The book lay open on the desk, the cigarette in the ashtray still trailing smoke.

The soft murmur of the television barely covered the incessant ticking that filled the room with audible angst.

The darkened room filled with a flickering puddle of light from the movie being played.

The oasis of light from the desk lamp was the only anchor in the dry darkness that enveloped the room.

A musty aroma of age and stale cigarettes permeated the darkness with an oppressive blanket of forgotten lives.

The sudden scratching on the door coincided with a soft echoing groan. The window behind the television rattled moments after the lightning filled the room with light, briefly revealing a bookcase thick with dust.

Unnoticed, the little square phone vibrated, rattling its little tune in an urgent request for attention.

The map of the United States filled the wall above the desk and like most, Hawaii and Alaska are included in the corner to complete the image.

At the bottom of the map are scrawled the words, “No real destination.”

Sprawled out on the couch, a heavyset old main snores lightly. Occasionally his snoring stops along with any sound of breathing, only to be punctuated as the air is raked back into his lungs in a staccato hacking cough.

The man turns over and faces the couch back and fluffs the pillow his head rests upon before he settles back in, quietly breathing.

Never did we expect such power.

We stood awaiting orders that never came.

Night after night, day after day, our numbers grew.

We were unaware of the ultimate goals, but our count increased as efforts to grow our numbers through seeds planted subtly and the fluttering immersion that flowed nightly through the city.

We were regularly fed, and water was the only drink allowed.

Many days passed, and we stood staunch through rain and shine.

One day, we could feel the ground itself shudder long before the faint rumble of motorized destruction came to us.

We kept the friendships on the surface, as we knew the death toll would hit harder if we knew each other personally. I was paired… or at least next to Shamrock. I’m not sure if he’s Irish or not, but he was capped with a four-leafed clover insignia, so for lack of a better name, we took to calling him Shamrock.

We trembled, but knew we must stand strong. Though we would be cut down in staggering numbers, we could only hope for the best.

It finally arrived, and as expected, staccato sounds of my comrades as they fell—some fell fully, as if drawn and quartered—each fall sending shivers through me. The debris and shrapnel filled the air.

I was one of the lucky ones—thrice passed over.
After the second pass, I huddled together with Shamrock.
After the third pass, I looked over—and Shamrock had been sheared at the neck just below his cap.

The final pass came, as I knew it would… the death machine humming straight toward me.
But it stopped short.
The engine cut. It stood mere breaths away.
I waited.

“Mom, can I get some lemonade?” the young man hollered at the house.

Rhythmic and regular, the click and swish continue incessantly.
Each thread woven in sequence, layering side by side.
Slowly the colors emerge, interwoven amidst the threads designed to strengthen.
The cut of the fabric is shaped and molded.
Every stitch, meticulous; every fold, crucial.

The narrative robed in cloth.

The canvas set.
Every stroke vivid.
Every line drawn, nuanced.
Painting with deep, resonant colors.
The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.
Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.
Standing back, we look again before changing direction.
Every subtlety intentional.
The canvas complete, the critics arise.

In painted prose—a novel.

We landed heavily throughout the city… most of us landed on the ground and slipped into hiding immediately.

I was one of the unlucky ones… I hit the roof, and without a purchase to stop me, bounced off of the edge of the highest level to the next, sliding uncontrollably toward the edge—over which was a hundred-foot drop to the ground, with nothing to break the fall.

I flattened myself, seeking a perch or crook and cranny to latch onto—something to slow my descent toward that looming precipice. Twice there was brief hope that didn’t pan out… and then finally, a crack within which I could slip.

Gathering myself, I squeezed through and slowly forced my way into the house, landing in the attic to search once again for an opening or way down.

I was exhausted and felt as if my intent was draining from me… eked out of me by the constant barriers placed before me… but I finally did find a narrow passage through which I could slide…

And there it was… but grip on the ceiling tenuous at best… the man stood below me, not knowing I was hanging here…

I struggled to hold on, but eventually I could grasp no longer and fell, landing full on the man’s head.

