The Language of Fans

In a modern world, not many girls could claim that their parents met at a colonial ball. My mother was a tour guide at Mr. Vernon and had sewn her dress by hand. Tears of frustration and drips of blood were mixed with the fabric, but when she observed herself in the mirror she’d known it was worth every trouble.

She reached for the final touch to her costume—a historically accurate hand fan—only to discover her dog had found it first. “Don’t worry, take this,” her roommate had insisted, thrusting a cheap Chinese fan into my mother’s grasp. The thought of going to a colonial ball with such an obvious fault in her costume was offensive to my history-conscious mother. But the thought of not going at all was even worse.

Father was just out of graduate school, and still trying to figure the use of a Masters in History. He preferred books to costumes, but he had stuffed his breeches with newspaper in the traditional fashion and accompanied his sister.

I liked listening to colonial reels on my iPod, my eyes closed as I imagined them. After their first set she would stare intently at the painted scene on her fan—the Chinese garden—and try not to laugh at herself for the ridiculousness of the situation. Since his sister had taught him the language of fans, he would recognize the sign with a grin. “I like you.” Perhaps his eyes caught on the curve of her arched wrist as she brushed the hair out of her face. “Don’t forget me.”

In the end, the colonial girl with her Chinese fan wasn’t forgotten. At the ball the following year, my mother proudly wore her Chinese fan closed, handing from her left arm. “I’m engaged.”

The Patron Saint of Travelers

Each day Annabelle followed the same routine. She got up, got dressed, got to school, got on a bus, and got home in time to make her parents dinner. Most believed she lived a blessed life because she never dealt with fear, hunger, or abuse. However, Annabelle wanted more. So while her parents slept, Annabelle got on her knees and prayed for liberation.
Fortunately for Annabelle, prayers of the good-hearted often get answered. On her graduation day, a lawyer called her from Texas where her Aunt Milly lived. Sadly, her Aunt had passed away earlier in the week. The lawyer asked Annabelle to fly to Texas to sort through her Aunt’s possessions. Dutifully, she obeyed.
As Annabelle went through Milly’s things, she found a box filled with photographs, diaries and an envelope that rattled. Intrigued, Annabelle sorted the contents of the box into piles. She sat amazed at all the exotic and fantastic places her Aunt had been to like the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Mayan Ruins. Soon she found herself reading diaries which detailed each of the trips her Aunt had taken in detail. Lastly, Annabelle opened the envelope. Inside it sat a small note and a silver pendant of a man walking with a child on his back. The note read:
Annabelle,
This is St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. He has walked with me and encouraged me through all my adventures. I left him so that you might take him with you on your travels. May he protect you on your adventures, which I am sure will be filled with love, passion, and excitement.
Love,
Milly
Tears fell from Annabelle’s cheeks as she placed the saint around her own neck. One thing was for certain, she would never go back to that life again.

This Just in From Montana

“Please, Lord, just take me!” I wailed, throwing myself down against a rock, letting my backpack cushion me. Not for the first time, I wondered what mental lapse had led me to agree to this hike.

James, who had continued on the trail, realized I was not following and stalked back to where I lay, panting on the rock.

“What are you doing?”

“Resting.”

“Resting? You just rested ten minutes ago. Do you realize what time it is?” He pulled a map from his pocket and shoved it under my nose. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours, and look at how much further we have to go. Besides it’s all downhill now, so its easy.”

My calves, throbbing in pain, begged to differ.

He offered me a hand. I accepted begrudgingly, and as he pulled me up, I noticed from beyond his shoulder a flash of red further off in the woods.

“Look! Is that a car?”

James turned and his gaze followed my pointing finger into the brush. Puzzled, he looked down at his map.

“It can’t be a car. I don’t think they’re any roads near here.”

“No,” I replied, “it’s most definitely a car.”

Excited by the prospect of discovery, I walked off the path and picked my way through the undergrowth towards the red spot, ignoring James’ attempts to call me back. As I approached what proved to be a red sedan, I noticed there were oddly no signs of rust or decay anywhere. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I leaned forward to peer through a tinted window. Almost immediately I threw myself backwards, tripping over a fallen limb in my hurry. I fled to the path, covering myself in cuts which went unnoticed to the cold dread that filled my stomach.

