Silence Befriends Him by Steve Gerson, a pint of the best

 Jim dubbed his pub “That Good Night,” after his favorite poet’s most notable poem.  Jim lived in Clydach, Wales, only 9.2 kilometers from Dylan Thomas’ home in Swansea.  The pub was at the edge of town, just past the attached and semi-attached homes, just beyond “the Mond,” Clydach’s nickel refinery, where Jim had worked for over forty years, until new manufacturing processes depleted the workforce.  Jim was fine with that.  Pub life was what he wanted now.  Except, the pub’s neighbors were the sheep and cattle in the nearby fields.

“Why’d you want to be here?” his wife Mary asked.  “We’re nowhere near anyone.  Can’t call this the neighborhood pub, now can you, my dear?”

She was right.  “That Good Night” was vacant most of the day, except for a straggle now and then.  But, once a day, at 13:00 on the dot, the tour bus drove onto the pub’s gravel lot.  Then, for an hour, Jim had clients.  He’d hear the bus’s wheels churning on the gravel, hear the hiss of the pneumatic brakes pumping, hear the wheels screech to a stop, hear the gears crank and rattle, and then hear the hush of the bus’s door open.  And out they came, tourists.

Jim stood behind his bar counter, sipping on a pint of his finest, a wet towel over his left shoulder, and waited for the pub door to open.

Inevitably, invariably, without fail, the first tourist would enter, always wearing shorts, a Union Jack T-shirt, one size too small to cover his girth, a camera around his neck, the talisman of the tourist, and say in his best British faux accent, “Haloo.”  Then he’d wave what all Americans thought to be the official Queen’s wave, an upraised hand dancing a rotating tango, and say, “a pint of your best, matey.”

Jim always responded, “Prynhawn da,” good afternoon in Welsh, lilting like birdsong hopping on a telephone wire.  “How can I serve you, me Lords and Ladies.”

The tourists, inevitably, invariably tittered, poking each other, saying, “Hear that Mabel.  I’m your Lord from now on, ha!”

“I’ll take a G and T,” said one man, sure that he had picked the correct British drink.

“Yes, me Lord.  And you sir?” Jim asked the man behind.

It always got odd at this point.  After the requisite G and T, drink orders ranged from “Gimme a Bud” to “I’ll take a 7 and 7” to “I’d love a Grasshopper” to “How ‘bout Sex on the Beach,” drinks that Jim couldn’t and wouldn’t fill.

“Sorry, me Lords and Ladies.  We are limited to the best of the Isles.  I can offer pints, half pints for the ladies, an orange squash, brandy, and maybe a snifter of cognac for the gentlemen.”

The crowd would settle, look around the pub for “British” things, like dart boards, wonder why there wasn’t an Irish band playing “Molly Malone,” assuming that all of Britain was the same country, and then ask, “Where’s everyone?  Why’s no one else here, barkeep?”

Jim would shrug, the bus’s horn would honk, the driver would appear and say, “Hurry on folks.  We’re off to Swansea now, Dylan Thomas’ home.”  The tourists would take their requisite photos with Jim, wearing his bowler, buy a few souvenir shot glasses, and then they’d file out, thinking to themselves, “Yep, I just saw me a real-time British pub.”

Jim watched them leave.  He’d hear the bus door hush open, the gears crank and rattle, the pneumatic brakes release, and the wheels churn on the gravel—harsh sounds he remembered from working in the nickel refinery, deafening noises that led to employee hearing problems for decades. 

Once gone, the tourists left Jim in silence, the silence he treasured after forty years of clamorous din.  

About the author 

 Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight, Viral, And the Land Dreams Darkly, The 13th Floor, What Is Isn’t, and There Is a Season. 

 

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Chilled Gorgonzola by Willioam P Adams, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon

 Her online dating profile photo conjured up images of Aphrodite with long, entwined, flowing tresses framing an alluring visage.

Captivated, Pierce took a chance and sent her a short message – witty and charming, but not overly so.

For the next few days, they engaged in friendly, playful banter, eventually agreeing to meet the following Friday evening.

Freshly showered and stylishly dressed, Pierce arrived on time at Dionysus Bar for the cheese spread and wine-tasting.

She spied Pierce from across the room, slithered his way, looked him in the eyes, and hissed, “Hi handsome, my name is Medusa.”