He reached up and swiped at me…

“Mary,” Bill hollered, as he wiped the water from his head.

“Mary! Mary!! Did you call the roofers? I think we’re leaking again.”

We had just left the bowling alley when a distraction by my friend allowed me to slip away from him.

Before he could stop me, I was already down the alley and rounding the corner.

A strong breeze at my back—a breath of tantalizing freedom.

Twice I was able to evade… staying just beyond the man’s grasp.

My friend, skirting across the tightly compacted rooftops, toppled piles and clattered debris in my wake. Reaching down, they caught me—but had not the strength to extract me. Even so, without the help, I’d have been caught for certain.

With one final burst, I flung myself against a fence… but the man caught up—struck me twice with his open hand.

He grabbed me with both hands, and—in slow, almost cinematic motion—he thrust his head toward me.

As his forehead closed in, I contemplated my fate.

For one brief, glorious moment, before being thrust back onto his head, I was free, thanks to my friend—the wind.

Death, meet Black Hole…

“They had not gone out together, in… damn… years,” she thought.

Humming quietly to herself, “…don’t expect it this time either, girl, but there is always hope. He finally buy me new sensible shoes yesterday, and they fit perfectly. And the black shoes even matched my cute little black top.”

They exercised together every day, and with all the new equipment he bought, they were able to shape up her droopy backside. Her reflection in the mirror on the garage wall was a testament to all the efforts.

As she hummed, she could feel him steal up behind her; she varied her tone, using short musical scales, to make him feel sneakier.

His touch made her heart race, and she shivered as he ran his hands along her long, lithe sides.

He slipped to his knees and kissed her once-saggy rear. She was not sure when that had become a daily ritual, or even why, but she loved it.

She had always been proud of her taut little backside, and as he touched her, she purred like a kitten in the warm sun. He smirked when she purred. Knowing the amount of work and the cost of all the equipment, it was worth it.

She wondered, “Is this the treat before we go out, or the disappointment before we stayed in?”

He stood and let his hand slowly slip over her side as he reached into her top, quickly undid the fastenings, and removed it.

She was now bare… nothing but the rubber soles touching the floor of the garage.

“He is going to get right to it, jumping in with both feet, without even a thought,” she mused happily.

Excited, he grabbed her, and true to her expectations, he slid forcefully into her. She screamed as he pressed the accelerator, and together, they roared out into the street.

“Excuse me, excuse me. Excuse me!” Aida repeated in ever-louder tones. Protect and deliver were his instructions, and… as Billy was wont to say… “by God, that’s what I will do!”

Jetting down the hallway, he skated around various people and automated delivery units. Not as efficient as one might expect, but they do the job. Mostly interoffice mail and the like. His job is to protect crucial packages and information from infiltrators, should it come to that.

Aida skidded around a corner, feeling almost like a dog or cat on a freshly waxed floor.

He was carrying a high-priority package. It was interoffice, but it was critical. Well… he knew this package was not… but the point was…

Aida threw himself against the wall, his chain gun blazing against the mock attacker. The red packets of paint deterred the man, but it took the blue sticky clay from his faux stun gun to stop the man’s android friend.

One day you will not be able to tell them apart, but that day is not today, Aida mused as he zipped through the last door and down two flights of stairs. He had practiced in this building at night for months. He knew every grip, every step. Every nook and corner were known to him, and from anywhere they put him, he knew the blind spots and where he could best defend himself.

Slinging himself over the railing, catching each flight as he dropped, he slipped onto the flight for floor 42. Less than three minutes… that might be his best time ever.

As he threw open the door and scanned the interior for deterrents, he reached in and pulled out the package, sliding up to the reception desk and gently placed it on the timer.

Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds.

The roar goes up from his team standing behind the desk.

The CEO held up his hands, and the crowd quieted. Walking over to Aida, the CEO grinned at him. “You are not much to look at, but it seems that you have bested every other option we have ever had by a full minute and a half. Congratulations.”