Say It Outloud

Dr. Lowe reenters the room, trailed by two nurses. “Mrs. Edmonds,” he’s looking at my file, “have you been experiencing any headaches? Blurred vision, nausea, or vomiting?”

I laugh. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Generally speaking, no. Not this late in development.” He writes something down. One of the nurses is staring at the wall. The other is unsuccessfully avoiding my eyes. She’s young, maybe an intern. She still has schoolgirl habits, like biting her lower lip. I used to do that. I wonder briefly if Eliza will too.

“How about ‘band pain,’ Mrs. Edmonds? Have you experienced any epigastric discomfort?” I frown. He rephrases, “Stomach problems?” I shake my head.

Jerry clears his throat and straightens his posture. “She’s had severe heartburn recently.”

“But that’s nothing new,” I argue. “I’ve always had heartburn.”

“I see,” Dr. Lowe nods. More writing. “Mrs. Edmonds, I’m afraid we suspect you’ve developed preeclampsia. It’s hard to diagnose, of course, until we do an autopsy, however—”

“Autopsy?” I smile. “What are you talking about?”

Dr. Lowe takes another approach. “Mrs. Edmonds, there was a lack of movement on the sonogram earlier. That usually indicates—”

“Oh my God.” Jerry runs a hand through his hair, turns away, then turns back. His hand falls to his mouth.

“What?”

“Mrs. Edmonds, sometimes the maternal immune system has adverse reactions to the antigens from the fetus and its placenta.”

“Eliza,” I correct. “Not ‘fetus.’”

“Yes.” Dr. Lowe sighs and starts again, “Mrs. Edmonds, there’s been some complications.”

“Oh my God,” Jerry moans. I caress my bulge and put my hand over Eliza. I’m scared now, but my brain refuses to understand. Or maybe, refuses to accept.

“What are you saying?” I whisper. “Just say it.”

“You’ve lost the baby, Mrs. Edmonds. You’re going to have a stillbirth.”

Figure of the Night

Nothing is left but ash. The sky above is a bleak abyss hazed with toxic steam created by fire that descends from its emptiness. A tent is ignited and people rush to extinguish the fire in fear that the entire camp site will fall victim to its flames. A girl watches the situation from afar in silence. She is covered from head to toe with a death stained blanket making her face the only visible area of her body. It is coated with cuts and bruises and a stream of blood flows from her chapped lips. Yet, the structure remains stunning. Her eyes are blood diamonds; beautiful in appearance but in depth drift retained images of corruption, greed, and destruction. It is nearly nightfall before the people are able to kill the fire and many cry in pain from injuries they obtained. Impatience grows and the words of a traveling prophet are questioned. “He says this is the year of the outsider. But why should we trust him?” The sky grows darker and begins to clear slightly as the fire storm shifts its gaze toward the mountains of the north. “Look there!” someone shouts. The moon reveals itself through haze as a crimson globe floating alone in a black sea. They could not remember the last time they saw the night’s jewels. The “light of night’s sun” was upon them and the people began to look for signs of the prophet’s outsider. Nothing. “Where is this figure of the night?” The girl releases a gasp while pointing to the east. Others follow her gaze and silence spills over the camp site. In the distance, the dim red light of the moon reveals a figure standing lifeless. Silence remains and only the soft inhaling and exhaling of air can be heard. The figure remains still. Then, it slowly begins to make its way toward the camp site.

Attached to Technology and Paying a Price

Ray Dowry rubbed his mandatory download jack again, and H-NK saw this. He proceeded to dress and left his squat littered with wires, illegal. H-NK resumed video surveillance on the suspect droning, “Finally I will earn that carapace and software upgrade.”

Ray turned nervously, “I really should cut down.” He meandered down the sidewalk. “Was it worth it?” He pondered, “Of course.” He couldn’t resist the lust of the knowledge.

The secret procession continued until Ray reached his destination, The Electric Eel. One could call it an upgrade of Internet pornography of the earlier century; where now men pretty much experienced the actual sensations. Ray paid the entrance fee.

H-NK followed, hiding its badge. The bouncer looked at him and let him in, “Why can’t a robot have a false sense of pleasure?” He thought carelessly.