He froze in place, standing stone-cold still.

 

 About the author

William P Adams lives near Seattle and writes short fiction, poetry, and memoirs. His work has appeared in 101 Words, CafeLit, Macrame Lit, Rockvale Review, Sea Wolf Journal, X-R-A-Y Magazine, and elsewhere.

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Magic on Pendle Hill by Michael Barrington, French Martini

 An icy November wind swirled the dense mist over Pendle Hill, almost obscuring the stone obelisk marking the summit. Professor Isaac Cedric Effingham, known simply as ICE to students and faculty at Merton College, Oxford, walked seven times around it, first clockwise, then anticlockwise as prescribed by the witches code of conduct, although he was not particularly superstitious. His heavy topcoat, sturdy boots and deerstalker hat helped keep out the bitter cold. Suddenly, he noticed a small wooden trapdoor at the base of the obelisk. How was that possible? he mused. How come he had never noticed it before? He’d been here so many times. He’d written the definitive work about the Pendle Witches. Bending down, he realized it wasn't locked. He pulled it open and the noise of chattering voices reached his ears.

After descending a flight of stone steps, and passing a sign that read, The Missing Bride Inn, he suddenly found himself in an oak beamed lounge, with logs crackling in the huge, open fireplace. People were sitting, standing, drinking, and laughing.

            “Welcome.” A tall, handsome, tuxedoed, man behind a bar called him over.

“Welcome to the International Authors Association. We’ve been waiting for you. Come and have a drink. The first one’s on the house.”

Somewhat startled by being recognized, he replied, “I’ll have a martini.”

“And shaken, not stirred?”

“Well, yes, if you say so.”

“My name is Bond, James Bond,” the bartender said, offering his hand.

“That's an interesting name. I may have heard it before. Just can’t remember where. And you can call me ICE. Everybody else does.”

“Then you’re welcome, ICE, and I really like your topcoat.”

A loud guffaw erupted from a corner table.

“Sit down, Ernie,” a dark, curly-haired, pipe smoking, but pretty, young woman was shouting. “You’re just showing off again.”

“But you should have seen this matador.” The man had taken a table napkin, lowered it, and with his head following the movement, swung his arms in the motion of a slow sweeping veronica. Then gathering the napkin to his waist spun his hips making the napkin swing in the stiff arc of a rebolera as it passed the bull’s nose while he calmly walked away. “Absolute perfection,” he added. “Simply perfection.”

“Pay no attention to Hemingway,” she said as ICE and Bond arrived to see what the noise was about. “He can’t make his mind up whether he wants to be a bullfighter or a writer. He’s just published Death in the Afternoon, and won't shut up about it. He’s obsessed.”

“Maybe when I get some time, I should educate myself about the art. My name’s ICE, by the way, and it’s got nothing to do with the weather. My real name is Isaac, but nobody ever uses it. And you are?”

“Just call me George. That’s the name I write under. Surname, Elliot. Then she turned her head to search for the nearest spittoon.

“Don’t want to get into it just now,” she said, “but it really irritates me that publishers believe women do not write as good as men. In fact, I’m on a mission to liberate women and the book industry from male dominance. My books have had good sales, and people have given a positive reception to my last one, Middlemarch. But I want to be recognized for who I really am.”

“And with a passion like yours, I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

“Let me introduce you to a couple of other interesting people,” Bond said, steering him towards a man in naval uniform. "That’s Ian Fleming. He worked as an officer in the Royal Navy's Naval Intelligence Department. I have it on good authority that he also worked for MI 5. But more importantly, he attends these gatherings because he is writing a series of spy novels based on his experiences.”

The man smiled as they approached. “Nice boots,” he said, pointing at ICE’s feet.

Before he could respond, a tall, burly, bearded Scotsman in full highland dress complete with kilt and sporran interrupted them by slapping Bond on the shoulder.

“How about another wee dram of usquebaugh, James?” he said, using its Gaelic name. Then addressing ICE,  “You should always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore, always carry a small snake.” A bellow of a laugh filled the room.

After moving to the bar, Bond poured the man a double measure of twenty-five-year-old, Glenmorangie single malt, which he grasped momentarily in his beefy hand, then shouted, “Lang may yer lum reek!”—(long may your chimney smoke.) And added, “The drinks are on me.”                                                                                                                                   

It took several minutes before the cheering died down and James had replenished everybody’s glass.