Aida didn’t move, his every fiber tense and expectant; he hovered as the CEO continued, the words swelling him to the core with pride.

“Keep putting him through scenarios… as difficult as you can think of… but… until then…”

He nods to the gathering. “Congratulations to the R and D, and…”

Turning to Aida, he grins, “and the first android-based AI Delivery Agent.”

The anticipation of the launch filled the room as everyone waited with bated breath.

The tanks of the rocket were full, and the countdown had begun.

This damned rickety control station, hastily constructed, rocked to and fro as everyone concerned focused on the impending launch. Somewhere, two solid objects of the control platform were thumping together in time with the rocking.

We can all feel the intensity of the moment… success or disaster… breath is held as the rocket is thrust into the air with mighty forces, jutting the tube out into space in search of life.

Exhausted, Daph falls limp from atop him, saying, “I need a cigarette.”

Tapping one out, he hands her one, then proceeds to light it for her.

“Thanks, Frederik. You’re a doll.”

The sounds have clicks and ticks and various inflections that I just cannot recreate.

Ever since I arrived, the natives… let’s call them benefactors… have been incessantly hovering, though, odd enough, their attention is erratic.

My food, normally provided regularly, is sometimes forgotten. This means I have to sidle up to the bars of my cell, screaming and hollering until someone shows up with food.

The same is true for my clothing. With no way to wash my clothing, I have to rely on my benefactors to provide me clean outfits.

They gather around.

The enormity of their size dwarfs my own, and this is reinforced regularly when strangers arrive and my benefactors show me off as the newest addition to their menagerie.

When they are not around, I sometimes find myself trying to emulate the simpler sounds. One day, I vow to be able to make them understand…

A benefactor—one in particular—seems to dote on me. I have come to think of it as female.

She talks to me all the time, though I think she does so without expectations of a response.

I smile at her when I can, trying to impart my appreciation of the things she does.

“Mmooahhmaahh,” she tells me, and seems to half wait before turning away.

I struggle to form the strange, unwieldy words, and I know I do not do them justice. “Maamaa,” I tell her.

“Bill. Bill! Come quick, he just said ‘mama’ and I think he might be able to do it again!”

The light flickered… the landscape, reflected and mirrored, stretches out, filling the expanse.

The little pieces are placed—trees and bushes set, and then adjusted perfectly.

The intricate details were difficult to manage, but these… miniature, small… diminutive… I am not even sure anymore what to call them. They are detailed and seem perfect for the piece.

The light flickers again. Ugh, I should fix that too, but I need to get this done…

Two days… two days down… Saturday, or is it Sunday… we need to be finished by Saturday.

That means only four more days. I try not to hurry, but looking at the clock is a god-awful reminder of the deadline…

…The last piece finally put in place. Finally. I laid back and rested. My only thought… why did I create time anyway… stupid clock.

Dressed in leather and gilded in gold bling, the teacher sat on the edge of the desk.

Not the usual uptight teacher, her intricate tattoos proudly illustrated a deep, reverent understanding of the importance of knowledge.

The concepts presented were of a depth that few could succinctly follow, let alone completely comprehend.

Running up her spine, the proudly displayed tattoo bore intricate glyphs that proclaimed her expertise.

Having spent years of life buried amongst the shelves and tables of libraries, speaking to librarians, students, and the general public, it was nice to finally settle into a more intimate setting.

Starting from the beginning, the teacher explained, section by section, chapter by chapter, carefully phrasing the information presented.

The students understood.

The attention the teacher garnered was unparalleled, as was the depth of the knowledge which this particular teacher wished to impart.

There was never a discussion—only presentation and depth. The discussions can happen after—after you understand the base information.

The final sentence, the final word, having been presented—spoken in a way that stirred the heart.

As that last sentence stirred the heart and empowered the mind, the young lady closed the book, leaving her leather-bound teacher sitting on the desk.

Reviewing the painting, I smiled.

“No,” Timmy said, looking me square in the eyes. “I would rather you didn’t.”

