《And The Fog Rolled In》


 As Good a Place to Start

    Kenneth Oswald turned on the radio. The man couldn''t start his day unless some good old Rock blasted throughout the kitchen. It stirred something in his aching body that he was sure disappeared a long time ago. He spent his mornings alone, so he did not need to be quiet for anyone. Without waiting to see what song was on, he turned the knob as far as it would go, ready for the music to beat his eardrums to death. As soon as Bon''s voice blared from the speaker, Ken stomped his foot to the rhythm, slamming his right hand against an invisible guitar. A weak smile crept on his face, hand dropping back to his side. Even his imaginary performance could not compete with Angus.


    Giving up, he retrieved a glass of juice, waiting for his bread to toast. He didn''t need to eat much in the morning. His appetite was not the same these days. Opening his fridge, he took a quick look inside. Eggs, milk, fresh fruit, and all the veggies he could want. "Gross," he muttered, feeling his stomach churn just by looking at it. He would go hungry before eating any of that so early. Turning to the cabinets, he found some tortilla chips. Not the most nutritious thing, but it was one of the few things he could stomach for some reason. In the mornings, his stomach was an odd, delicate machine, and it made him miserable if he forced it to do anything other than what it wanted.


    Sitting at the table, he mixed a little laxative in his juice. This kickstart to his system would make everything in his fridge seem appetizing by lunch. "If you want blood," Bon yelled through the radio, "you got it." Ken joined him in repeating the sentiment, thinking that if he wanted blood, all he had to do was skip the laxative.


    Munching on a chip, he picked up the newspaper, though he knew there was no use in looking at it. Nothing changed. Maybe the names were different, but the events were the same. Someone was born to a loving family. A politician lied, failing to uphold his promises. One man died in his sleep; another was murdered in cold blood. Someone was behind bars for a heinous crime. A brewing scandal had bubbled over. Something happened in Washington that would affect everyone. A situation was developing in another country that had horrible ramifications.


    If the story was considered big enough, the names didn''t even change because the journalists loved to update their readers by telling them there were no new developments. "Anything to fill up a page," Kenneth mused, but no one called him that. Kenny or Ken were his usual designations. As he turned on yet another page of meaningless news, Angus''s last note rang out. Not missing a beat, Dylan took over, singing about being stuck in some hole called Mobile while having Memphis blues. Still, no matter how bad the papers were, it had to be better than watching one of those all-day news channels nonstop. At least he could peruse what happened, not care, and skip on to something else. All he wanted to know was what happened here. Everything else was a distraction.


    Glancing out the corner of his eye, he peered through his kitchen window. From his seat, he had a clear view of his well-lit front porch, the dim driveway, and halfway down the dark road. Ronald would be pulling up in the next ten minutes. He could be laidback, but tardiness, among other things, pushed his buttons in the worst ways possible. Kenny watched him make a grown man cry when he took too long finding his wallet. On this leisurely morning, the last thing he wanted was to see Ronald''s neck vein pop.


    In the driveway, a large blue tarp floated in the air, giving the faintest outline of a car. Ken''s tan Buick sat beneath it. The old car got him from point A to point B for years, but now its engine was beyond repair; only a new one could get that machine moving again. Ken was at one of the crossroads in a driver''s life. Did he repair the old car or get a new one? He hated choices like that. Not once in his differing job-filled career did he have a more dreaded decision. Still, whatever his choice, it would be written in stone at the end of the day.


    Out of habit, he felt his hand slide down the front of his shirt. A familiar sleek texture slipped between his fingers. His hand climbed back out to reveal a chatoyant gem. The stone''s color varied on the surface, going from a reddish brown to a muted gold. Passed down in his family for generations. "The Tiger''s Eye," his grandmother explained on the day she gave it to him. "An heirloom of times long forgotten. When your child is old enough, give it to him and tell him the story that I tell you now. Listen close, Kenneth. You will never hear it again."


    Over the years, parts of the story slipped from his mind. It''s not as if he heard it a million times as is the case with many family stories. His grandmother was true to her word and never breathed a word about it after its one and only telling. Still, it was hard to forget the high points. Never in his life had he heard such a strange tale. The old story of how the Tiger''s Eye came to poor pig farmers in Tennessee was like something ripped right out of a fairy tale.


    Sitting at his table, the familiar phrases came back to him. The Knight of the Lake, Tiger of the Sky, the Iron Queen, Dragon of the Sea, The King of Nothing, Witch of the Sands, Wizard of the Ashes, and the Eternal Night that consumed them all. A strange woman imparted this story, along with the Tiger''s Eye to Kenny''s ancestors. All she asked in return was a meal, three dimes, and a pig. She stayed with them two days, in which time her pig disappeared. On the morning of third day, she asked if she could borrow their horse. She needed a ride into town. They let her. She never returned, along with their horse.


    "Pointless drivel," he murmured, ruminating back on his childhood. A week after his grandmother''s tale, he was running around with a stick, swinging at overhanging branches, pretending to be the Knight of the Lake. If he remembered right, he told Emily all about it and his little sister chased behind him as the Iron Queen. The old bat liked to knock us silly, he thought, remembering when she caught them. In literature, it was common for grandparents to serve as gentle mentors, teaching the younger generation to believe in magic and strive to be heroes. Reality is a bit different. As a boy, he didn''t understand why his grandmother told him such a fantastical story if she didn''t want him to play at being a knight. In his adulthood, he understood all too well¡­


    He must have dozed off because bright headlights flashed through the window making him jolt. "Ron''s late," he yawned, looking at the clock. He laid his paper back on the table, not finished with the local news. When he got back, he''d finish it. "Wife must''ve had an early bird shift." If there was one thing that made him tardy, it was that wife of his. However, if Ken had a woman as pretty as that, he wouldn''t get anywhere on time. Drinking the last drop of his juice, he left the useless paper behind, turned off the radio, threw his coat on, and cut the lights as he went out the door.


    His driver was already parked and waiting on the porch when Ken stepped outside. Tapping his foot, Ronald said, "What''s the big rush? We got all morning, right?" The hint of sarcasm in his voice was noted. He was not the friendliest fellow before dawn, regardless of his wife.


    "Nice seeing you too, Ron," he replied, stretching with a yawn. There was only one way to deal with Ronald''s attitude. Kindness. A lesson he learned long ago. He was quick to rage, but just as fast to cool down. No point in picking a fight over the pettier things of life. "Sorry to make you do this."


    Ron shot him an accusing eye. "As if I had any other choice, if the others found out I left the old man out to dry, they''d never give me a break." With a choked snort, he added, "Took me long enough to get any respect in this town. Can''t let it all go to waste now."Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    "Don''t worry," Ken assured him. "When I see them next week, I''ll give you a raving review. That''ll keep them all in line."


    Ron scratched his goatee, considering how much he could get done in that pitiful newspaper with all the underlings snapping to. Before he dazed off for too long, he came back to himself, saying, "Ready?" Ken nodded and they hopped in the car.


    "Care if I turn on the radio?" he asked, as they pulled out.


    Ron shrugged. Ken flicked over to his favorite station. They caught Tom Petty singing about his last dance with Mary Jane. In the pale moonlight, Ken could spot the shoreline, a short outcrop of rock and sand, ten yards away from the road. Thick grass and trees were on the other side. Out here, it was as if no one else existed. Ken loved it out here for that reason. They rode in silence. No matter how long they knew one another, they were not much for talking, expect for a topic they both found interesting. Both were part of different generations with little to connect one another. However, there was one bond that held the pair closer than they knew.


    "Finished that King book you gave me," Ron murmured as they rounded a bend. The windy road ran along the rocky shoreline. Few travelled it during the day and less at night. That was how Ken liked it. Why else would he get a home on the more dangerous side of the island, where no tourists came for a swim?


    "Which one was it again?" With age, it was hard to remember book titles. Besides, Stephen King had so many stories under his name, one would find it difficult to name them all. "The Mist," he asked, trying to recall the last novel he let the younger man borrow.


    "The Eyes of the Dragon," Ron corrected. "Gonna get around to Mist in a few weeks. Have a few I want to finish first."


    "Eyes of the Dragon," Ken muttered. A fairy tale of two brothers and a wicked sorcerer who drove a wedge between them. Filled with deceit, death, and triumph. It was an interesting title among the horror novelist''s work. He enjoyed the narrative style of the all-knowing narrator. The tragedy of the two brothers was well-crafted. He loved the villain and it was a great tie-in to his massive Dark Tower series. Ron hated the ending of that juggernaut of a series, though Ken believed there was no better way to end it.


    "Take your time," the older man continued. "It''s not like those books are going anywhere." It pained him to think of how many novels were in his study, gathering dust. No point in reopening tales he knew backwards and forwards. If only he had someone to pass them on to, but no chance of that anymore.


    "Kid still not taking to you?" Ron ventured.


    It was pain that made Ken whirl his head around and shoot his companion a heated glare. His gentle, calm demeanor made him regain his composure, reining in his tongue. "Yeah," he breathed, struggling to keep the rage out of his tone. He could still see that mop of black hair walking out of his life forever.


    An awkward silence filled the car as the guitar solo kicked in. They went about two miles as Petty sang. "Got to go to one of his concerts once," Ken said, slicing through the quiet with a shaky hand. "Wasn''t my favorite, but wouldn''t trade going there for anything." He paused, mulling it over. "Well, maybe to see Led Zeppelin again, but who wouldn''t do that?"


    Ron shrugged as he did when he didn''t care about a conversation. Rock wasn''t his thing; Blues and Jazz were. Another silence fell on them. Ken struggled to think of something to talk about, anything to get his mind off that hair which faded into the depths of his memory. "Did you ask your woman yet?" As soon as he said this, he knew that this was the worst limb he could climb out on.


    At this, Ron shot him a look. The car swerved, which he righted at once. "You know good and well that I didn''t ask her anything," he snapped, hacking the branch off. "Do you think it''s that easy? Ask her to leave her island home and go to the mainland. Leave where she grew up, the place she wants to raise our kids, the scrap of land she wants to die on. No, I didn''t ask her."


    "Sorry, didn''t mean to strike a nerve," Ken answered, trying to calm him down, but it was too late. When Ron got started, there was nothing that could be done. He had to get it all out of his system. His ranting continued as Tom Petty''s outro ended and a soft intro to a Styx song began. Its soft guitar intro contrasted with the heat in Ron''s voice.