“Who is that man?” ICE asked discretely.

 “That’s Walter. Sir Walter Scott. He’s a prolific writer. His latest novel, Ivanhoe, has just been optioned by a Hollywood Studio for a huge amount. And apparently, he wants to play the leading role. Bond rolled his eyes and said, “Good luck with that!” He paused momentarily looking towards a woman sitting on her own.

“But you must meet Jane—she needs cheering up. She has been attending the meetings for years but is stuck and can’t finish her novel. She’s quite depressed.”

After brief introductions, a small petite woman in her thirties, quite pretty but her face now stained with tear marks, explained she had created five sisters in the Bennet family but couldn’t decide how the father’s favorite, Elizabeth, should get married.

“I have this strong-willed, charming but self-assured young woman who seems to push away her suitors. I can’t find the solution. Without a wealthy partner, her life will be ruined.”

ICE could see her lip beginning to quiver as she spoke, and reaching into her petticoat, she retrieved a dainty lace handkerchief. Then she looked pleadingly at ICE as if he might save her.

“It’s just a thought ma’am. but why not have your characters work together but as opposing forces? Have your female become humbler and more empathetic while maintaining her signature confidence in who she is. And have a suitor realize just how arrogant and assuming he has been.”

There was a short pause and ICE wondered if he had offended her.

 “Oh, my goodness, Professor,” she exclaimed. “I do believe you may have given me the solution. However could I repay you?”

“Finishing your novel would be payment enough. And do you have a title for it?”

“Not yet, but I’m thinking about Pride and Patience or something similar.”

“Then, I wish you good luck.”

“So what’s next, James?”

“Well, we always invite a well-known writer as keynote speaker and this time it was a tossup between Harper Lee and her book To Kill a Mockingbird and Sally Rooney’s Normal People. We’re going with Sally since she wants to explain why writing novels for millennials, with little punctuation, is really hip. She’s standing near the bar with George Bernard Shaw. He’s probably trying to convince her to stop using the apostrophe in contractions. Boy, does he have a thing about that!

But look over there. We also always invite a magician to our events. and as you can see, it’s David Copperfield. He’s doing card tricks. I’ll introduce you.”

“Nice boots,” David said, “and I love the topcoat. Perfect for this kind of weather.”

“I wish I could stay for your show, but unfortunately, I’m expected back in Oxford. However I saw that amazing YouTube video where you walked through the Great Wall of China. Maybe you will do something equally dramatic on Pendle Hill, perhaps land a helicopter.”

“So sorry you can’t be here, and I’ll try to work that trick into my next act,” David replied. “But you and I will always be connected—by magic, of course.”

“So, what’s the history of this place?” ICE asked as Bond made another martini, shaken, not stirred.

“A man called Black Harry built the inn and called it The Pot of Gold. Some say they called him black, as he had a black patch over one eye. Others, that he had a long black beard. He never shared what had happened, but rumor said he lost his eye as a pirate with Long John Silver’s crew. They found buried treasure on an island, lots of gold coin. But they fought among themselves, and Black Harry took a knife in his eye. Only a few men lived to tell the tale and get back to England: Long John Silver with his parrot that cried ‘pieces of eight’ whenever they met a stranger, Jim Hawkins, a young man who had stowed away on Silver’s ship, Ben Gun who had been marooned for years but showed them where the gold coins were buried, and Black Harry.”

“The story is told that Black Harry built this inn with his share of the coins from the treasure island, and called it Casino Royale. From then on, some folks referred to him as Goldfinger. You have only seen a fraction of the inn. And if we’d had time, I would have given you a complete tour, for your eyes only. It is extensive and can house up to thirty guests. Harry married and had a beautiful daughter, Elvenia, which means magical, whom he adored. She met a sea captain, and they were married in this very room. Their initials are carved into the oak beam over the fireplace. As the guests were enjoying themselves, Elvenia and her husband played a game of hide-and-seek. It lasted for hours and into the night until all the guests had left.

For a final game, Elvenia hid in her husband’s huge sea chest, which was padded and comfortable, but once inside, it self-locked and she could not get out. Her husband, seeing that the locks were secure, never thought to open it. Nobody discovered Elvenia. Very early the  following morning, while it was still dark save for the light from a full moon, the husband walked around Pendle Hill seven times, hoping, praying she would return. Unable to contain his grief he shot himself.