Ray headed for the back and avoided all the nude men plugged in, grins of ecstasy on each one's faces. Ray stared down beads which blocked the entrance and went through. Greasy-looking men sat around a terminal, eyes glazed over. A man with a bushy beard sat him on a cushion, “Welcome back man, you like Jacking-In?” Ray was silent and the bearded man jammed a frayed wire into Ray’s port. Thousands of bits of information passed through him in seconds, for example: Orwell, The Byzantine Empire, and How to Cook Goulash. The high was immediate, and suddenly he was omniscient.

H-NK entered the room silently, its recording device still functioning. It saw the culprit engaged in Jacking-In. It had the evidence it needed when suddenly a firm hand pressed a wire into its port, H-NK fell. Everyone connected to the terminal screamed and several had sparks erupting from their ports, some slumping over. H-NK and Ray saw the world melting together.

Feckless and Cruel

Two angels soared through the clouds. The first angel, called Felix, looked arrogant and severe as he sailed through the ocean of white foam with his nose in the air. The other angel, Oscar, back-stroked and belted out Bob Marley with the sunlight glinting off his aviator sunglasses. The air rang with the sound of, “I want to love you. I want to love and treat you, love and treat you right. . .”

At first, Felix ignored him. But slowly, his annoyance grew like the buildup of lava in a volcano. His reaction started as a little tremble and then morphed into an all out explosion. Finally, Felix shouted, “Will you SHUT UP! I have had to listen to your senseless, off-key warbling for over TWO THOUSAND YEARS now, and I am sick of it. I’ve known sloths that have a better work ethic than you. If you had a brain, it would be so small that not even the largest microscope in the world would be able to find it!”

For a moment both angels stayed suspended in the clouds entirely shocked into silence. Suddenly, the aviators plummeted to the ground. Oscar followed with his wings fluttering along behind him as he crash landed in suburbia.

A girl sat reading on a lawn chair and looked up as Oscar flopped into her pool. She saw the angel struggling to get out of the water.

“Can you give me a hand?” Oscar implored her.

She simply remarked, “That pool is too shallow for diving.” Then she put down Newton’s Third Law of Motion.

She thought to herself, “Just when I thought that I could call myself an atheist, God chucks an angel out of the sky and into the pool.”

Sighing, she grasped the angel’s fingers with her own.

General Misconduct

Crashed your car. Threw stones at the school. Flung paint at her head. Kicked the cat. Swatted him with a skillet. Slammed the door. Stomped it flat. Pushed him down. Beat his ass. Burned it in a hole. Drank until it was empty. Crapped on the porch. Rammed the gate. Ran through naked. Shot the bird. Spit in his face. Fell over the side. Ripped them to pieces. Wet my pants. Killed it. Dropped the phone. Punched a hole in it. Set it on fire. Shoved it to the back. Yanked it out. Removed the screws. Left it to rot. Slipped it in my mouth. Turned it loose. Left it in the sun. Dumped it in the river. Poked it out. Left a mark. Stuck my hand in. Felt around. Pulled the handle. Crawled inside. Stretched it out. Snipped it short. Dumped his table. Snatched your chair. Tore the hem. Slipped out early. Cut where she couldn't see. Turned him in. Ratted you out. Skipped it. Called him at work. Fell asleep. Scored you some more. Ripped her off. Kept on yelling. Cut two knuckles. Cracked a rib. Bit her tongue. Licked my hand. Huffed it. Showed up early. Puked on the bed. Left some prints. Bounced a check. Skinned it. Batted it down. Went the wrong way. Left a message. Smashed the bulb. Iced it down. Told him what. Showed you how. Dogged it. Rigged it up. Jimmied the lock. Followed him home. Left her outside. Made it all up. Said it again. Vanished. Washed it on hot. Made you. Knocked and ran. Unzipped my pants. Opened the cage. Torpedoed that plan. Invented a wife. Undermined him. Tunneled to freedom. Flew it downstate. Roughed it out. Hid in the back. Tucked it away. Crossed the line. Came out crying.

Neverland

We only saw Pete once after that. It wasn't planned; I ran into Michael at the mall. We were buying for our ladies, you know, those half-off Valentines racks. We'd've invited Wendolyn, but she was home with a headache, and it's not a place for women, anyway. Not a place for us either, I guess.