    "What''s so great about this stupid place? Everyone acts like their lives are carefree, not even considering a single reason why anyone''d want to leave, and my wife is the worst of the bunch." His fingers gripped the wheel until his dark knuckles began to turn white. With every word, he picked up the speed. It was not long before they were too fast for the little country roads. Hitting another curve, he jerked the wheel to keep from racing off the road.


    "Ron, slow down," Ken suggested. He knew the road as if it were tattooed on his hand. There was another turn up ahead. It was sharp. At this speed, they wouldn''t make it.


    "She doesn''t get it. I came here to get work. Gain experience. Transfer as soon as possible."


    "Slow down," he ordered, raising his voice. They were getting too close for his comfort.


    "Didn''t plan on meeting her, getting married, starting a life together, and all that garbage."


    "Ron, stop!" he yelled, hitting his hands against the dashboard in growing panic.


    At once, his younger companion slammed the brakes. The high-pitched squealing of tires filled their ears. They slid down the road. The turn appeared in their headlights. Ron spun the wheel. Ken watched the railing, dented by reckless drivers, fast approaching. How ironic. His trip to get a new car would end up in a life-shattering wreck.


    When his eyes opened, steam swirled around the hood. Styx kept on playing, unaware of the ordeal they endured. Tommy Shaw sang, "I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me. Or am I even in its mind at all?" With a snap, Ken started patting around his body, searching for any immediate injuries. He found none. Worst he had was a little whiplash. He had worse on the job. "Ron," he said, turning to his companion.


    Ron hunched over the steering wheel with his fingers gripping for dear life. His breath came in rough pants. There was no sign of harm on his body. A thick sweat dripped off his forehead. "What am I doing?" he hissed, teeth clenched. When his eyes met Ken''s, large tears welled up in the corners. "I''m so sorry. I don''t know what came over me."


    Ken knew all too well. Ron suffered from what his grandfather called a Geyser Temper. It laid dormant most of the time, not troubling anyone, but from time to time, it exploded. It happened fast as a snap and was over just as fast. In the end, there would be few signs that it happened at all. "Plenty suffer from it, good and bad alike, but mild-mannered, kind folks have it the worst," his grandfather said. "Rage is not normal for them. They might take things too far."


    As they sat in the car, Ron had almost gone too far. Turning away from Ken, he pushed his face against the wheel. "I''m sorry," he repeated. "Don''t know what came over me."


    Ken said nothing, feeling for the Tiger''s Eye. "Dodged another bullet," he murmured, fingering the gem. Since a fateful day in the forest by his childhood home, he never took the stone off from around his neck. Despite its pitiful origin, there was this odd sense that somehow it brought him a form of good luck. He could not prove it, but whenever he wore it, he never got hurt. So, though it made his grandmother roll in her grave, he believed in magic, if only this little bit.


    The smoke kept rolling from the hood. Strange, he thought. The airbags didn''t go off. There was no jolt. Leaning forward, he couldn''t spot any signs of crushed and twisted metal. They had not wrecked. It was close, but they were okay. Yet thick smoke floated around the hood all the same. Opening his door, he bumped into the metal railing, making that the only damage the car received during Ron''s reckless fit. Slipping into Ken''s lap, a steady stream of smoke crawled into the car. His eyes darted toward the sea. An opaque wave of mist made its way toward them at a turtle''s pace. At once, he knew what was happening.


    Slapping Ron on the shoulder, he snapped, "The car''s fine. Let''s go."


    "What?" Ron exclaimed, half out of relief. The other half worried what made Ken''s voice take on this sudden sharpness.


    "Fog," he said, just as Styx cried out, "Crystal Ball. There''s so many things I gotta know." Ron''s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he whipped out of his mood, regaining his focus. Tomorrow did not matter when today was right in front of them. He threw the car into drive, racing away from their near demise, back on their course. Though he didn''t know it, Kenneth''s day wouldn''t end with a new car. He wouldn''t read the rest of his paper. By the end of the day, returning home was a luxury worth one''s own soul. Before the day was done, Ken would give anything for a crystal ball.


    And the fog rolled in.

 On the Sea the Night Before

    Anne bent over the toilet bowl, trembling hands slammed against the walls of the little two-foot bathroom. Her stomach churned, threatening that her guts were about to expel last night''s dinner into the porcelain bowl. Chicken, beans, and rice; great meal to see the morning after. She swallowed, struggling to keep the contents of her guts where they belonged, but as it rushed up her throat, it was a losing battle. All she could do was lock her knees, open her mouth, close her eyes, and let her body do its worst.


    It only took ten seconds, but in the cramped room, it might as well have been an hour. Her left arm gave out at the end, sending her to the floor. Lucky that she didn''t bust her teeth on the bowl. Al would throw a fit. The slightest sign of blood would send him into a panic that only medicine could calm. Would it be even possible to calm him if his wife walked up with shattered teeth and a mouth full of blood? Wiping her mouth, she pulled the chain, washing away her returned dinner.


    She gave herself a minute to relax. Couldn''t stand up too fast. That was a good way to have an encore where only the stomach juices would show up. She winced at the thought. Clambering to her feet, she staggered to the sink, right outside the door, a little pedestal attached to the wall. Cold water cleaned off her lips and hands. The hot water hadn''t worked in years; Al didn''t have the cash to fix it. Too many expenses to cover everywhere else. "The entire sea''s full of cold water," Al would say. "Hot water only makes it harder to get used to." Anyway, a pot on the stove got them enough warm water when it was really needed.


    Beneath her feet, she felt a rocky jolt, interrupting the steady rocking she was accustomed to. A terrible bout of nausea overwhelmed her. Clutching the sink, which bowed down under her weight, she swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that inched up her throat. Despite its protesting, the stream of vomit slid back down into the stomach. Anne took a deep breath, releasing the sink, which remained at its down-turned angle. "Crap," she hissed through her clenched teeth.


    Morning sickness got worse every day, especially over the last week. She stood barefoot in her little blue nightgown, which cut off at the knee. The night dress clung to her swelling belly, which was close to bursting through the taut fabric. She was sure it would be big enough to get her through the entire pregnancy, but as was the usual case, she was wrong. A month ago, she hoped Al wouldn''t go back out to sea until little Austin was born. Til twelve days before, he kept that promise.


    In her mind''s eye, she could still see the furrowing creases in his forehead, making him a decade older than he was. If he lost a little more hair, he would be his father''s twin. "What do you want me to do?" he lamented that terrible day, fingers running down his cheeks. "Defy orders? This is a business. If I don''t do it, Archie will find someone else. Do you want me to leave my family destitute?" Tears welling up in his eyes, she had caressed him, pressing his face against her shoulder.


    It was never easy, no matter what they did. Al''s leaving was bad, but Anne joining him on the boat was worse. This was not a pleasure cruise. Al was captain of a fishing boat. It was hard work, sometimes even dangerous. Though captain, Al couldn''t make the call if his wife could go with him or not. Archie owned the business, boats, captains, and every fisherman aboard. Nothing happened under his nose, and if he didn''t approve, heads would roll. It took begging and paperwork to keep the couple together.


    She couldn''t go above deck without a chaperone; Archie''s orders. Anne looked around her home away from home. Her dress laid on the chair while Al''s workshirt laid on the floor. The chair was adjacent to a desk, stacked high with documents and charts that Al looked over every night. A small cabinet held what snacks it could. On a stand, an old television sat wedged in one corner behind the door. A stack of books rested on the bookshelf near the bed. This was all she had to get her through the day.


    She wondered if they made the right choice. Would it have been better if she stayed home? Though she would be alone, at least she would be surrounded by the familiar. Back home, they had a plan. The baby room was ready. Plenty of formula and food waited for their bundle of joy. Their house was fifteen minutes away from the hospital. Mr. Daniels would look after the animals. Dr. Micah was a gentle, reassuring man. Under his supervision, they had nothing to worry about. All of that was gone now. None of their preparations meant a thing if they had a body of water between themselves and all their plans.


    What scared her the most was that she had no idea when this baby would come or where she would be when it happened. The thought of having their child in this cramped room horrified her. It was enough to make her nausea overtake her again. Her trembling hand reached up for her face when a sudden snore burst into her eardrums, making her head whip toward a twin-sized bed, one that she almost fell out of on a daily basis. A mop of brown hair stuck out from under the blankets. With slow, quiet steps, she approached the hair, lifting back the sheets with a careful hand to reveal her husband.


    He slept in his sailor''s t-shirt and shorts, pink anchors on red fabric. Her choice for a gag present at the wedding. They were never going in the garbage. "As long as you''re my wife," he said once. "I know they''ll bring me all the luck in the world." With how he looked now, she knew he believed that. No matter how rocky the waves, he could sleep. As long as no one called him or made any loud noise, he would remain in a pleasant dream''s embrace until it was time to awaken. A gentle smile rested on his face, making the hard creases of life vanish. His shoulders, which tried to carry the weight of the world when he stood, sagged in contentment. In spite of herself, she reached under the covers and lifted his hand to her cheek.


    The hard calluses scrubbed against her skin, but, through them, his warmth surged through her face. It was just as vibrant as their wedding day. She sighed. It felt like an eternity ago. Once upon a time, they were children with stories of knights and princesses in their heads. Those daydreams drowned beneath the tides of years, bills, and tireless work that kept the couple''s heads above water. They were no longer children and had to put away childish things. To survive, one needed something real.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    These tough hands got her through some difficult times. Putting down her cat. Grandma''s Alzheimer''s. The miscarriage. He held her hand every time, comforting her just as she did for him. Closing his parents'' store. Those months he was bedridden. When his father died. They saw each other through all the lows of life. With a faint smile, she knew that this time would be no different.


    Yes, it will, a foreign thought came.


    A sudden darkness weighed on her as if an anvil dropped on her chest, just like in an old cartoon. "Here it comes again," she muttered. In the corners of the room, the shadows grew, smothering everything beneath its oppressive blanket. She trembled as it approached her. Fear gripped her heart tight, threatening to crush it in its palm. The dark surrounded her, floating around her as debris in a lake. At any moment, it would drown her and none of her worries would matter.


    "Go away," she cried at the darkness. "Leave me alone."


    Just as it had before, it halted by the grip of an invisible hand. The dark circled around her, salivating foam rising from its depths. Soon, the thought spoke again. Soon, you will see. That will be the day your very cries will die in your throat. At once, the darkness retreated back into their corners, sliding down the walls until they vanished into the faint shadows that birthed them. Was it all part of a dream? After three times, Anne was not sure.