In despair, Black Harry set fire to the inn and rode off with his wife on his black horse. No one ever saw them again. Local people say that on a November night when the moon is in its first quarter, and you stand in the shadow of the obelisk and listen carefully, you can still hear a horse’s footsteps and two people loudly weeping.

“Sounds like Satanic Verses,” ICE said.

“Yes, but you have to live and let die,” Bond replied.

“And how did the inn survive?”

“Since it is underground, the fire damage was only superficial. The Association took it over, refurbished it and renamed it The Missing Bride. We meet here every quarter.”

“That’s amazing,” ICE replied. “But I really must go. I’m so sorry I’ll miss the presentation,”

“I’ll escort you to the stairs,” Bond said. “That’s as far as I may go. It’s been a pleasure ICE, and remember, you only live twice.”

The frosty night air hit Isaac Cedric Effingham with an arctic blast. He shivered and pulled his deerstalker hat closer around his ears. Then he realized he was no longer wearing his topcoat, and his bare feet were freezing. Looking around for the trap door so he could return for his coat and boots, all he saw was the cold, stone obelisk —and the mist.

About the author 

Michael Barrington has written eight historical novels. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net. 

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Serpents and Orchids by Héctor Hernández, Bloody Mary (sans garnish)

 The woman at the bus stop checked her watch. She was on her way to work. She was the night manager for one of the national home-improvement centers and was waiting for the 9:09 bus to El Monte. She knew it would arrive at 9:15. For as long as she'd been riding that bus, it had arrived more often than not at 9:15. Why the bus authority didn't just list it in the time schedule as arriving at 9:15 was a mystery to her. ‘15’ would make much more sense—‘15’ was an increment of a quarter of an hour for Pete's sake. ‘09’ made no sense at all. The woman shook her head in resignation.

She looked up from her watch and saw a small silver car in the distance. It was racing as all get out toward the intersection. She could tell the car was trying to beat the light which had just turned yellow. She had an ugly feeling.

There was a small, grey car waiting at the red light that would soon turn green. The woman could see a young man in the driver's seat, a young girl in the front passenger seat, and another young girl in the back. It looked like all three were in an animated conversation. Either that or they were goofing to the music, which the woman couldn't hear, but she could feel the ‘thump-a, thump-a, thump-a’ of the bass.

With a sickening certainty, she saw in her mind's eye what would happen in the next three seconds—and there would be nothing she could do about it. The silver car would continue to accelerate. The yellow light would turn red. The red light would turn green. The grey car would start to move through the intersection, and just when it was in the direct path of the silver car, that silver car would cut straight through the grey car.

 

***

 

The extent of the damage to both cars was not surprising. Both were completely destroyed, nothing left but scattered pieces of charred and twisted metal. The force of the impact had been that violent. Officer Garvey, the first to arrive, muttered that the area looked less like an accident scene and more like a scrap metal yard with so much wreckage strewn about.

And scattered among that wreckage were bodies: the body of the dead teenage girl driving the silver car, the body of her dead older cousin, the body of the dead young man driving the grey car, and the bodies of his two young passengers. One was clearly dead, but the other held a spark of life. She had been rushed to the nearest trauma center.

 

***

 

Jane arrived at Good Samaritan Hospital a little before midnight. She tried desperately to hold on to just the tiniest piece of sanity as Dr. Pilke explained the severity of the situation. Dr. Pilke hated to be the one to deliver such horrific news to people—especially to parents about their children—but it came with her position as the lead surgeon, so she took a slow deep breath and just laid out the facts. She kept her voice calm and even as she explained to Jane, step by step, what actions had been taken to save her young daughter's life.

Finally, it was time for Jane to see for herself what was behind the double doors of the ICU recovery room. If the shock hadn't sucked the air out of her lungs, she would have screamed. Instead she went limp. The ICU nurse had been quick to wrap his arm around her shoulders before she hit the tile floor. He half led half dragged her to the chair by her daughter's bed and then hurried to get water.