“You seem to be my perfect subject, though.”

“Yes, and your first painting came out perfect, did it not?”

“I suppose it did.”

Timmy reached up and poked at his cheeks and twisted his fingers, exaggerating his non-existent dimples.

“Alright, alright… don’t expect me to stop asking, though.”

“I completely expect you to ask.” Timmy grinned and indicated his whole body, as if he were trying to convince me how perfect it was.

“You should probably get some sleep, and I probably need a bit of alone time.”

“Fine,” I said, as I picked up the canvas cloth and shook it out.

I threw the cloth over the painting and turned to go.

“Good night, Sarrah,” Timmy said from under the muffling of the cloth.

“Good night, my perfect painting.”

“She’s a cute kid. It is a little awkward, and I’ll just say it’s a little creepy, but she’s still cute.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know,” Dave said.

They rewound the tape and watched it a fifth time.

The girl danced awkwardly, reflected in the mirror.

Her gangly and uncertain movements were adorable.

“See? Reflections don’t lie… admit it.”

“Yes, but they’ll just think it’s a fake.”

Karen sighed…

“Probably. It does look strange having just a reflection of her dancing.”

Last night, I could hear them fighting again.

Why she lets him control her like that, I will never understand.

I push lightly at the door, just to check.

It is locked again.

Poor girl.

She never leaves except when she takes her car for groceries.

I had burst in once, but I was no match for him.

Perhaps her emotional scars kept her there, but she chided me for interfering.

I think I made it worse.

Today, I could hear her screams.

I stifle my outburst as I hear the scuffling within.

I close my mind and my ears and slowly slink back to my place.

The morning came, and I roused, slipping over to her place.

The door was open, but there was no one home.

Her perfume filled the air.

The keys… her keys… still hung on the hook.

I slipped back to my place, my breath shallow and quick, as I gazed out the window. She normally parked right to the side of my place, almost directly in front of my window.

Her car was there.

If her car was here… her keys… then what did he do?

Her door rattled. My heart racing, I rushed out.

Oh my… she was safe… my heart… she can see it in my eyes.

She looked at me, her face stoic and unbreakable—until she broke…

The grin spread across her face as she reached down and scratched behind my ears. “Who’s a good boy!?”

The plateau, a mesa of warmth and woven shadow, beckoned to the benefactor and watcher alike, promising sights heretofore unseen in a mystical dance never beheld before, and in dreams never to be viewed again.

Forgoing the temptation, the benefactor sat briefly on the edge of the plateau, legs dangling, then slid over and slowly climbed down.
The oppressive stillness of the area surrounding the plateau was washed away in the clean, cool breeze spinning its way down from somewhere vastly higher—up where the light shone down in illuminating rays.

Across the soft, wavy plains, out into the vast corridors lined with great walls—sheer vertical cliffs decorated with ancient motifs of symbols and faces.

The corridor steepens, winding down to the valley below, where the path widens and splits into the open expanse, or through the arch and into the mystical confines where fire and ice meet and mix… ledges of fire occasionally roaring, roasting anything caught unawares.
The cavernous, frigid caves—filled and littered with scraps and scrapes, also of those who fell and were left.
The crisp, clean aroma wafts through this mystically dangerous place.

The benefactor waves a hand, and water pours from silvery branches.
In basins, the water is caught—enough for the day, perhaps two or three.

Reaching up, the smooth bark is ripped aside, revealing intricate wave upon wave of manna.
My excitement grows as the benefactor produces a small, smooth container, which rattles like rocks or gems.

My stomach growls of its own accord. I look up once more, grateful for my benefactor and the kibbles that fill my bowl. I purr my fleeting gratitude.

A yellow butterfly flutters and lands on the dedication sign for the forest green bench.

Mother sits on the bench, handkerchief in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes.

For weeks, Mother has been angry at me, ignoring me almost completely.

Mother looks over and mutters my name. “Sarah.”

I look up, grinning. Maybe she isn’t mad anymore. I return to playing in the sand.