    She drew in a shaky breath, the only thing that proved she was alive. Burying her hands into her armpits, she struggled to steady her trembling. The horror of what she witnessed lingered, building to her growing apprehension. She tried turning her thoughts back to her daily life and worries, but this time, there was nothing she could do. Though the darkness had not drowned her, it somehow left its mark on her mind.


    "What''s wrong, darling?" a familiar voice asked. Her head snapped toward the bed to see Al''s lazy blue eyes flashing at her, along with a grin. "What''s with all the racket about? Can''t a guy get some sleep?"


    "Sorry," she muttered, the shadows haunting her.


    He sat up, sheets slipping to his lap. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he asked, "Are you okay?"


    "Of course," she lied, trying to make it as believable as possible. Doubt flashed in his eyes. No matter how hard she tried, it was hard to put anything past him. He rubbed his face, fingers running down his cheeks, as he did when he started a conversation he didn''t want to have.


    "Is there anything you need to tell me?" he asked.


    "No," she lied again, glancing away from him. It hurt to speak to him so. Since the day they met, they told each other everything. To keep something from him felt wrong, but what was she supposed to say? Who would believe her? She read about how hysterical some women were during their pregnancy. Could this be one form of that hysteria?


    A silence walled up between them. Al tapped a hole through it, his words struggling to reach her. "I know you got a lot on your mind, but don''t worry. Everything''s worked out this far. That''s not going to stop now." His hand went back to her shoulders, fingers tightening, but she didn''t face him. She couldn''t. "Nothing''s going to be perfect, but we''re going to have this baby, and we''re going to be great parents."


    "How do you know?" she whirled around. Her hands went to her swelling belly, which held a lost child once upon a time.


    In a strange twist, that self-confident grin vanished and his eyes dropped to the bed. "I don''t," he replied. The silent wall was whole again. It wasn''t often that they had nothing left to say. They were awkward moments that Anne wanted over as soon as possible. She tried to find the words to break through the wall, but there was nothing she could do. The darkness in her mind overwhelmed her, chasing any comforting words from her mind.


    Al got out of bed and took a deep breath. "Listen," he said, cupping his ear. "The birds are calling for day to break." Climbing out of bed, he took her by the hands, pulling her toward the door. "Let''s go watch the sunrise."


    "No," she gasped, horrified. For a split moment, the darkness lost its hold. "I''m not ready." She eyed her dress on the chair. "What if someone sees us?"


    "Let their jealous hides look as long as they want," he laughed. "When you''re in my arms, no one else exists." Ending the discussion, he swept Anne off her feet, carrying her out of their room. She pulled a blanket off the bed, giggling in spite of herself. An inner light burst in her mind, and the shadows retreated. Her arms tightened around his neck. In his embrace, she couldn''t feel the shakiness of the sea. It was as if she sat on dry land.


    He brought her out to the deck. A clear, dark sky awaited them. Countless stars sparkled overhead. Anne tried to spot any constellation, but she couldn''t even find the Big Dipper. The waters were gentle as the boat cruised along. A night breeze brushed against her bare legs. "Oh," she gasped as the air ran goosebumps across her skin.


    "Cold?" he asked. She nodded. He set her on her feet. The shakiness returned, but as long as he was close, she was okay. He wrapped the blanket over her shoulders, holding her close as they walked across the deck. Few men were above deck and none of them paid attention to the couple, for which she was thankful. They walked in the bow''s direction. "Want to play Titanic?" he whispered, eyeing the railing''s end.


    "No," she snapped back. The last thing she wanted was to balance on the rails and risk plummeting into the cold water. These thoughts made her aware of the shadows again. They weren''t gone. The darkness still lingered at the edge of her inner light. She didn''t understand why she couldn''t shake it. Everything she saw had to be a dream, right?


    Perhaps, the voice whispered from the abyss.


    It was then that she knew. If that was not a dream, that shadow, and whatever caused it, was fast approaching. With a shudder, she knew that if it came, it would make all her worries seem like ashes in the wind. Nothing else in her life would matter. Who would comfort her in that despair?


    With a thin smile, she knew the answer. The same man that had for the better part of a decade. Forcing herself to stop staring into the abyss, Anne turned to her husband, sliding her arms around his waist, intertwining her fingers. His warmth rushed up her arms. "I love you. Please, just let me hold you."


    He returned her embrace. "Okay." They stood as two statues against the world. The waves sloshed against the boat. Seagulls cawed as they glided overhead. The dark sky took on a blueish hue in the distance. They were a picture, painted by a being outside mortal comprehension. What would this piece be called, The Calm Before the Storm?


    It didn''t matter. Anne seized this moment and held on for dear life. Out here, all of their daily worries were a world away, almost as if they were part of a fading nightmare. Even her dreams seemed to be made of smoke vanishing on a light breeze. Anne gazed into his eyes and all was right. They stood at the bow, holding each other tight as they waited for the sun to rise. They would not see the shimmering light of dawn. Perhaps the previous sunrise would be the last one they would see, because in the distance, between the foaming sea and the horizon, the fog rolled in.

 Any Job Is Better Than Nothing, Right?

    The pounding wouldn''t stop. Last thing he needed to do was drink himself to sleep. Hangovers were a killer on the job. Why couldn''t I be a weekend drunk like Dad? he lamented. Sure the old cow was a pain on Sundays, but at least it was predictable. A kid could avoid the worst of his father''s behavior if he knew it was coming. Too bad he couldn''t do the same for himself.


    Staggering through the dark, he massaged his temples hoping to alleviate the pain to no effect. He could solider through a hangover back in the day, but that vanished with his bulging biceps. There was a time when women would grab a side of the bar and let him bench-press them for a few minutes. "Ah," he murmured to himself, winching at the sound of his own voice. "Those were the days."


    A fresh thud jammed into his brain, but it wasn''t from inside. Rubbing his forehead, he blinked, finding himself on the ground, staring at a light pole. As if mocking him, the light flickered on and off, making it easy for one to run into it in the night. Hankins needed to stop being such a cheapskate and get some lights working for a change. No point in telling him that now. Employers didn''t like to be chastised or advised by new employees.


    With only having a week''s experience at the job, Ed thought he had a pretty good handle on it. Not that there was much to the position. All he had to do was trade places with the day guard, lock the gate behind him, and maintain the perimeter until his replacement came at dawn. Easy money. Simple task. Hardest part was keeping himself awake and entertained during the lonely nights. He had a boombox sitting at his stoop near the entrance, blasting ACDC. Right now, Bon was singing about cheap dirty deeds.


    He cut it off. His pounding head couldn''t take it anymore. Besides, Ed knew enough about dirty deeds. Not that he liked to dwell on the past. He preferred to think ahead, like his new job. Night guard at Avalon Lake. That was the best job someone like him could get around here. Hard to get work anywhere else with a record; sad fact of life. As luck would have it, Hankins was a trusting boss, even if most people found him a bit off-putting. It was strange for such a simple security job to require a firearm. He guarded a lake. It''s not as if Hankins owned the crown jewels. "Try telling him that," he laughed to himself.


    His aging employer had glared at him with his thin dark eyes. The owner''s office was littered with medieval memorabilia. Broadswords, daggers, a crossbow, two quivers of arrows, a painting of knights in combat, and a coat of arms displaying five bright-colored seashells. Ed didn''t know men Hankins age could be such fanatics. Looks like he plans to throw a crusade, he had mocked.


    In a physical sense, the man was far from intimidating. His bald head and wrinkles gave him the appearance of a ball of wet paper. He needed a cane to walk anywhere, requiring both hands to hold him up. Coughing into a handkerchief, he barked, "You''re the nightwatchman of Avalon. It is your duty to protect it no matter what. That gun is your sword. The flashlight is your guide in the darkness. No foe shall pass you."


    Staggering to his feet, Ed kicked at the light pole before resuming his patrol. Other than squirrelly poles, Ed had no reason to complain. He didn''t have to deal with all the tourists during the day. It made him weary just thinking about keeping people from littering in the lake or stopping kids from swimming. How can anyone keep that up all day? he wondered. His job was so easy by comparison. The night life was dead out here. His problems were few and far between. Worst situation was when a drunk kept trying to scale the fence, the main source deterring troublemakers. He fell and Ed had to call an ambulance. That was the most excitement he''d had yet.


    Avalon Lake was one of the oldest tourist attractions on the island. According to Hankins, there was a time when the line stretched from the gate all the way down the hill on the dirt road, seeming to run into town. Those days were long gone. Nowadays, most tourists came for the beach. The townsfolk had capitalized on this by centralizing the shops and hotels near the gulf, creating a perfection getaway spot for mainlanders. A lot could change in ten years. With so much beach life in town, fewer people cared to travel up the hill and visit the lake. Still, there were enough for Hankins to afford his guards and make a little profit, but not enough to keep the lights working right.


    In the brief flashes of the light pole, Ed caught some great glimpses of the lake. On the mainland, they might call it a pond, but with it being the biggest source of freshwater on the island. It might as well be a lake. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. At all hours, the water was a crystal-clear blue. One could see right to the muddy floor, which appeared so smooth and inviting. Ed wondered what it would feel like to wade in barefooted. At the center of the lake was a basalt rock, which was smooth as any gem. No animals lived in the water as if they did not wish to defile the crystal pool. It looked right out of a legend. Perhaps that was why it was given a name out of the King Arthur story. The lake had a legend of his own, going back long before the town''s foundation. It held no interest to the lake''s nightwatchman. Locals loved to invent stories to keep a tourist''s wallet around.


    Growing weary of walking, Ed staggered over to his post, unburdening his legs. The guard house was a simple chair, wooden shelter, a pedestal to sit behind, and a box to collect tickets. Adding a boombox was a massive improvement. If guarding this place was so important, one would think Hankins would put a little more money toward his guards'' comfort.


    His head''s throbbing refused to subside. If only there was a way to relieve his pain. Leaning in his chair, he felt his fatigue begin to catch up with him. When was the last time I got some decent sleep? he asked himself, not knowing the answer. He fought it, getting up, but his head began to swim, forcing him to sit once more. His fatigue worsened.


    Yawning, he murmured, "I can close my eyes for a minute. No harm in that." When his eyes opened again, he had no idea how much time had passed. Perhaps an hour. Maybe two minutes. Either way, his fatigue and headache were better, not much but anything was an improvement. That was all he needed to make it through the shift. Getting back on his feet, he stretched, bones popping. He froze. It was then that he saw it.