While the nurse was away, Jane took several deep breaths and tried to make sense of the monstrous reality before her, the one that had swallowed her daughter's legs. Both had been amputated above the knee. God have mercy! But it was too late for that. God hadn't been merciful. Had he been, He would have taken only one leg, not both. God had been greedy. He'd also been cruel. Her daughter's left arm was missing below the elbow.

When the nurse returned with a bottle of water, he offered it to Jane, who was still in shock. She was staring numbly at her daughter's bandaged stump that only hours before had been extended to include a forearm, a wrist, and a hand. But those tangible pieces of her daughter were gone now, gone forever. Now there was just empty space.

Jane's fingers moved mechanically, twisting the cap off the water bottle. As she brought that bottle to her lips, she paused. Her eyes shifted to the cap in her right hand, and it was at that moment she awakened to the reality of just how dramatically her daughter's life had now changed. She would never again be able to perform simple tasks like the one Jane herself had just performed: removing a cap from a bottle.

‘If you need anything,’ said the nurse, ‘just press the call button.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘And please accept my condolences for the loss of your daughter . . . your other daughter.’

As he turned to leave, Jane stopped him.

Neither of her girls, Amy and Alexa, had carried identification. It was only after police interviewed the parents of the young male driver that they determined Jane's two girls had been the passengers in his car, and by the time Officer Garvey knocked on Jane's door and delivered the worst news of her life, her one surviving daughter had already come out of surgery. But which daughter?

Staring now at the bruised and swollen face of her—now—only child, Jane couldn't tell. She would need the help of this nurse to examine her daughter's lower back. Alexa had a small amount of scarring from multiple laser sessions to remove a tattoo of intertwined serpents she had gotten secretly when she was fifteen. If Jane saw scarring, Alexa lay in the hospital bed. If there was no scarring, it was Amy.

The nurse carefully rolled the sleeping, young girl on her side. There was no worry she would wake. She was in a medically induced coma to protect her brain against further swelling from the traumatic injury sustained during the accident.

With hesitant hands, Jane parted her daughter's hospital gown. The first thing she saw were red thong panties. Her heart sank. It was Alexa, not Amy. If Jane had any doubts, they were crushed by what she saw next: a purple orchid tattooed high on Alexa's right buttocks.

Alexa had been indifferent when Jane discovered those tattooed serpents, but that indifference quickly turned to fury when Jane threatened to withhold consent for Alexa's learner's permit unless Alexa agreed to have the tattoo removed. Jane now saw how pointless it had been to have forced her daughter into submission. After waiting until her skin had healed from the last laser session, Alexa had simply gotten another tattoo—this time a flower. The entire incident had only served to strain the already fragile relationship between mother and daughter.

After the nurse left the room, Jane buried her face in her hands and wept. Amy was the one who had died at the accident scene. Her beautiful, young Amy. Amy who always had a welcoming smile for her mother and never glared at her like Alexa so often did. Amy who never had an unkind word to say to her mother—not like Alexa who had gotten into the habit of telling her mother to ‘stop being such a bitch’ whenever they argued. Her sweet Amy, gone. Alexa, her rebellious wild child, alive.

Jane shook her head with bitterness and disbelief at God's cruelty. Why oh why couldn't Amy have been the one to survive?

As she blotted her eyes dry with fresh tissues from her purse, she considered calling Frank to let him know what had happened—he loved the girls as much as if they had been his own—but waking him with such devastating news this late at night would be too cruel. He would never be able to go back to sleep. In fact, he just might be foolish enough to cancel his business trip and make the four-hour drive back home immediately. Jane decided to wait until morning to call him.

A sudden peal of warning alarms startled her. She turned to her daughter's monitor. The alarms were coming from there. Something was wrong.

Within seconds the same nurse who had left the room only moments before came rushing back in. He checked Alexa's monitor then rushed back out shouting ‘code cart!’

Jane knew the monitor displayed her daughter's vital signs like blood pressure and pulse, but all the colored lines were flat.

And then the room exploded with activity as doctors and nurses rushed in, one of them pushing a bright red cart on wheels that looked just like the tool cart Frank kept tucked in the corner of their garage. Jane stood and looked around helplessly, confused as to what she should do. One of the nurses—an older woman whose face reminded Jane of a favorite aunt—hurried to her side and started to guide her out.

‘Mrs. Emerson, if you can wait outside. We'll do everything we can to revive your daughter.’