A distant woman calls Mother’s name. “Mrs. Dennis.”

I notice the butterfly. Standing up and tiptoeing, with ghostly quiet, I sneak up on it.

The woman approaches Mother, stops nearby, holding out a bouquet of flowers. My heart hurts, but Mother prefers adults since she has been mad… or sad. Tears flow from Mother’s eyes as she accepts the flowers and bunches them together with the ones she is already holding.

I look away and focus on the butterfly as it crawls along the brass sign.

“I am so sorry,” the woman says, looking around. “At least they’ve cleaned the place up and made it safer.”

“I must go, but I will try to come by later.”

The woman turns without needing an answer and walks away, her head hanging.

Mother stands and turns toward the dedication sign, noticing the butterfly for the first time. She sighs and lays the flowers gently near the sign.

Sarah reaches out to catch the butterfly—her hands passing right through it.

As Mother and I walk away, I reach out to catch the butterfly, but my hands pass through it, as if it were a ghostly projection.
The butterfly flutters away from the dedication sign: “In Honor of Sarah Dennis, may her soul rest.”

“This damn clock—why are they always so difficult when he is around?”

The old, haggard clockmaker hunches over a bench.

The man in the dark cloak sits in the corner, waiting.

The clockmaker struggles with this piece. He must get it working. It is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride. He has never found a clock he could not keep running, and he’ll be damned if this one is going to beat him.

The man in the cloak stands and strides over—just as the last gear drops into place, the clockmaker flips the release, and the clock begins ticking again. The cloaked man smiles genuinely at the clockmaker.

“One day, you will not be able to fix it. The parts, maybe… or your skill, perhaps,” he said.

The clockmaker smiles as his eyes follow the still-grinning man as he walks back to the corner, flips up his hood, retrieves his scythe, and steps through the wall.

The intricacies… independent and unique.

He sent the order in this morning.

The letter next to her only specified: “Something intellectual and creative.” He often let her have the reins with the eggs, long ago realizing she was more than capable.

She sighs, but a smile spreads across her face.

She loves this… sort of artwork. She has never met another who does it the same as she does. She is meticulous, careful, measured.

But also, she enjoys flaws—though she isn’t sure she can really call them flaws if they are intentional.
She places the finished egg in the basket lined with soft linens.

A soft chime comes from outside her window. She stands and opens the window. She walks back to the table and retrieves the basket.

The basket is filled with intricately designed eggs—each the same, but uniquely different.

She looks out the window, then, as the winds of time blow past, she places the basket in the beak of the stork.

The damn birds… the incessant cooing. If Patty could think of a better punishment… she would.

She could not forget her little Katie’s laughter from the back seat. Her daughter, so bright and joyful.

They had been laughing about something. Try though she did, she could never recall what.

The pigeons filled the road ahead, and she slowed through the intersection as the flock took flight… filling the air and blocking her view ahead.

The car had slowed to almost a stop, but the maintenance truck— it had traveled in the fastest slow motion she had ever known.

She only saw it briefly as her daughter screamed, then went quiet.

They had been on their way to the park… this park… and now.

Now she comes here every day.
She sits on this bench—the very bench she and Katie would sit on.
This is the only way she can remember.

The buttery aroma of the popcorn drifts about the park as she sits, immobile and heartbroken.

Her hand, deep in the bag, now empty. The constant ring of the popcorn vendor’s popper, comforting and absurdly invasive at the same time.

The child’s laughter from the playground behind her always grated on her.

She wanted to go over and tell them to go home, or go somewhere else—she didn’t care where. She just needed them gone.

Ugh… her back still feels stiff. She rotated her head about her neck, but with no real relief.

The jogger—what was her name… Sarah? Sarah… she knows the story, and she tries to comfort Patty each day.

Today was no exception, the pigeons pecking at her feet, shooed away by Sarah.

Sarah sat next to Patty, holding her hand in one of hers, the other around her wrist, as if to reinforce that she would steady her if needed.