    The outside gate was open. "No," he muttered. "No. No. No." As if possessed by a madman, he tore toward the gate, pulling it closed with strength far beyond his own. It slammed shut only to bounce open again. The lock was gone, no doubt cut. His stomach dropped. Hankins was going to find out. There was no way to hide it. His boss would notice if the lock was replaced, not that Ed could remember what the old lock looked it. A simple lie could help him avoid his immediate punishment, but that was preventing the inevitable. That was a basic lesson he learned on the mainland. No one can escape his fate.


    Hankins would fire him. Didn''t matter if it was sooner or later. Unemployment was coming all the same. The mere thought made his stomach churn. It was hard enough to get this gig. Who would want to hire him after this? A fired convict was a double strike against him. He might as well get one of those swell face tattoos that would make him a triple-threat, guaranteed to remain unemployed for the rest of his life.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Standing in the depths of his despair, he looked at the open gate. Slip out, he thought. He could turn his back on it all now. It was not a great choice, but it had to be better than standing around and waiting to meet his fate. This way he could just quit and move on with his life. At least it was his choice to leave rather than someone else''s decision to fire him.


    A gasp burst into his ears. Someone''s here. At once, he swung his flashlight behind him to reveal no one. He swung the light around, searching around the lake. I know what I heard. Whoever is here can''t get far. He kept himself in the direct path of the gate. It was the only way out without climbing the fence. If they walked through the gate, they wanted to leave the same way. I won''t let them escape, he resolved. If he could catch the intruder, there was a chance to save his job. Hankins will understand. He had to. Ed''s job depended on it.


    "Come on out," he shouted, his head pounding at the sound of his voice. He shook his head, combating his pain. Too much was at stake to let a hangover hinder him. His ears perked up, listening for any sound that would declare the intruder''s location. The light moved around the fence, moving closer to the lake. He narrowed the hiding places until at last only the lake remained.


    He jolted when a crop of red hair fell beneath his light. "There you are," he cried in excitement. The bop of red hair slipped under the surface, leaving ripples in the water. "You can''t get away," he shouted, hurrying to the lake''s edge. Whoever was in the water didn''t know one of the first rules of Avalon Lake. There was no hiding under the surface. Though his flashlight couldn''t pierce deep into the water, it gave him more than enough light to see a human form swimming fast as a fish.


    He raced to where the figure wanted to reach the land. "Where do you think you''re going?" he shouted, as a figured attempted to scramble away. Before Ed could caught it full in the face with his light, the figure grabbed something and leapt back into the water, splashing water into his face. Grunting in frustration, Ed struggled to wipe the water from his blurring eyes. He ran around again, struggling to keep up with the figure. You''ll get tired soon enough, he puffed, and when you do, I''ll be waiting. The game of cat and mouse went on longer than Ed wanted. It was not long before he was gasping for air with a sharp pang in his side. Still, he kept limping around, keeping up with the intruder, who seemed to swim slower by the minute.


    At last, the figure got to the edge fast enough to climb out of the lake and begin racing for the gate. This is it, Ed realized through his blurry eyes, releasing his pistol from its hostler. "Both hands in the air. I have a gun and will shoot." The figure stopped running just short of the light post. A sigh of relief slipped from his lips. That was too close. A few more steps and it would''ve been too late. Edging forward with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he ordered, "Don''t make any sudden moves. Put both hands on your head. I''m turning you over to the police."


    "Umm," the figure asked. At once, Ed froze as the figure came into focus. Dripping wet, a red-haired woman stepped into the light, revealing herself to only be standing in a drenched towel. "Can I at least get decent first?"


    Edmund thought his teenage days of being flustered by a woman''s femininity was behind him. In his rebel days, he saw more than his fair share of women and believed he had them figured out. Still, here he was, heart pounding as he averted his eyes, turning his back to her. "Make it fast," he grumbled. His ears remained perked, listening out for any retreating steps. The awkward silence between them was only interrupted by the shuffling of a woman pulling her clothes back on.


    "Okay, I''m dressed," she announced when she finished. She wore a tight black t-shirt, reading "Hey Ho, Let''s Go," with a torn shoulder. Her short, form-fitting grey jeans cut off at the knees, revealing smooth legs. Wet spots dotted her clothes on her belly, at her knees, and under her armpits. She pulled her wet hair into a ponytail before raising her hands again. Despite her shambled appearance, Ed blushed again, taking a step back. She''s beautiful.


    "Now, what is this all about?" she asked with sweet innocence.


    "You know what this is about," he retorted, snapping out of his stupor. He could not get distracted. "You''re trespassing on private property," he stated, pointing at the open gate.


    "Oh," she replied with a shrug. "That."


    "Yes that," he spat. "Did the lock not clue you in?"


    "I was going to ask about that," she said. "It''s Thursday morning. That''s my swim time."


    "What are you talking about?" he exclaimed in confusion. How could she talk like it was the most natural thing in the world?


    "Didn''t Paul tell you?" she asked. He gapped at her, wondering who Paul was. Shaking her head, she groaned, "I told him to tell the new guy about Thursdays. This is what I get for not doing the deed myself." Dropping her hands back to her sides, she stepped toward Ed, hand extended. "I''ve been coming here every week for a little private swim. Paul''s let me do it for..." She cut herself off, pausing for an uncomfortable amount of time. "Ed?" she blurted in sudden surprise. "It''s you, right? Or am I getting people mixed up again?"


    "Do I know?" he started, but as soon as he recognized the scar on her lip, he knew her at once. "Henrietta Roberts." The firecracker of Hurricane High. There was a time when no one found her looks appealing. She had a big chest but that was about it. Too many freckles with bad acne spots. Worse hair. What she did have was an explosive personality. One that too many guys found too attractive to pass up.


    Who stood before him now was a different woman of a much higher grade. The rest of her body caught up with her chest, revealing her figure to have the curves in all the right place. In a word, she was perfect. "I go by Hettie now," she replied. "Still go by Ed or did ya do the opposite of me?"


    "No, same old Ed."


    She eyed him. "Well, I wouldn''t put it that way." Even in the dim light, he caught a glint in her eye. He didn''t say anything. If she knew he saw, who knew what she''d do, if under all the change she were the same old Henrietta.


    "What are you doing out here?" he demanded, changing the subject. It was so long since they saw each other. It''d be great to catch up. He winced, remembering the situation they were in. She was the intruder and he caught her. He glanced at the gun in his hand. Why did his life have to mock him? Couldn''t he have anything nice?


    "I think we''ve already been over that," she replied with a giggle. "Paul forgot to relay the message."


    There''s no Paul, he thought. You''re Henrietta. Rules weren''t on your list of priorities. He struggled to think of something to say, but found himself lacking for words. It doesn''t make sense, he hissed. One woman shouldn''t throw you off-balance so much.


    "Life is a tightrope. See the other side. Don''t lose your balance. It''s a long way to the bottom," an old face from the past reminded him. If he knew that years ago, Ed would''ve never landed behind bars. When a man couldn''t walk the rope, it became a noose around his neck. A wise man knew where to keep his feet.


    "So," Hettie said, tongue free of the cat''s claws. "Are you going to take me in, old buddy?"


    A warning bell rang in his mind. This was a woman who would send him into a freefall. Women had a bad habit of that. How many men sat in jail because of some dumb junk involving a woman? Still, when he looked into the eyes before him, something stirred inside him. An awakening desire that he was sure died long ago. A faint memory returned, one he had almost forgotten. His head stopped throbbing. At once, everything looked a little different and what was so important no longer mattered to him. Holstering his gun, he asked with a grin, "My shift is almost up. Wanna blow this place and get an early breakfast?"


    Under any other circumstances, they would''ve enjoyed that breakfast. Over a couple plates of bacon and waffles, they''d catch up, discussing everyone they used to know. In time, they''d run out of common topics. All they would have left was to talk about one another, which always sparked interesting emotions. Who knows where they''d go after that? But these were not average circumstances as the fog rolled in.

 Contemptuous Life

    Mr. Foster hated being a teacher. He wouldn''t admit it to anyone, not even his wife; well, when he was married. It didn''t matter what she knew now. Still, it was a secret, one he refused to reveal to himself most days. It was too painful. How could a man look himself in the face and admit that what he''d worked at for years brought him no pleasure. It was not just the tedious parts liking grading papers, preparing lessons, or dealing with unruly children and irritating parents. He hated teaching.


    School is a prison, he thought, as he had on more than one occasion. The alarm blared in his ear, reverberating in his eardrum. There was a time when he''d hit that alarm quick, springing out of bed to see what the day had in store. Not long after that, the noise would bother him and he''d slap the snooze button, if only to put off the inevitable and stare at the ceiling a little longer. Now, turning the alarm off was more bothersome than its insistent blaring turning him deaf.


    He stared at the ceiling''s porous surface. To look upon a surface so unremarkable was meaningless, and yet it held a curious fascination for him. The longer he stared at it, an odd uneasiness overtook him, but he couldn''t turn away. Above his head, the pores became dark stars on a white sky. His mind connected the black dots, forming constellations. Images took form, appearing before him as pictures in a photo album.


    His hand cracked against his forehead with such a sudden sharpness that his trace broke at once. With a snap, he turned away, cold sweat clinging to his skin. What did he see? His mind wouldn''t allow him to remember. To remember was to bring the horror to life. That must not happen, he reassured himself, faint shadows playing at the back of his mind. Shutting the eyes of his mind, he struggled to pull sleep back into his arms, and it kept trying to wiggle out of his grasp.


    Something jostled the edge of his bed. A second later, a weight dropped on his chest, driving the wind from his lungs. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the face of a Jack Russell gazed down on him. His white face with a black patch over one eye made him look like a pirate. "Morning, Mutt," he greeted with a groan. "Ready to face the day?" In answer, the dog edged his way closer to Mr. Foster''s face, close enough to run his slobbering tongue all over the man''s face.


    Reaching up, Foster scratched the dog behind the year. "Alright," he agreed with a groan, sitting up. The dog sprung off his chest, bounding to the floor. He whirled around, chasing the stub of his tail. Edmund sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. The dog sprung up, pushing his forelegs against his knee. "Alright Mutt, hold your horses."