Neverland hadn't changed, but those places don't. The people change names is all--same mindless beat, nervous first-timers, the twinks and gym junkies. I used to be pressed against those bodies; now it felt weird, like I was a pervert watching someone undressing through a window.

Pete was standing in our old spot, squeezed into a shirt I remembered from freshman year. His eyes lit up when he saw us…as much as they could, anyway, with the burst vessels.

"You guys decided to stop actin' like you got one foot in the grave?"

We listened to the stories of his conquests, laughed though they seemed even less likely to be true now than before. It should have been like old times, but wasn't. Michael and I were in work clothes, and Pete's stories were interrupted by spasms of coughing.

"How's your lover?" Pete asked. I shrugged.

"Val? Fine. She's been--"

"I was talkin' about Tom."

"Thomas..." I paused, surprised by the knot in my throat. It seemed forever since I'd said his name. "He's not doing too great. His--his count--"

"I don't wanna talk about that. I mean, how's his career? Still slingin'?"

"You gotta stop that stuff, Pete. It'll kill you faster."

"I’m not dyin' no time soon," Pete said. "And Tom'll pull out. Always does. Ain't we still young?"

The lights flashed over his bruises, ambulance alarms, and I remembered I needed to get Val's chocolates home before they melted.

What Do Girls Want?

Here she is, sitting in a dingy bar bathroom, sipping a beer and wondering how her life came to this precise moment. The light above the stall is flickering and a heavy-set tattooed woman is banging on the door. Almost done with her beer, Lily begins to wish that she could order another one from the safety of the stall. The thought of going back out to the raucous sounds of hormones and idiocy makes her twitchy. Finishing in two gulps, she pushes the door open quickly and hands the empty bottle to the impatient woman.
Her cell phone feels heavy in her pocket, the text from her ex-boyfriend Julian burning in her mind. As she looks around the bar all she can see are the words – It’s not about “what do girls want” anymore. It’s about “what does Lily want.” Lily is practically stuck in a mediocre romantic comedy – the terrible first date, the looming ex, the smoky bar. Walter waves stupidly, as though maybe she forgot where he was sitting or that perhaps she could have overlooked his hideous yellow shirt. Lily smiles absently at him, and across the way she spots a Julian look-alike – the same shaggy brown hair, rumpled plaid shirt and precise air of pretentiousness. She laughs at how similar they are to each other and how ironic that both probably consider themselves “unique.” Look-alike Julian is even drinking the same brand of beer while hitting on the same type of girl. The words from the text lose their impact – fake Julian probably already said them to the little blonde in the corner. Kissing Walter impulsively on the mouth, she suggests heading back to her place. He scrambles off the stool quickly, and Lily realizes that he knows what women want – to always make her feel like she’s better than you are.

Pondering Sculpture Under the Trees

Fuck pigeons. Whitish, greenish blemishes streaming down the sides. The maple overhead stretches, yawns, and retreats to stillness once again while leaves flutter down to lace the ground. I don’t recall being that alive. Man form, nature not. Who knows what he was thinking, can only be within those confines, these wooden thoughts. Form representing isolation. Form of the formless. Boards leaning to the left, then the right, arc and pole, tall, sitting here with the pigeon presents running from top. Rustic boards he’s too lazy to sand. Would probably be itchy if feeling was real considering termites are gnawing through, not to mention those damn pigeons. Pigeons would often swoop down to perch upon the arc leaving runny deposits, their gift to the strange leafless tree. Sometimes they come up, stare, mutter something to their spouse or friend, who knows. Don’t think they get it anymore than this gets them. They seek familiar images, not uncomfortable ideas. They walk inside the building to those figures which represent figures, pretty, nice, not stiff and conceptual. Still, stiff, still. Maple obeys nature. Stiff, movement, life, green, oh the beauty in it. How dreadfully dull, have been assembled to represent man, maple God. Can’t make out that black mirage in the distance. Concrete, rush and zoom, the madness, prefer stillness now, only state of being. Ah one of them. A curious child makes his way towards what seems like an avant-garde tree house. Oh wait it’s just art. Off again. What is it, August? Black ahead. Rounder. Closer. The noises and the madness beyond the tree. Provides nice shade. Noise, chains, noise, giant ball, closer, beep beep. Never seen this before. Yeah we’ll make it into wood chips. This maple could use some insulation.