As the nurse led her out of the room, Jane thought of the life that awaited her. Alexa could barely tolerate twenty minutes alone with her mother, and now the two of them would be forced into constant and intimate contact. Would she have the strength to endure this new reality?Just thinking of the battles with Alexa that lay ahead under this new dynamic set Jane's head throbbing.

And to add to her headache, there was her recent promotion at work. It would come with a much-needed pay increase to finally start enjoying life instead of working merely to pay bills, but that would never happen if she didn't pass her six-month probationary period, and that was now in jeopardy.

It had taken Jane years of hard work to get that promotion—she had even taken a couple of night courses to give herself an edge over the other candidates—but the new position had been more demanding than she had expected, and she had been overwhelmed at first. It didn't help that the stress of constant battles with Alexa at home had followed her to work and affected her performance there. Though she was determined to pass her probationary period, Jane thought it might not happen now if she started taking time off to care for Alexa.

But what choice did she have?

Then a flash of clarity jolted her.

‘Stop!’ Jane shouted with such force she startled the nurse at her side, causing her to  actually jump and throw her hands in the air. All activity stopped. All eyes turned to Jane.

‘Don't . . . don't.’ Jane wagged her finger at the doctor who was poised to apply a defibrillator pad to Alexa.

The medical staff looked stunned. They stood motionless and cast worried looks at one another, uncertain whether to continue or not.

The doctor standing over Alexa spoke. ‘Mam, are you saying you don't want us to resuscitate your daughter?’

‘Yes. That's what I'm saying.’

Lines of disbelief creased his forehead. ‘But there's a good chance we can revive her. If you'll just allow us to—’

Jane was adamant. ‘Do not resuscitate my daughter.’

The doctor's disapproving look weighed heavily upon her, but Jane bore it with the strength of her conviction that she was making the right decision. Alexa would never again be able to roam the streets free, party with her friends, sneak away to dance clubs. And she could forget about the privacy she so fiercely protected. That was now a ghost of the past.

Jane knew her daughter—no one knew her better—and Alexa's spirit would wither and die on the vine if she had to be confined to live life with the cruel restrictions God had forced upon her. Alexa valued freedom more than life, of that Jane was certain.

Jane didn't flinch from the doctor's hardening gaze. ‘Please. I'm her mother. I'm doing what's best for my daughter.’

The alarms continued to sound as everyone waited. Eventually a nurse turned off the monitor and disconnected the lines from the lifeless girl.

One by one—with their heads fixed straight ahead, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Jane—the doctors and nurses filed out of the room. A dull silence trailed in their wake.

The hospital bed with its occupant was rolled away, and Jane, alone now, sat staring at the empty space left behind. A minute passed. Then another. And another. Each one heavy and filled with grief, piling onto her like stones, pressing her into the chair. If she didn't leave soon, she would be crushed by the weight, and so, with great effort, she rose and stood exhausted from that effort.

She had one more task to perform, but first she would go home and try to get a few hours' sleep, and then she would drive to the county morgue and provide positive identification of Amy.

Before she could take a step, however, her phone chimed. She reflexively opened her purse to retrieve it but then stopped. It wasn't her phone that was chiming, and the sound wasn't coming from her purse. It was coming from the plastic hospital bag with Alexa's clothing.

Jane dropped heavily back into her chair and rummaged numbly through the bag. She pulled out Alexa's jeans. They had surprisingly little blood but were ruined nevertheless. They had been cut along the outside seam of both pant legs.

Jane reached into the snug front pocket and tugged out the chiming cell phone. Its case was covered with tiny dots. This isn't Alexa's phone, she thought. Alexa's case has intertwined serpents. Amy's phone has the dots. Jane wondered what Amy's phone was doing in Alexa's jeans.

As the phone continued to chime, Jane brought it closer to her face. She had never looked this closely at the dots before, but now that she could see them clearly, she realized they weren't dots at all but tiny purple orchids. She thought of the purple orchid tattooed on Alexa's backside. None of this made any sense.

Jane was struggling to arrange these odd pieces of information into some kind of sensible explanation when a horrible realization suddenly struck her—like icy water entering her veins. She would have screamed if she had had the strength, but she had so little left, and she would need that to curse God His final cruelty.

About the author

 Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and is now retired. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, CaféLit, and Bright Flash Literary Review. 

 

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