    The dog''s name wasn''t Mutt. Mr. Foster wasn''t sure what was the dog''s name. Could''ve been anything. He called him Mutt because it was the only name the dumb dog would answer to. Truth be told, he wasn''t even the schoolteacher''s dog. Mutt, as he called him, showed up in his life with no fanfare. Nothing made it clear they were destined to be stuck together as man and beast. Walking out on his front door one rainy day, he found the pooch laying on the porch, sheltering himself from the foul weather. The dog was caked in mud, which he had tracked all over the porch floor. Foster couldn''t remember what he said, and it was a little hazy what happened after that first meeting.


    They weren''t master and pet, and the dog was far from being man''s best friend. They were roommates, nothing more. Their arrangement was simple. The dog slept in the hall at night and ate table scraps. During the day, Mr. Foster let him roam the island, as carefree as a dog should be. He wasn''t responsible for him until the sun went down, if Mutt showed up at all. There were times when he didn''t see him for days at a time. However, that wasn''t the case over the last month.


    It was hard for Foster to go anywhere or do anything without Mutt being close at hand. If it was only when he chopped up a chicken for dinner or went for a light jog, it wouldn''t bother him. Of course that would appeal to a dog''s sensibilities, but he couldn''t understand why he''d stare at him when he read a book or took a shower. Sometimes, he would watch him sleep. For a roommate that came and went whenever he wanted, this was odd behavior to say the least.


    The hardest part was when he had to go to school, that prison. When he let him out for the day, Mutt followed him all the way to school. The pooch occupied himself by chasing janitors, stray cats, and any passersby until the day was done. Mr. Foster smiled to himself, remembering Mutt''s antics, pushing a parent to get into a screaming match with the principal. His smile suppressed a little as his own reprimand followed. Only solution was keeping him indoors all day. Each day Foster hurried home so the dog could relieve himself outside and not on his oak floor.


    Mutt rushed into the bland kitchen, waiting for his breakfast. Foster looked in the fridge, stomach grumbling for food, but everything his eyes fell on made him nauseous. Turning to the cupboard, he found an old faithful. Retrieving two cans, he turned to his breakfast companion, who spun around in excitement. Mr. Foster took the only seat at the table, popping open a can of Vienna sausages, laying it on the ground. Mutt raced to it, lapping up the contents as fast as possible. With a faint grin, Foster opened his own can and ate.


    With each bite, he felt his thoughts wander back to the classroom, the one place he didn''t want to be. Perhaps there was a time he cared about his job, working as hard as he could to mold young minds and all that garbage. That time was long since passed, but he couldn''t recall when his mind changed. "Maybe I should just quit," he wondered aloud. At this, Mutt''s head perked up, glaring at him. "I know I''ve said it before," he replied, answering the dog''s unasked question. How many times had he gone down this line of thinking? How many times had he talked himself out of it? Too many times to count, he mused.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    What would he do if he cast his career aside? Could he find a job fast enough to maintain his accustomed style of living? He grimaced to himself. Jobs were a prison and at the school, he signed up for a lifelong sentence. Did he dare to escape it? It was a risky gamble, and if it didn''t go in his favor, he could lose everything.


    Once again, he noticed the invisible chains that bound him hand and foot in the prison cell. Phone bills, groceries, mortgage, electricity. Each were a chain the debt collectors of the world hooked into him. When he wanted to break free, the chains pulled him back. With a cruel grin, he remembered the cruelest thought of them all. What were chains but metal string? He was a marionette dancing to their song.


    At last, he found himself sitting at the same conclusion. Running through his fingers through his hair, he moaned, "It''s all a cage."


    And the bars are closing in, a little voice added. Life was a short thing. No escaping that. It''s not as if he had an alternative. Life was a game he was in until the end. All he could do was play the game and hope that he didn''t lose his shirt. And what would be my idea of winning? he wondered. That was simple. When he retired, he wanted to get as far away from people as he could. At least he would have peace and quiet as he served the rest of his sentence. The town was too noisy for his liking, even on the outskirts. There was some old crow that had a nice place out in the countryside. Perhaps I''ll buy the place when he kicks the bucket.


    On his kitchen table laid a little pile of novels. Each held their own bookmark. It was Foster''s habit to jump from one text to the next, depending on his personal interest. That was how he spent most evenings, reading at the dinner table. When he lost himself in the texts, he paid little attention to the rigidness of the chair or the dreadful existence he lived when he wasn''t reading. The one consolation of his chosen profession was that he was paid to read novels and talk about it as much as he liked. To some poor fool, that was a dream job. Set them in front of a group of apathetic children and see how much the fool likes it then.


    The pile of books varied every month based on which novels he finished. He had partaken of many classics. There were few modern books that caught his eye. Too many repeated what better works said long before. All the great stories were already written, he considered. Modern authors should smash their computers, burn their notebooks, and give up. All they care about is fame anyway. In his foolish years, he too thought he could be an author. He gave up when his own work made him want to retch.


    Taking the top book from the pile, he examined a cover displaying a man with cogs for a head. Plastered across the man''s chest were the words Brave New World. A society born from a tube. People conditioned from conception to live a certain way, think a particular way, and fulfill a specific role in society. Everyone had a purpose. There were those that could not fit into the system. Those people were removed from society and forced to live on islands separate from the rest of the world.


    Dystopia. A warning of a world that could be. Anyone who read that text would find it an atrocity. "We will never become that," they would say. Fools, he thought to himself. Couldn''t even understand that the world was more similar to that dystopia than they knew. The rules they lived by were not their own. They were ingrained into their brain from childhood, training them to live and think certain ways. When they grow up, they are expected to fulfill a certain purpose in society. And what happens to those that can''t fit in?


    Mutt''s barking snapped him back to his senses. Foster found his companion standing at the door, fur bristling. Must be a delivery, he reasoned. Since living in the house more, Mutt was far more protective of the home. However, he had the tendency to be overprotective. "C''mon, you stupid mutt," he groaned. "Shut up and let a man get some peace and quiet."


    Mutt persisted. A series of harsh barks burst out from between his curled lips. Fangs snapped. Spittle flew from the dog''s jaws. "Calm down, will ya?" he barked back, stomping his foot on the floor. Mutt paid no attention, continuing his yapping at whatever was on the other side of the door.


    "Oh for cryin'' out loud," he grunted. Tossing the book aside, he pushed himself to his feet, trudging toward the door. He''d overheard others complain about their dogs barking at nothing. Deep down, he hoped that Mutt would never become one of those. Striding to the kitchen door, he passed his shotgun, a present from his brother. Something to keep moronic tourists off his lawn. Only needed it once.


    When he reached the handle, his hand hesitated. A sudden tight apprehension overcame him. At the back of his mind, he remembered stories of unaware homeowners being attacked when they opened their front door. Home invasions were quite common early in the morning. People lacked their better senses. Well, this is the back door. Little chance of that happening, he thought with a slight grin. Ignoring the tightness, he pulled the handle. The door creaked inside to reveal nothing.


    His bare backyard revealed the little wire fence dividing his bit of property with his neighbor, whose name he always forgot. When the woman waved to him, he nodded. That was the extent of their relationship. It was still dark. The sun would rise soon to reveal his neighbor''s pool, which he found idiotic. We''re on an island, he grumbled more than once. A pool is as pointless as lips on an elbow.


    Mutt kept barking. "Oh, shut up," he yelled. "There''s nothing out there." He slammed the door behind him. Rubbing his chest, he tried to message the tightness, which lurked deep inside his chest. "Getting too old," he dismissed. Returning to the kitchen table, he went on dreading the day to come. Mr. Foster would get his wish. There would be no school that day. Perhaps he wouldn''t go back again.


    Life was full of uncertainties; and the fog rolled in.

 Hunter and Prey

    There you are. As the fur-coated head popped into her infrared scope, Eunice¡¯s heart pulsed in growing excitement. From behind the tree, the deer showed itself again for the first time in thirteen minutes. She sat upon a hill, hidden between thick bushes. A clearing with slight tree coverage sat in her sights. She hoped that some prey would wander through to graze, but everything that passed through went straight for the trees behind the clearing. After staying up half the night, she feared that she¡¯d end her hunt without any prize to show off. Nothing was more embarrassing than having nothing to show off.


    When this last deer appeared, a beautiful buck with fine horns, she felt her heart leap inside her chest. Sweat broke out on her palms. She took her time wiping her hands across her green-stained pants, taking care to not jostle the rifle or make too much noise. The buck stood clear in her night vision sights. Her heart pounded so loud in her ears that she feared the deer would hear. Clenching her teeth, she took the shot. The gun drove into her shoulder from the recoil. Sharp pain stabbed through her arm but she was used to it. Having a long history with guns, recoil was an old inconvenient friend.


    Her eyes narrowed at the clearing, expecting to find a deer carcass ready to be skinned and its meat processed. To her chagrin, she saw the white tail flapping behind the deer as it darted back behind the tree coverage. Choking down a curse, she pumped the rifle barrel to load another shot in the chamber, but she was too late to line up another shot. The deer was gone. I was too tense, she realized in bitter regret. She forced down the urge to scream her frustrations to the uncaring forest. The hunt was as much a game against herself as with the prey. If she threw in the towel, any chance she had of bagging a buck was gone. Besides, a single cry would alert half the forest of her presence. Forget even taking a squirrel home. The only path to victory was silent patience.


    As the minutes passed, her pillar of resolve edged closer to crumbling.It was possible she¡¯d never get a clear shot. Desperate to keep her mind off her doubtful annoyance, she recalled her father¡¯s second favorite movie. ¡°You gotta ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?¡± she muttered hoping the buck would take up her quiet challenge. She wasn¡¯t Clint or Harry, nor could her rifle take the buck¡¯s head clean off. Still, one shot was all she needed.


    Her patience was about to pay off. The buck poked his head around the tree, hoping to spot the attacker. She grinned, knowing that he would find nothing in the dark but bushes where her rifle rested. Moving with muted precision, she tilted her scope to keep its neck in her line of fire. He was still too far behind the tree. She didn¡¯t bother aiming for the head. It wasn¡¯t a good target. Every time she went for a headshot, she missed. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead. She didn¡¯t bother wiping it away. She became a statue, watching the deer with narrowed eyes. C¡¯mon, just a little further.


    Unaware of her presence, the buck edged a couple of steps beyond its assured safety. His neck was on full display. She took a slow, deep breath. All her tight nerves relaxed. A tense shot is a missed shot, her father¡¯s voice recited. She pulled the trigger. A shot resounded. For one tense moment in time, she feared that she aimed too high. If the bullet flew over her target, she knew she wouldn¡¯t get another try. She was lucky to get this second chance. Time came to a crawl as a spurt of blood and flesh shot from the deer¡¯s neck. With a cry, he sprang around, attempting to flee the scene.