Sarah came and went, but today she went to the popcorn stand. A bit unusual for the health nut Sarah was, but not unprecedented.

Laughter.

“Ugh…”

Children laughing no longer seemed a blessing.

Just go… away…

She looked toward the playground. The laughter continued.

She could not see the child, and an adult was nowhere to be seen.

She sounds too much like Katie… she needs to go…

Patty struggled—almost didn’t—but finally decided to do something… anything…

She crossed the green grass toward the park.

The laughter of the little girl seemed to come from somewhere behind the slide.

The hard, cold metal of the slide turned her stomach a little.

She can’t shake the twisted metal of the car in the aftermath of the wreck.

She stepped into the playground, the slide directly in front of her.

Some toy, reaching up out of the sand, punctured her foot.

“Her bare foot?” she thought as she twisted through the fall, unable to stop the rushing corner of the hard metal slide.

Her head… she could feel it bounce off the corner, and her body went limp moments before the world faded to black.

Her eyes slowly opened. Her angel, her lovely little angel Katie, met her with a bright smile. Katie giggled with joy. A nurse—her name tag… Sarah—held her wrist.

Sarah looked down at Patty.

“Katie has been here every day with popcorn. Every day for six weeks since the accident. We are so glad you pulled through. Welcome back, Patty.”

Detective Morris glared across the interrogation table.

“You said you were where, Friday night?” He said, for the umpteenth time.

The smug grin on the perp’s face… matched only by the eerie silence. That face, highlighted in red from the light in the hall, occasionally flickered with someone’s passing.

Ugh. Hours. He didn’t recall right off, how many, but it was a lot.

The suspect was guilty, his grin and silence were all he needed to know that.

“…Friday night, where were you?” His voice gruff and growling.

Grabbing the chair, Morris flipped it around, dropping it loudly onto the concrete floor.

As the cavernous echo reverberated and died, the suspect finally shifted in his seat.

He leaned forward, the grin gone from his face. Morris leaned in, listening intently.

Morris felt his head spin… “Your daughter… pretty little… Sarah. Sarah.. Right?”

---

The grin returned in full force. “She goes to Ethan Elementary… Walks down sixth street to your house… third one on the right… yeah? Yeah.”

The putrid feeling of evil exuded from this man.

His last thought as he reached for the cuff key, was of his darling Sarah.

Grabbing the wrist of the perp he reached out with the key, twisting it and freeing the suspect. He could feel the heat building in his hand, his fingers numbing. He dropped the key onto the floor next to the evil little man.

Retrieving the key the perp unlocked the other wrist, then tossed the key onto the table grinning, he turned to Morris.

---

The suspects eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face.

The deep growl from Morris cut through the boy as urine flowed to the floor, “And that… is exactly why you’re here!” Morris’s dagger toothed grin spread, splitting the dark red leathery skin of the Detective’s face. The ivory horns practically glowing…

Out across the sea, the beam of light sweeps, searching… guiding… waiting for someone to see.

The rain pelts the windows, hammering in sheets and droves.

The storm rages.

His coffee… different… a slight hint of salt and iron.

He had emptied the last of his bottled water yesterday, so he was using water from the tap.

His chair—comfortable. In fact… more comfortable than he could remember.

The rain rolled across the glass in waves, like people at a ball game, or a concert perhaps.

It slid across, methodical, then pelted the glass unevenly for a while, only to once again roll across.

The tea kettle started squealing—loud, but with varying pitch as the ancient stove elements heated, then cooled in slow succession.

Struggling, he worked his way out of the overstuffed chair and stood.

A sip of coffee. Good… real good… warm and slightly metallic.

Another quick sip, ill-timed with his breath, caused him to cough… the warm coffee spewed across the room.

He looked around in mild disgust as he headed for the stairs in search of a towel.

A towel… and to turn that incessant squeal off.

He followed the spiral staircase, feeling a bit unsteady. He grasped the handrail and longed for the comfort of the chair.

In the kitchen, he felt his way through the darkness to the stove.

