small man was shaking like a leaf. “I . . . oh, please don’t hit me like you did Bert! I like my teeth, mister!” “Got anything to say?” growled the stranger. “I . . . yes! I’m sorry, mister. I’m sorry from the bottom—” “Not to me, Clod. Got anything to say to the lady?” “Oh, yes! Of course! Miss Lily, I’m ever so sorry for . . . uh, for everything . . .” “That wasn’t—” “It’s fine, mister.” Lily circled around bar and stood at a safe distance. “I know Sammy means it. I forgive ya, even though you’re an ass.” The stranger narrowed his gaze at the small man—Sammy—then released him. He fell flat on his rear, then scurried off on his heels, clutching his throat and gasping for air. “Thank you ever much, mister.” Lily fluttered her eyes and touched her chest. The stranger was dubious of her honor in that moment. “I wish there were more men like ya round here.” “It was a pleasure to help, miss. Now, I could sure use a drink.” “Naturally!” She drifted behind the bar and began filling a mug without asking his preference. “Ya know, I don’t even know what to call ya.” “Hal.” “Hal,” sighed the barmaid, as if savoring it. “Here’s your drink.” No sooner had Hal taken two steps toward the not-so-cold beverage, a familiar click sounded behind him. A frightening click, none other than the hammer of a gun. “Ya think you’re God’s gift to . . .” The big man—Bert—rolled onto his side and vomited blood, but kept his revolver aimed at Hal. He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand and spit. “. . .to the world. Well, today ya fucked with the wrong kinda man.” “You don’t want to do this, ‘Bert’. Trust me. You don’t want to do this.” “No, trust ‘me’. I wanna do this.” “Bert, no—!” Hal’s gun leapt from its holster. He turned on a dime, at an angle, as a bullet whizzed by and shattered a bottle on the countertop. He slapped the gun-hammer with his wrist. Once. Twice. A third time. He somersaulted behind an overturned stool, whipped around and narrowed the iron at Bert’s head. Bert’s head wasn’t there anymore. The room was dead quiet, save for the convulsing body slapping the floor over and over. Gore painted the walls, tables and chairs. A chunk of crimson rolled down a support beam. Bert was still clutching the gun. His body jerked, and the pistol fired. An elderly woman screamed and hit the floor, covering her head with an opulent, enormous purse. A bullet disseminated the purse with an explosion of fabric. The woman screamed again. “Stay down!” demanded Hal. “There’s still rounds in the cylinder!” Another projectile ricocheted then vanished. The air was still, thick with fear. An elderly man turned green as a pear, struggling to contain his hearty dinner. He didn’t succeed. Hal counted his breaths, one, two, three. Four breaths later, Bert’s corpse was finally peaceful. “Bert!” cried Lily. She flung herself at his grisly remains and clutched his forearm to her breast. “Bert, no . . .” “Sorry,” muttered Hal. “Sorry? You’re sorry?” She began to sob. “That’s all ya have to say?” “He was going to kill me.” “Ya . . . ya pushed him too far!” “I thought you wanted me to do something—” “I didn’t want ya to kill him! Ya son of a bitch! I was pregnant with his . . . with him . . .” Her face contorted with sadness. The wound reflected in her soaked eyes as she gazed up at Hal, with sorrow, with fury. “What kinda man are you?” Hal dabbed a small tear in the corner of his eye. He met Lily’s gaze with earnest, unsure what to say. She would hate him till the day she died. He said the only thing he could. “The wrong kind.” He turned without another word and exited through the swinging doors. He hated smalltown taverns.


The shed was lit by a single candle on the table. Around the table there were four men, one of whom had the tallest shadow on the wooden wall. The tallest man's name was Gribb. A skilled mercenary, he was there in the service of the castle's lord. Although he did dress like one, Gribb did not have the intimidating looks of a mercenary for he was rather skinny - nor did he have the mercenary charm that the ballads always spoke of. His long hair was falling out and there was a hideous scar that split his lips in two which was barely hidden by his grey scruffy beard. He was the tallest man in the shed not because he was actually tall but because he was accompanied by three dwarves. The dwarves; named Dobber, Baldric and Whoredoom, were appointed by their lord to control the main gate. They were drinking beer and playing dice when Gribb arrived to deliver the bandit's head. Dobber, undoubtedly the dumbest of the three, had taken the head - because the lord was asleep - and paid the mercenary for his service. When the mercenary requested to join their game he could not say no; for the game was more fun with four people. Baldric did not like that the mercenary was with them and did not trust him. But he was too drunk to even care. "So," Whoredoom shouted, after taking a huge sip. "Why do they call you The Vulture? Because you look like one?" He laughed and spewed his drink on the table. Gribb grinned. "Why do they call you Whoredoom?" Baldric responded with a hiccup: "Because wherever he goes, the whores run away." The men laughed as Whoredoom groaned. "You know why they call me that," he shrugged. "I bring their doom by fucking them senselessly." "Sure," Baldric said and stood up to refill his cup. Dobber looked at Gribb's daggers and the long bow on the ground besides him. The mercenary also had a rusty sword which he allegedly never used. "I know why they call you The Vulture," the bald dwarf finally said, still looking at the weapons. "You loot your enemies. You never pay for anything, do you? Not even your clothes?" Gribb took a sip from his cup and smirked. He liked the dwarves. "I must pay for something. I am a mercenary, am I not? I kill for money." He looked down at his clothes and added: "Even so, I must admit I did not pay for these." Whoredoom and Dobber laughed loudly. Baldric was just watching the mercenary with a solemn look. "How do you sleep at night, Vulture? I heard you murdered those farmers up the hill." Gribb chuckled . "I am a weapon, good dwarf. Does your axe have feelings? Does it cry at night when you smash it on someone's head?" Baldric played with his beard. He had contempt in his eyes. The mercenary should not have been welcomed. He took a sip and replied: "My axe does not swing itself. It is I, who swings it." Gribb raised his cup and smiled. It was not a pretty smile. "Then consider me as an axe. An expensive one, of course." He finished his drink and continued: "It is the man who pays me, that swings it. If someone pays me enough, I can kill your entire family, then come here and drink with you. Because it is not personal. Did I murder those farmers? Sure, I did. Did I feel bad about it? Maybe a little bit. But only when it is night and I put my daggers beside my bed. Because only then, I am not on duty. I only take responsibility for my actions when I am doing it for myself and so far, not even once, have I murdered someone for myself." Dobber moved on his chair uncomfortably. "What if someone asks you to kill a baby?" Gribb shrugged. "Then I would kill it. For the right price." There was a silence in the shed. Even Whoredoom did not have anything to say. When the silence was interrupted by a whoot of an owl, Dobber asked: "Would you feel bad about it?" Gribb replied by sighing: "Sure I would..." He stood up and stretched his arms. "Only at night, in my bed." Whoredoom laughed and Baldric cursed. When another whoot was heard Gribb smiled sadly. "I shall also feel bad tonight. Thank you for the beer." The mercenary drew his two daggers and stabbed Dobber and Whoredoom in their necks. Baldric jumped to get his axe but the mercenary pulled another dagger and threw it at the dwarf's back. Finally, he walked towards a lever and pulled it down. The gate was open and hundreds of bandits rushed to the castle from the forest. As the night was about to be filled by screams and agony, the mercenary walked towards Baldric's lifeless body and took his axe. It was a little heavy for him but it did not matter.