    His head smacked straight into the tree, discombobulating himself. Dazed, he staggered from side to side, desperate to find an escape route. His predator watched with bated breath. She slid back the chamber, loading another bullet into the long barrel. This buck wouldn¡¯t get away. Though she hated to waste another bullet on dying prey, she couldn¡¯t afford for him to get away. A second shot resounded, taking the buck lower in the neck. Fresh blood exploded onto his fur. Crying out one final time, he staggered another step before his legs gave out.


    She stayed on the hill, waiting to see what the buck did next. If he tried to get up, she had to shoot fast. He didn¡¯t rise again. She released her tight breath in an excited sigh. ¡°Yes,¡± she blurted, pumping a fist in the air.


    The black handheld radio squawked on her shoulder. ¡°Papa Lion calling Little Lioness, over,¡± a man called over the radio. ¡°Hearing a lot of fire. Eunice, you make the shot?¡±


    Pressing the call button, she answered, ¡°Little Lioness to Papa Lion. Yep. I got him, Dad.¡±


    ¡°Whoo. That¡¯s my girl,¡± her father yelled back. ¡°I¡¯ll be there in two shakes.¡±


    Within half an hour, a bright flashlight appeared behind her. In the dim light, a large form of a man waved the light in greeting. Popping from her hiding place, Eunice shot up her flashlight in answer. Her father raced down the hill, rifle and pack slung over his shoulders. ¡°Where is he?¡± he asked, breathless from his jog.


    ¡°Over there,¡± she pointed. Together, they traversed the hill. When she was younger, Eunice had a tough time walking the rough terrain of the forest with a rifle in her arms. She often looked at her father, who toted his gun over one shoulder with ease. A twinge of envy stabbed into her childish heart. How many daughters want to be just like their fathers? Eunice wondered.


    Upon reaching the deer, her father quickened his pace, taking a knee beside Eunice¡¯s kill. ¡°Beautiful shots darling,¡± her father praised, examining the body in their handheld lights. His grin flashed through his thick beard. Its dark color matched his daughter¡¯s hair. Both shots went clean through the neck. Despite hitting the tree, the deer failed to mare its pelt too much, leaving a beautiful prize for Eunice¡¯s efforts. ¡°You¡¯ve been practicing at the range without me?¡± he asked, raising a dark eyebrow.


    Eunice raised her hands in defeat. He caught her red-handed. Whenever he wasn¡¯t at home, she went to the range by herself, mastering her marksmanship. ¡°If I¡¯m gonna match you one day, I have a lot of ground to cover.¡± Her father fired his first gun at seven, two years before she did. Forty years later and he had to be the greatest marksman on the island. She wanted that title one day.


    With a laugh, her father shook his head, thick beard waving. ¡°Why are kids in such a hurry to grow up? It only seems like yesterday you were playing with your imaginary friend...what was his name again? That flying cat of yours. Rusty.¡±


    ¡°Dusty,¡± she replied with a giggle. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you remember that.¡±


    ¡°You can thank your mother for that,¡± he said sighing. ¡°She wrote everything down in a journal. Every diaper rash. Each little cut. She kept record of it all.¡± A growing sadness thickened in his throat, forcing him to trail off. It was six years since Eunice¡¯s mother died. Sometimes it seemed a lifetime ago. Other days it appeared to happen the night before.


    ¡°Do you think we can mount this one on the wall?¡± she asked, hoping to lighten the mood.


    It had the intended effect. Flashing a grin, he returned to his chipper self. ¡°I believe so.¡± She remembered her first hunt, when they both sat in a makeshift base. At eight years old, she believed that she was big enough to go sit in her own hut and bag a deer. Her father insisted otherwise, ignoring her arguments to the contrary. He reviewed all gun safety rules and aiming techniques half a dozen times. Whenever he spoke, his voice was thick with pride, despite her failing to shoot anything. Though she was older and didn¡¯t need her father by her side to hunt, that pride still resounded in his voice.


    As they made their way back to the campsite, where the truck awaited them, Eunice carried her father¡¯s pack and rifle, as well as her gun and supplies. She lit the path with their lights. Walking ahead, her father trudged on with the buck slung over his shoulders. While she was glad that she had some independence on a hunt, she was glad her father came along. She lacked the upper body strength needed to carry a buck through the forest¡¯s rough terrain. No doubt, bad luck would strike her and she¡¯d end up trapped beneath the deer¡¯s weight.


    ¡°Darling, ever told you the story of Hermit of the forest?¡± he asked in breathless puffs.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think so,¡± she replied in the same breathless gasps. When faced with a laborious task, her father loved to regale her with a tale. After seventeen years, she was sure that he¡¯d run out of new stories but he always had a fresh yarn. The way he unwound the threads of his narratives, she wondered if he came up with them himself or if he read them all a long time ago. Not one book in his current library had any such accounts. If life was different, she was certain her father would¡¯ve been a novelist.


    ¡°Child, everybody worth his salt knows about the Hermit of the Forest,¡± he huffed, struggling with the deer. ¡°Old Hermit was the one that summoned the ole dragon o¡¯ the deep.¡± Eunice paused, staring at her father with a raised eyebrow. Whenever he started bringing up dragons, she wondered if he still saw her as a little girl. ¡°Keep that stink eye to yourself and listen,¡± he laughed without turning around. ¡°You might learn something.¡±


    Saving her harsh gaze for later, she continued on as the orator began his tale. ¡°Now, this didn¡¯t happen no ten years ago. No ma¡¯am, not even one hundred years ago. This here is a story right out of the world that time forgot.¡± He cleared his throat, as was his custom. ¡°Once, there was an old man. History doesn¡¯t remember his name. All we recall is what he was and he was an old hermit. The Old Hermit was a lonesome creature, wild as a cougar. He lived deep in these very woods, dwelling in a shack in the heart of the forest. Townspeople of the time feared him. They believed that he communed with demons. When men went hunting, they found traces of strange fires sprinkled through the forest. In the late hours of the night, the Old Hermit¡¯s voice reverberated through the village, speaking in a tongue not known to man. His odd ramblings stirred the townsfolk into a frenzied mob. Furious, they sought the old man out but they never found him. This persisted for years until a fateful day that changed the destiny of the island forever.¡±


    As his story progressed to unfold, Eunice found that her footsteps were a bit lighter. He knew how to make grueling tasks fun. ¡°A beautiful woman was known to bathe in Serpent¡¯s River during Sun¡¯s Peak, what we now call noon. She was one of the oldest women in the village, but her beauty eclipsed the vibrancy of youth. No one understood how the hands of time hadn¡¯t touched her. Her time of bath was a well-established habit. One fateful day, at the appointed time of her cleansing, the village elder¡¯s mischievous grandson prowled around the river, slinking behind a tree to gain the best view of the woman. To his surprise, he found the woman¡¯s empty clothes, but no woman. Her garments laid in tatters. Despite his youth, he knew that there was a struggle. Once the village was alerted of the scene, and the elder beat his grandson, a party of men searched the forest.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°They found her body at the bottom of a grove. She lay broken in a cluster of elegant flowers, stained red by the dead woman¡¯s drying blood. Gobs of flesh were torn from her corpse. It looked like an animal had devoured her, but the wounds spoke of cruelty unknown to animals. Only a man was responsible. Enraged, they knew who was to blame. The flower grove belonged to the Old Hermit. Rallying together, they stormed through the forest. They would not rest until he was dead.¡±


    ¡°It was true that the hermit was to blame for the woman¡¯s death, but he had his reasons.¡± As a child, Eunice remembered the first time her father told her a story of moral ambiguity. She was eleven. It was a story about a family feud that happened on the mainland. After that day, those kinds of stories became more frequent. He loved tales filled with grayness. She thought elders were rigid in their beliefs, not wanting to deal outside of black and white values. Meanwhile, her father reveled in the middle ground, speaking with no authority. When he spoke, it was as if the story was helping him make sense of the world. ¡°Supposedly, the woman stole his flowers. Crushing them for their juices, she smeared them into her flesh to rejuvenate her skin, sparing herself from the cruel hands of time. The hermit caught her in the act, killing her for her theft.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a bit extreme, isn¡¯t it Dad?¡±


    ¡°Never said he was justified,¡± he replied, pausing to grin at her. ¡°They had no trouble finding him. He returned to his flower grove to find every precious blossom trampled underneath. One party awaited him, beating the old man within an inch of death. Seizing him, they dragged him out of the forest that shielded him. No one realized that in the downtrodden grove, he left a blood-filled mark in the dirt.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I like this story,¡± she said. She could not remember a time when her father¡¯s yarn had been woven out of such dark fabric.


    ¡°They dragged him into the sea¡¯s surf,¡± he continued, paying no heed to his daughter¡¯s protest. Once he got himself rolling along, nothing could stop him. ¡°Once dead, his body would be dragged out to the ocean. No one wanted his cursed body buried on the island. Before they killed him, he cursed the islanders. He vowed that his fury would come to fruition with his death. Refusing to heed his warning, they slit his throat, pushing his body into the surf. Raising to his knees, blood gushing from his throat, he lifted his hands to the heavens. In a fit of dying fury, he called out to the sea in his choked, gurgling voice. No one could make out his cry, but one word rang true in all their ears. It made them tremble in fear. Lotan. With his final words declared, he passed away into the sea, never seen by another living soul.¡±


    He fell quiet, allowing the tension to rise. All Eunice could hear was their own puffing and the soft jolting of the deer¡¯s corpse and backpacks. ¡°For six days, nothing happened, lulling the village into peaceful ignorance, but on the seventh day, on the day of the Lord¡¯s rest, they awoke to find the sea bubbling. It caught the eye of the entire village. Gathering around, they gazed into the troubled sea, pondering what caused the disturbance, but too foolish to recognize the danger rising toward them. Bursting from the ocean¡¯s depth, a savage roar declared the arrival of a creature most foul. Towering above the poor village, hot rage in his gullet, bloodlust in his eyes, stood a dragon.¡±


    ¡°Answering the dead hermit¡¯s call, he wreaked havoc upon the village. The sea ran red with the blood of the villagers. Survivors fled in terror, scattering to the far corners of the island. Many dared to cross the ocean, sailing for the mainland. No one knows if they made it or not. It is said that decayed remains of splintered boats and rafts can be found on Canary Beach. The rest fled into the Ashen Man¡¯s Cave. Hiding deep within the island, they listened in fear of the harbinger¡¯s fury.¡±


    As the last words tumbled from her father¡¯s lips to slap into her eardrums, Eunice felt a shudder trail down her spine. In its trembling wake, her body felt cold. She waited for him to reveal some happy ending. Perhaps a hero would arise from the masses, unveiling a hidden lineage of heroes. He waited on the island for this occasion. Mighty sword in hand, he¡¯d slay the beast and bring the nightmare to an end. To her disappointment, her father said nothing.