The Third Replicator

-23 January 2024:

Doyle stopped to straighten his tie. It was habit, nervous habit, but no one noticed how much he looked like Nigel Hamlin. They would if anyone saw him; then, if anyone saw him it was over. He slinked around a corner, trying to stay where the shade matched his suit. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning the adjacent halls. His destination, the door at the white hall’s end. Solemn, he reached for the door handle and slipped in.

“In other news,” the television said, “President Hamlin will deliver his first state of the union address since re-election tomorrow. Rumors say there are some important-” The television stopped.

The room, now totally dark, sat quiet for a moment. Doyle ducked behind a high back chair as a man rose from the couch opposite the television. His arm held wide, he yawned. He strode across the deep blue carpet in-crested with an eagle. His eyes drifted to a sheet that lay on his desk.

Recently, a large amount had been withdrawn and earmarked for the Replicator Project. Originally, he had been a heavy advocate of the program. Despite the expense, the agents produced had yielded tremendous results. Though intense genetic surgery, an agent had infiltrated Al-Qaeda and replaced bin Laden. The same with Jong-il. World peace might just be on the horizon, but he never gave approval for a third Replicator.

The man walked behind his desk and sat. He sighed, laying his head on his folded arms, wondering why he had chosen this profession before the exhaustion of a country overtook him.

-24 January 2024:

Cameras flashed, Congress clapped uproariously as their President stood before them. He straightened his tie and resisted the urge to smile as he said for the first time, “My fellow Americans…”

What the River Dragged In

The back left wheel wobbled, and threatened to come off. Rattling glass overshadowed the clatter of Davey’s salvaged radio flyer. He retrieved another bottle from the river’s edge. Calling it a river was generous. Breeding ground for disease was more suiting. The boy continued his search. Turning in cans and bottles for a pocket of change saved him from the humiliation of buying reduced lunch. Something shined several feet ahead in the muck. Davey dropped the rusted handle and waded further in. Every step was careful; coming home with a staph infection or worse would cost hospital bills his old man couldn’t pay.

The weeds were thick and mud seeped into his sneakers. Whatever resided below the surface seemed further away than before. It’s one of those things. Like the lady and the old man that are the same picture—something illusion. Davey stopped a short distance from the object, and put his weight on his back foot to keep from falling in. Immersing his arm past his elbow wasn’t enough. It was just out of reach. Giving up seemed a waste; he was already half soaked anyhow. Taking a step closer he reached toward it again.

Something gave him pause. Davey looked around him, unsure of what caught his attention. After a moment he realized it was the absence of sound. Summer was waning, but cicadas should still be singing—there was no birdsong, either. Just a moment ago the bank had been noisy with life. Inexplicable trepidation welled up within him; he teetered on the edge of fright. He glanced back down, his fingertips poised above the now still surface. From beneath the water another hand emerged. The hand grasped his wrist, and there wasn’t time to scream.

There was no ripple when the river dragged him in.

In a hoarder's home, going all out to find the floor

She watched him look at her over the rim of his mug, the steam rising up and losing itself in the autumn air.

“I don’t love him anymore.” The words, even more than the coffee, tasted bitter in her mouth, unfamiliar.

“I don’t think you ever did.”

She had no rebuttal. After all these years, he still understood her better than anyone. He still knew how she would feel before she could name the emotion herself. He still knew that every relationship she ever had would fall apart before it started. All but one.

“Whatever life is really about, I know it’s simple. I know it’s buried somewhere down inside this mess I’ve made. I just need to find it.” She paused. “I just need to figure out who I am.”

It had been a full minute since he last met her gaze. She stared down into her mug, fingers tight around the ceramic as though it might shatter at any moment. She knew his silence held the promise of carefully chosen words, but patience had never been her strong point. “But I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

At the sound of her voice cracking, they both looked up. She carried with her every heartbreak she had ever experienced. A mosaic of disappointments, her eyes held onto every struggle she had never been able to give up, and he could name each one. But when his eyes met hers, an understanding passed between them, an acknowledgment that had never found its voice. It was in that moment—when he pried her hand away from what she was holding and placed it on the table under his—that she realized the truth. Sometimes the thing you’ve been searching for has been right in front of you the whole time.