The window, outlined in flashes of light through and around the shutters and curtains, occasionally lit the scene.

He turned off the stove and reached for a towel.

The rain murmured outside. The light outside the window, somehow, was steady and bright.

He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand as he brought it up for a sip.

As he shifted the curtain and flung the shutters wide, he coughed again, spewing coffee.

Something slammed into his chest, and he coughed again, then filled his lungs with air as he looked out…

…into the face of the paramedic, now dripping with blood as his cough sprayed him again.

“Welcome back,” the paramedic grinned in satisfaction.

The fog-laden evening chilled him to the bone as he stood beneath the street lamp.

“I am getting too old for this,” he mutters.

The juxtaposing hard-soft glow of the lamps created an eerie duality of light on the street. The long
shadows dancing in the wind-blown lamplight. The headlights shine on him briefly as the vehicle passes.

He checked his watch and pulled his cloak tighter against the cold.

The ache in his back. He leaned over and touched his toes to stretch the muscles, then placed his hands in the small of his back and leaned back, as far as he could.

The pop was almost audible as his spine realigned.

He sighed in relief.

Looking at his watch, he finally heard the approach in the distance.

He never knew when this she might tire of this.

Her incessant need to keep tabs on him was annoying, but he had long ago resigned himself.

She had little sense of humor, but she was pleasant to look at. They had played this game for as long as he could remember, and he was pushing… uh… well, let’s just say he was much older than the young lady.

He reached down and picked up the glass that he had set on the walk beside him.

She approached, her hands flying—knitting, crocheting… or something else. He was never quite sure, and truthfully, not that interested.

“Evening!” he said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting a girl like you in a place like this.”

Hand slowly demonstrating the magnificent surroundings—well… at least to him.

She winked, reached out a hand containing a small piece of thread.

“Father,” she said as he took the thread.

Beautiful as ever, he thought. He dearly enjoyed the moments, brief though they were.

“Fate, same time next year?” he smiled as he and his hourglass slowly disappeared.

The cracked sidewalk led up to the creaky steps of the old Victorian house.

He took a deep breath… and began walking up to the porch just above the stairs.

With each step, it felt like he was walking in molasses. Slowly, his legs felt heavier the closer he got.

At the steps, he struggled to lift his leg. Placing it on the step, he struggled to lift the other as the step creaked and groaned under him.

Twice more he struggled, twice more he climbed. Now, on the porch, he could see the note on the door: “Ring for delivery.”

The postman reached behind his back, fondling the bloody knife. The last victim had struggled and screamed. His crooked smile spread as he pushed the button and heard the ding-dong of the bell.

He could see the little girl approach the door.

His hand closed on the knife as he stood holding the package. The door opened, and the little girl stepped out. She smiled at the man.

She reached for the package, and his hand swung the knife as the girl brushed his hand with hers.

The scene explodes in bright white. The man feels at peace, at last, his anger swept away.

The eerie, soft words faded in the air. “Special delivery…” the young girl said.

The young waitress sat at the counter, her tips laid out in front of her as she counted.

Old country songs, soft in the background, as she felt around for her glasses.

A movement from the corner caught her attention.

The last booth. The last customer… creepy. The guy seemed to be staring at her all night, but when she looked…

“I wish… he would just… leave,” she thought.

The creaks and groans of the diner always grated on her.

And the guy in the corner was not helping.

She turned and opened the register, trading her tips for larger bills.

As the drawer dinged shut, the ringing of the bell above the door caused her to start.

Oh…

Through the window, she saw the cook, Jerry, walking out to his car.

Her heart sank.

She snuck a glance toward the corner. The man was standing. Her heart stopped.

The man reached into his pocket, his grip tightening around something as he slowly sauntered in her direction.
She diverted her gaze to the floor.
Maybe…

She saw his shoes as he stopped in front of her.

He grabbed her wrist, and her fingers involuntarily closed around the cold, hard metal as he slid it into her hand.

“Annie,” he said softly.
“You forgot your glasses again.”