    ¡°Is that it?¡± she asked. ¡°Kinda lame way to end it.¡±


    ¡°History doesn¡¯t always have happy endings,¡± he answered in a measured tone.


    ¡°History?¡± she laughed. ¡°Dad, not a single one of your stories is real.¡± Storytellers loved to obscure the line between fact and fiction. Despite the genuine nature of her father, Eunice realized a long time ago that all his stories were pure fantasy. Did he expect her to believe that a story with a dragon had any place in reality?


    He stopped, not looking at her. ¡°Have I lied to you?¡± His words stunned her into silence. The tone of his voice was stern, just like when he scolded her as a child. Glancing around the deer carcass, she found her father¡¯s face set into a stony mask. It unsettled her. This was not the first time she admitted that she didn¡¯t believe his yarns. She was clever enough to confront him at the age of ten. By then, she had abandoned the childish beliefs in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. The Easter Bunny never had a prayer against her. If such a creature existed, she would¡¯ve told her dad to shoot it if she didn¡¯t get to the rifle first. When she told her dad she didn¡¯t believe something, he never argued with her. He knew there was no need to keep up any pretense. This was the first time he challenged her unbelief. That shook her down to her very soul.


    They walked on. No words were exchanged. Neither had anything to say. Though they were closer to their destination than before, it was a small eternity before they reached their campsite. The previous night¡¯s campfire was moist ashes. Their remaining gear rested in the blue Toyota truck¡¯s cab. Eunice¡¯s grandfather gave that truck to her dad back when she was three. How long the old man it before was anyone¡¯s guess.


    ¡°Dad,¡± she puffed as he dropped the deer in the back of the truck. Laying her load into the truck cab, she could stay quiet no more. Mustering up her courage, she demanded, ¡°Why do you keep feeding me that bull?¡±


    ¡°First, don¡¯t say bull. It¡¯s not ladylike.¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°And bagging deer is?¡± Sometimes, he had such backward views on men and women. If he wanted her to be the ideal lady, teaching her anything most considered boyish was a mistake.


    ¡°And second, I can prove my story¡¯s true.¡±


    Her jaw dropped. Proof? That¡¯s a first. She searched his face for any signs of his usual hidden smile. On the few occasions he tried pulling her leg, he had a wisp of a grin at the right corner of his lips. To her shock, it was as stern as the rest of his face. Has the world gone crazy? Without waiting for her, he took off into the woods. Gathering her breath, Eunice chased after him. Her father was the kind of man that often lost his way in the forest. It had nothing to do with lacking a sense of direction. The forest captivated his imagination. He could wander around, staring at the simple wonders of nature for hours on end. It would never occur to him that someone was waiting for him at the truck. If she wanted to return home by daybreak, she needed to stick with him. Besides, what was this proof he found?


    He passed through their usual hunting grounds, leading her over the Flintmatch Hill. She remembered trying to climb the black hill as a child. Her father chastised her, saying that it was too dangerous, forbidding her from going anywhere near the dark mound. After that scolding, she gave Flintmatch plenty of space. Climbing the hill now, she realized how small it was. Calling it a hill was an insult to termite mounds. What was so dangerous that her father felt the need to place the fear of God in her?


    Her father rounded the top and she followed. Letting out a surprised yelp, she jumped back before she walked off the ledge. The ground dropped below, revealing herself to be standing atop a small-mouthed cave. Glancing from the entrance, her father asked, ¡°You coming?¡± She couldn¡¯t fathom what the old man¡¯s intentions were but she had come too far to let him slip away from her now. Grimacing, she scrambled down the ledge and followed him into the cave.


    The tunnel was small. Despite her shorter size, she had to hunch forward to make her way through. Her father had to almost double over, yet he led the way with no complaint. The air was thick with stagnation. Her father kept the path well-lit, keeping his daughter from tripping over a stalagmite or knocking her head into a stalactite. Eunice walked along with her hands running along the walls. Part of the way, the right side fell away, causing her hand to follow. Reaching out, she found nothing. ¡°What?¡± she gasped, withdrawing her hand to avoid losing her balance.


    ¡°See why I didn¡¯t want you playing over here?¡± he asked, waving his flashlight off to the right. His light trailed down a long chasm. She nodded. One fall and he¡¯d have never seen his little girl again. She dreaded the day she became a mother. Keeping up with rambunctious children had to be a constant headache.


    Continuing on their way, the tunnel opened, with the right being a sheer drop. She kept close to the left side but refused to trust it. No matter how the path changed, her father didn¡¯t slow down. Her father marched ahead as one possessed by a single goal, with a surefootedness that left her a little uneasy. How many times had he come down into the cave? The thought that he could¡¯ve lost his way or fallen to his demise made her anxious. It was even worse when she realized that she never would¡¯ve found out why her dad disappeared.


    At last, he came to a sudden stop, so abrupt she almost slammed into him. His flashlight revealed a steep hill of slick rocks. ¡°We¡¯re not going down there, right?¡± she asked, her voice squeaked despite herself. They lacked the proper gear for such a climb. She couldn¡¯t believe that both of them could scale the rocky surface without plummeting to the unknown ground below.


    Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee, flashing his light along the rocks until he reached a stone wall at the bottom. Staring over the ledge, she followed the trail of the flashlight. The flittering beam revealed a strange illustration on the wall. Squinting in the dark, Eunice caught the flashing glimpses of old paint, cracking and peeling. Her father guided the light along the faint lines to reveal a small man, raising his hands in worshipful surrender. Moving the light a little further, a giant winged beast towered over the man. Its eyes burned with an infernal rage, with jaws open to consume the world.


    Gasping, Eunice withdrew from the edge. It was the same hermit and dragon from the story. ¡°You made that,¡± she accused breathlessly. She drew back in disgust. What had gotten into her father? He was not the kind of man to go to such extremes to maintain a lie. Since telling this story, he revealed a side of himself she¡¯d never seen before. Eunice felt as if her world was turned upside down, disrupting the status quo she accepted as unchanging.


    ¡°Now why would I do that?¡± he answered with complete calmness. He still refused to admit that the story was made up. ¡°You know I lack any talent for art.¡±


    His words stunned her into the depths of shock. The stern expression never left his face. If this story was a falsehood, he believed in it. Was it possible that this was true? At least it was a legend written long ago by some island dweller. Was this a case of a man confusing a force of nature for some mythical creature? If such an event birthed the tale, what terrible natural disaster was a dragon? Still, within the core of her soul, she felt the clutching grasp of doubt. ¡°Answer one question,¡± she said, hesitation trembling in her voice. ¡°If such a creature existed, what could anyone do about it?¡±


    Her father was quiet for a long time. He maintained his stony expression, but in the dim light, his eyes couldn¡¯t hide the creeping despair. When he found his voice, it was low and tight to the point of breaking. His words drug Eunice down into the abyss of fear. ¡°¡®And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?¡¯¡± Deep within the cave, Eunice trembled at her father¡¯s words as the fog rolled in.

 Love Under Sparking Lightbulb

    Ed glanced up at the flickering lightbulb, finding the filament sparking from time to time. Back before he landed behind bars, he changed his fair share of lights. He hated it. Worst part of working maintenance was he often realized how often someone wasted his time with a menial task anyone could¡¯ve completed long before he arrived. No one thought about that when they called. All they cared about was if he finished the job fast enough. How many employees could¡¯ve changed this lightbulb before he sat down underneath its fading light? ¡°Short in the bulb,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Hettie asked, taking a sip from her knockoff Coke. Ed couldn¡¯t remember the brand name. The old part of the island was poor as Job¡¯s turkey, as his grandfather used to say but he pronounced it job. Every building was half a century old. Most of the original owners died years ago and their children gave up on their inherited businesses. Peaking through the front doors, one could find an old record store with its newest songs dating back to ¡®67, an empty gym, two other cafes drowning in cobwebs, and a feces-filled deli that no one entered since the McWilliams scenario. Ed and Hettie sat in one of the few establishments still running, even if its quality left something to be desired.


    Glancing around the diner, he found streaked tinted windows, busted tables, and not enough chairs for twenty customers. The pair were alone, excluding the waitress, an unseen cook swearing at the stove, and an old man. This last man, the only other customer, was a sailor by the look of him. Sitting at the bar, he stared into his morning cup of joe. His thick brows creased in anxious concentration. Slapping his tanned hand on the table, he strode over to the payphone to place a call. It was enough to make Ed laugh aloud. No one used payphones anymore.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Ed answered at last.


    Hettie¡¯s lips curled in a smirk. ¡°You haven¡¯t changed. Still daydreaming.¡±


    What do you expect? he wondered, eyes darting around the woman¡¯s body. Being in her presence kept his mind wandering back to a crazy scheme. It was a simple yet lofty objective. What would it take to get her to come back to his place? His mother would¡¯ve called him a pig and slapped him over the head with a wooden spoon. If only that druggie hadn¡¯t knifed his pops fifteen years ago. The old man would¡¯ve understood. Prison wasn¡¯t crawling with women. For the better part of five years, Ed was off the dating market. Nowadays, it was difficult to integrate back into that world. Women felt too silly and self-centered to him. He couldn¡¯t even sit through a single conversation since rejoining society. Forget kindling a sweet romance back at his dingy apartment. Hettie was the first woman he could stand being near. He had to make the most of it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve cut back over the years,¡± he replied, mirroring her grin. ¡°Tuesdays and Thursdays are daydream free.¡±


    ¡°Breaking the habit one day at a time,¡± she said with a wink. The old man¡¯s echoing grunt pierced Ed¡¯s ears, diverting the prospective lover boy¡¯s attention, as he slammed the phone¡¯s receiver. Huffing, he stormed back to his seat at the bar. ¡°Looks like someone¡¯s in a bad mood,¡± Hettie observed with a giggle. Ed nodded. The pair allowed their gaze to stray toward the sailor.