That's what he gets for hiding in the closet. Hasn't he seen horror movies?

He watches from the cracked closet door, his palms sweating and his stomach rolling.

She is chatting animatedly, seated on an armchair drawn close to the hotel bed.

"Won't be sorry to see the end of this winter," she huffs. "It's killing my business, you know. No one wants to brave this weather - the only guest I've had in weeks is the young man in 115."

He shudders.

She leans forward and pats the hand of the woman lying beneath the florid blankets. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Melanie - you and all my other friends. I am so very lonely here...Tea?" She laughs. "You read my mind, dear. Let me drop by Eustace's room - I promised I'd bring him fresh sheets - and I'll join you."

She bends to kiss the woman's cheek then bustles away. Once she has gone, he can clearly see the silent woman on the bed: a rigor mortis grin, a smudge of fresh lipstick just below the empty eye socket, a wasted arm laid lifelessly on the quilt.

Even though he'd prepared himself for this sight - hadn't he seen the same in every other room? - he clamps his hands over his mouth to keep himself from vomiting. I have to get out of here, he panics, but where? She is right about one thing: the weather is formidable. He can see the hard-packed snowdrifts against the window; there is nothing within ten miles of this hotel.

Lost in frantic pondering, he does not hear the quiet footsteps until it is far too late; the closet door bursts open, and there she is above him, a sickeningly sweet smile on her wrinkled face, her pudgy fingers laced around a pistol.

"I love making new friends," she trills, and she pulls the hammer back.

Dinner Party

"Who profits? Who learns?" Those words were met with laughter. That familiar voice boomed through the hallway, and it seemed that I was not the only guest to the home-seated at the grand table was a crowd of recognizable faces from my past. It seemed that this event was just one big bad memory from the past. And sitting at the head of the table was him-dressed in some sort of Italian suit, not evening trying to hide his family’s wealth.

“Mr. Davis! It’s nice to see that you’ve finally arrived!” Alex’s voice boomed from the other side of the room. I did a quick check to make sure that this wasn’t some dream. It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers and everyone around me were Pod People. I was just happy no one looked like Donald Sutherland.

“Please Jim, have a seat.” He seemed to motion to the one remaining empty seat at the table. Alex was making me hate him more and more, just like old times. Always being the one in power.

“So, now that everyone is here, it’s time to be honest. I’m not here to reconnect with old friends.” The tone of his voice already gave way to something worse. It felt like it was just the two of us in the room. Sure, there were others here, but this was a personal affair between the two of us. “-heard about financial troub-“ I was already missing out on the conversation here, imagining beating his face in. I believe my curled smile caused others to look at me strange as he finished his schpeel. “Well Jim, at least you see the humor in this!” Snapping back, I was shocked to see how much he’d changed.

No Names

“Don’t you wish you knew?” 1240 asked. Her hands gripped a lantern. The dim light illuminated her cheek bones, casting shadows into her eyes. Glancing over my shoulder at her, I wondered again if something had happened the night before. She looked as if she had slept even less than usual.

A clump of earth fell on my head. I coughed into my sleeve, waving her aside.

“You’re insane,” I said, my throat still clogged with dust. “Hold the light up where I can see it—Thanks.” The crusty earth gave way as I traced patterns, searching for the shimmer that would be a new gem.

“But don’t you ever wonder what your parents called you?” she asked, her voice wistful. “Somehow, hearing my name would be like hearing my mother. I think it would be a comfort.”

I turned to face her. For all she spoke dreamily, her cheeks were white and her lips quivered. My heart went cold. I opened my mouth to ask, but dread sealed my mouth like the grave. With a slight nod, she dropped her gaze from my face to my chest. One of her hands peeled off of the lantern’s handle, and she reached out to brush the numbers sewn onto my shirt. I wasn’t sure why she bothered, because no amount of scrubbing would have made them any cleaner.

“A number’s all I’ve been,” she whispered. “I’d like to have a name.”