    ¡°Got a problem, Joshie?¡± the old waitress asked across the counter. She looked like she stepped right out of Happy Days. Long poodle skirt with a faded embroidering on the hem. Graying hair pulled back in a messy bun. A stack of trays and cups sat on the counter. Lifting each glass with her meaty hand, she inspected for cracks. Pausing her task, she gave the sailor a sympathetic glance.


    ¡°I¡¯d give my left toe to get Tod on the phone,¡± the old sailor answered, shoulders sagging. ¡°And lay off the Joshie, Sal. Everybody stopped calling me that when we were seven.¡±


    ¡°Tod?¡± Her dark forehead furrowed. ¡°I forget. Is that your old poker buddy or the former real estate agent?¡±


    ¡°Neither, Sally,¡± he answered, taking a sip from his mug. Glue held the cracked handle in place. ¡°Hails from the mainland. Grew up a sailor. Good kid. Got a wife with a little one on the way. Supposed to bring in a big shipment today, but he¡¯s running late.¡±


    ¡°Sea is rough this time of year,¡± Sally replied, setting aside a split glass. ¡°I¡¯m surprised they can find the island at all.¡±


    ¡°Being late isn¡¯t the problem. He hasn¡¯t called and I can¡¯t reach him.¡± He sucked in a deep breath. ¡°Something bad is going on. Mark my words.¡±


    ¡°Scary,¡± Hettie muttered to Ed. Her eyes sparkled with sarcastic humor. She never viewed anything with a serious eye. There was a joke in everything to her. Once, Ed could¡¯ve partaken in her mirth, but no woman¡¯s beauty would dull his current good sense that much.


    ¡°Could be a bad omen.¡±


    ¡°When did you become the superstitious type?¡± she asked, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.


    Back in school, it was well known that Edmund had no belief in the divine nor things that went bump in the night. His nonbelief made going to church with his mother a dreadful experience. The pastor¡¯s gaze fell on him constantly and his sermons seemed targeted at his unbelieving soul. It would take more than that to make a sheep out of him, no matter how virtuous his mother found it. That was before the wild night at Jordan''s Gas and Grill. Everything changed after that. ¡°I¡¯ve learned firsthand that God gives us signs. A fool ignores them at his own peril.¡±


    ¡°Is that how you landed in the slammer?¡± she asked, leaning in closer. Her eyes sparkled with playful interest. ¡°Did you ignore the signs? Slipped past the point of no return?¡±


    His face turned to stone. Two men knew why Edmund spent time in the mainland prison, and only one lived to tell the tale. Being an ex-convict was bad enough. Asking for a job was akin to declaring he had the plague. Working for Hankins was the best he could do. Last thing he needed was for his criminal record being common knowledge. Cold shoulders were better than blatant hostility.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± she giggled. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to strike a nerve. Chill and stop being so serious.¡±


    Ed couldn¡¯t help it. Prison wasn¡¯t a five-star hotel he longed to visit again. To avoid returning, he changed for the better. Ed was fortunate. His crime was small. The punishment was fair. He escaped the prison machine that turned small-time crooks into felons. Still, something about those barred rooms twisted a few wires in a man¡¯s brain. The vibrant colors of life became marred and muted into darker hues. Still, he knew that he had to enjoy the faint glimmers of a brighter life when he could. Stone crumbling from his face, he flashed a small grin. ¡°Where are you working? I could come visit you sometime.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Sighing, Hettie clicked her teeth. ¡°Is that your idea of entertaining chitchat?¡± Shaking her head, her swaying hair created a mesmerizing pendulum. ¡°You use high school memories to stir the wanton desires in a woman¡¯s heart.¡± Her disappointed eyes rolled. ¡°I¡¯m not impressed, but I guess I can play along. Are we gonna play truth or dare, or do you have something hotter in mind?¡±


    Ed could feel himself slipping around in her invisible grasp. She had a gaze that made any man uncomfortable with hidden desire. With age, her skill was far more powerful. He found it hard to contain himself, finding himself standing on a tightrope of indecision. Was she playing hard to get? Did she have any interest in him at all? Ed recalled when she tricked an underclassman into confessing his feelings in at a school rally in front of every student. Poor boy faced her rejection in front of an audience. He refused to turn out like that.


    ¡°Hey, forget it,¡± he said, raising his hands in defeat. ¡°If your life is embarrassing, don¡¯t talk about it.¡± To survive in the can, Ed learned how to become invisible, a skill he used with excellence. The last thing he wanted was to end up with a sharpened spoon shoved between his ribs. He could sit in the middle of a group and no one would notice when he arrived or left. Being invisible had other perks. Inmates spoke freely around him. He learned quite a few things sitting in on surrounding conversations. Despite having no contact with women, he had a pocketful of knowledge he was ready to test out, courtesy of his former inmates.


    Trial One: if a woman doesn¡¯t want to do something, call her bluff. In this day and age, women hated to be seen as weak. ¡°Don¡¯t play games with me, tough guy,¡± Hettie answered, drumming her fingers on the table. Ed hid his smile, realizing the test had worked. ¡°My life is an open book." If she was the same Hettie, he had no doubt.


    "Okay, why did you drop out?" That was the million dollar question where the fiery woman was concerned. Though she was far from valedictorian, she passed her classes with ease. Rumor had it she had methods of receiving graciously satisfactory scores from her teachers. Why would any young lady vanish her senior year when she''d nab her diploma with little difficulty? Some thought the local police were giving her trouble. Officer Oswald''s dwindling patience with Hettie was infamous.


    Stupid man probably blames her for that mess two years before Hettie''s disappearance. Despite her history regarding lawmen, her run-ins with the boys in blue were few and far between. This led to the rumor that her mother kidnapped her. Everyone knew her parents split when the poor child was six. No one knew where her mother went, not that it mattered for this rumor. Stories of parents showing up and whisking their estranged kids away was commonly reported in the mainland news. Others believed she was pregnant, married, or eloping. Until today, no one other than Hettie knew the truth.


    "Ran off with some cool cats, as my dad would say," she explained, a faint smile on her lips. Ed felt his jaw drop a little. "A traveling rock group blew onto the island during the fall. Remember them? The Falling Spacemen."


    Ed recalled them all too well. To this day, he hadn''t heard a worse group in his life. Dubbing themselves rock or band was an affront to the Young Brothers. Their drummer was offbeat more times than he was on. The guitarist and bassist had no chemistry, always playing as if they were at war with one another. Worst of all was the singer who couldn''t carry a tune if someone sang the notes for him. He saw them once for free and still felt ripped off. Yet somehow they held this strange fascination from Hettie.


    "Never dreamed you''d be a groupie," he said, voice cracking thanks to the incredulous revelation.


    "I wasn''t a groupie," she barked. "They took me on as their manager." Ed''s jaw dropped to the floor. An image of Hettie¡¯s hair pulled back in a tight bun, glasses pushed down the end of her nose, and her beautiful body hidden by a politician¡¯s pantsuit came to his mind. His stunned silence brought a high-pitched laugh wheezing through the young lady¡¯s nose. "Never thought I could run a business, did you?"


    Ed wanted to find a better way to say it, but the best he could come up with was, ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Her piercing eyes rolled with a hiss of her teeth. ¡°Thought you saw more than a pretty face and rocking figure.¡± Ed gulped. He could feel her slipping through his fingers. His chances of extending their informal reunion to a more intimate setting was dwindling with each bungled word. He rattled his brain to say something in return. There had to be a choice word, off-the-cuff phrase, or passing nugget-of-wisdom. This lackluster wordsmith found his tongue dry and sluggish.


    Hettie¡¯s eyes blinked away a flash of some secret emotion too fast for Ed to discover what lay hidden within that heart¡¯s window. ¡°Can¡¯t blame you for doubting. No one believed me. Can¡¯t believe it myself most times.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Still, when you pick a story, gotta stick with it. Few girls wanna admit they ran off with a singer just to get ditched for a younger floozy.¡±


    Ed felt his heart sink deep inside his chest, falling somewhere betwixt his small and large intestine. There were three kinds of men. Those who loved being right, others that hated it, and more that had no interest one way or the other. Ed fell in the second. No one suggested Hettie ran off with the lead singer of that horrible band. It was the only option that made sense; Ed loathed the idea of being right. He wore a torn up greaser jacket and fluffed his dyed hair like the red-headed cousin of the Ramones and Sex Pistols. Called himself Joey Vicious. A fake rocker if Ed ever saw one. You¡¯d think by copying great trailblazers he¡¯d absorb a little talent. He even bit the head off a fake bat, desperate to gain a little occult reputation. Someone shoulda told him few on the island had any interest in that scene.


    In spite of this, his act nabbed him the woman of Ed¡¯s dreams, a fact he hoped to forget. Clearing his throat, he asked, ¡°So, what brings you back in town?¡±


    The faintest flush rose to her cheeks. Ed found himself taken aback. He had often wondered if anything embarrassed this woman. Eyes downcast, she admitted in the faintest whisper, ¡°Joey called.¡±


    It was here that Ed understood where he stood in relation to his former classmate. In this classic stage play, she rested on the castle¡¯s balcony, looking for the mischievous prince who jilted her fragile heart. Ed was the poor stable boy gazing on her from the bushes below, fearful she would catch him staring. No tree could reach her balcony and armored knights clogged the way to her chambers. To remain hidden meant resigning into the deepest pits of despair. To reach the side of his beloved spelled his doom. Left with no satisfactory choice, he released his weakening grip on the woman¡¯s fickle desire.


    ¡°Really?¡± he asked. ¡°What was the occasion?¡±


    Her eyes broke from their staring contest with the table. Unashamed fear exploded through the window¡¯s frame. A sudden chill crawled over his skin. ¡°I don¡¯t know. He raved about stupid folk tales and some occult garbage. Joey always had a flair for the dramatic. He loved anything weird and hated by society. But his newest obsession leaves this unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.¡± She broke off, blinking back a tear. ¡°I have to find him. Whatever he¡¯s doing here, it can¡¯t be good.¡±


    Ed said nothing for a long time, finding himself on the precipice of walking away from Hettie forever. Still, he couldn¡¯t resist the intoxicating aroma of her perfume, the glamor she cast when her hair flipped the right way, and how her lips curled in cat-like interest without notice. Even as he assured her that everything would be fine, a bad feeling stirred in his gut. It was as if a mysterious shadow loomed behind him, ready to slip a rusty knife into his spine. Something terrible is about to happen. He prayed he was wrong but who could be sure of anything as the fog rolled in.