The mountain over us felt like it was crushing my chest. “Your name will be the last thing you hear,” I said, my voice pleading. They would not give her a choice, but somehow her resignation made it worse.

“I know.” She smiled, faintly, as if at a memory. “I’ll cease to be before I’ve really begun.”

Drunk on His Notoriety

She didn’t have a chance, and it was that simple. He was sure of this before he entered the courthouse. Its not like she had any proof; it was all circumstantial. The past few weeks had been nothing but a joke and he thought he might actually be enjoying all the attention this case had caused. He was positive that he would walk out of this mess a free man.

“Don’t look so smug Joey. It’s not over yet,” his approaching attorney said. She passed as they stood in the door, refusing to even look at him. Joey smirked.

“Let’s get it over with then.”

They entered the courtroom and sat at their designated table. Joey glanced across the room at her. As soon as her eyes made contact his, he flashed her a smile. Her face twisted in anguish and anger and she turned to rest her face in her husband’s chest.

The jury entered the room and found their respective places, all seeming to take care to avoid his face. One approached the judge and handed him a slip of folded paper and stood of to the side. The judge fixed his eyes on Joey.

“Would you like to say anything?”

He composed his most sincere face. “Only that I did not kill that girl, your honor.”

“I see. In that case,” he said, trailing off. The whole room was dead silent as he opened the paper and read it to himself. A soft smile formed on his face. He handed the paper back to the jury member.

“The verdict is…”

Childhood

The child is guileless beauty. Swallowed by her dimples, she twirls – reaching for the sky – before her mother scowls and slaps her hand.

Abandonment

The kitten meows pitifully. “Who will take her for the night?” Guiltily glancing at one another, we all make our excuses and turn away.

The True Meaning of Heroism

A resounding gunshot ripped through the air. For a second, nothing happened until Andrew's face darkened. Then, he crumbled. Rebekah held his dead weight to her body, clutching his hands as he tried in vain to reach for her. She beheld only the color red--the color of his life seeping away, the color of her broken heart. She cried out until her voice morphed into a croak. Silent tears ran down her face as she thought over and over, "Why did he die to save me?"

Whatever Happened?

She bellowed over her tears, "You didn't even save him!" The cape dragged behind him, "Who said I had to?" He stumbled away from the crater.

"Can We Talk About This Later?"

Kyle sat her on a bench, got down on one knee, pulled out a ring. She never thought such a romantic moment could feel like a death sentence.

Painting

Abstraction becomes mountains that cut into a drippy sky barred by horizon lines. She'll wreck those bars with her magic Valhalla spatula.

Escape

She ran, the leaves and mud sticking to her shoes and legs. The rain pounded in her ears, or was that her blood? The ground below gave way and she heard him right behind her.

Homecoming

I asked how it felt when he stepped off that plane. "My only thought," she said, "was how I lived for the past year with only half a heart."

Dawn

Leaves crinkle as the forest yawns. The eyes of a fading night sky glimpse onto the shifting land below. A light peeps over the horizon.

Hipster Loathing

His tattoo was ugly and his beard patchy. As he droned on about Nietzsche, all she wanted to do was tell him that his jeans were for women.

Bullet-Time

Thomas’ soles wafted down, embracing the sand. The oblong metal tore jacket, seared skin, and broke bone. His head lay on the pillowed dirt.

Love's Not in the Understanding

She favors his deaf ear most. Confusing "Mom died" with "I’m on a diet", he’ll tell her it’s about damn time. She won’t have to fake tears.

Morning Routine

Asphyxiating himself again; Tom seemed surprised when May barged into the bathroom ruining his morning for the third time that week. "Damn."

Act of Passion

Heads bent, none of the students noticed their professor rise, a sword in his hand. PR later reported he had gone mad grading papers.

Trinkets

Spiders spin across the shelf. They're mine but act alone. They clutch at trinkets and I'm an accomplice. My pocket is heavy.

Greetings!

Hello, and welcome to our currently unnamed course blog for Intro to Creative Writing: Fiction. Looking forward to reading your posts, so don't forget to get them posted by 5 PM tomorrow, Wednesday, the 25th. For this first exercise, you're posting your favorite 140 character fiction, and you're commenting briefly on your own post explaining why you chose this piece.