Author Archives: M. Bradley

Lost Ones

Posted on by under Short Stories

The bathroom light was still on. It hummed faintly behind the closed door, a thin strip of yellow spilling across the hallway carpet. Four plastic tests lay on the sink counter, lined up like tiny white verdicts. All of them said the same thing. Positive.

Lena stared at them until the word blurred. Her hands were trembling—not with fear, not exactly. It felt more like standing on the edge of something enormous and bright. Something terrifying and miraculous all at once. She pressed a palm to her stomach.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and then she laughed—a small, disbelieving sound. “Oh my God.”

In the living room, Marcus was stretched across their secondhand couch, laptop balanced on his knees, a spreadsheet open. He was muttering under his breath about rent and hours and how his manager had cut his shifts again.

“Babe?” he called. “You okay in there?”

The bathroom door clicked open. Lena stepped out slowly, the tests clenched in her hand. Her face looked pale, but her eyes were shining in a way he hadn’t seen before.

Marcus sat up immediately. “Hey, what happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. She walked toward him like someone walking through water. Then she held out her hand.

“Well?” he asked, already bracing.

She held a pregnancy test out like evidence in a trial. “I’m pregnant.”

The word cracked through the room. He stared at the stick, then at her.

“Are you sure?”

Her laugh was sharp. “No, Marcus, I just collect positive pregnancy tests for fun.”

He winced. “That’s not what I—”

“I took four.”

Silence. For a split second, something like awe crossed his expression. Then it shifted. Tightened. His brain started calculating before he could stop it. Rent. Bills. His cut shifts. Her car that barely started in the mornings.

“Pregnant,” he repeated.

She nodded, a breathless smile breaking through. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Silence. Marcus swallowed. He set the laptop aside slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter something fragile.

“Okay,” he said carefully. The smile on her face faltered.

“Okay?” she echoed.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I mean… okay. Wow. That’s… wow.”

She waited for him to stand. To pull her into a hug. To laugh. To say this is crazy and beautiful and we’ll figure it out. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet.

“How far along do you think you are?”

“I don’t know. Maybe five weeks? Six?” She hugged herself. “I missed my period and I just—I knew.”

He nodded slowly. Too slowly.

“Marcus,” she said, her voice thinning, “say something.”

“I’m trying.”

His mind was already racing ahead: rent due next week, the electric bill they were late on, the cracked windshield they still hadn’t fixed. His community college tuition. Her part-time job at the café that barely covered groceries.

“You look like someone just told you you’re going to prison.”

“Because this is serious, Lena!”

“It’s also exciting,” she shot back. “Or did that not cross your mind?”

He stood up abruptly. “Of course it crossed my mind! But do you want me to throw confetti? We can barely afford groceries!”

“We’ll make it work.”

“How?” His voice rose. “With what money? With what space? We’re in a one-bedroom apartment with mold in the bathroom!”

“So we move!”

“With what savings?!” he barked.

She flinched but didn’t back down. “People figure it out all the time.”

“Yeah, and they’re drowning half the time.”

“At least they try.”

He froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re already looking for an exit.”

“No I am not.”

“You haven’t said one single positive thing since I walked out of that bathroom.”

“Because I’m not an idiot, Lena!” he snapped. “This isn’t some Instagram announcement. This is eighteen years. Minimum.”

Her face hardened. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re romanticizing this.”

“Oh my God.” She threw the test onto the coffee table. “You think I’m stupid.”

“I think you’re emotional.”

Her jaw dropped. “Wow.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You just said I’m emotional.”

“You are!” he shot back. “You’re running on adrenaline and hormones and—”

“Say it.” She stepped toward him. “Say what you’re actually thinking.”

He hesitated.

“That we’re not ready,” he said finally.

“And?”

“And that maybe we should think about whether this is the right time.”

Her voice dropped to ice. “Whether what is the right time?”

He looked away.

“Say it, Marcus.”

He swallowed. “Whether we should… go through with it.”

The air left her lungs like he’d punched her.

“Go through with it,” she repeated. “You mean have your child?”

“I mean make a decision that doesn’t wreck our lives.”

Her eyes blazed. “So that’s what this is? A wreck?”

“You don’t even need to think about it?” she asked, voice trembling with disbelief.

“I am thinking about it!” he barked. “That’s the problem!”

“You mean you’re thinking about how screwed you are.”

“I’m thinking about how screwed we are.”

“No,” she shot back. “You’re thinking about yourself.”

He spun toward her. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is! Because you’re acting like this is some miracle dropped from the sky instead of a disaster.”

“A disaster?” Her voice broke. “That’s what you think our child is?”

“I think it’s terrible timing!”

“You don’t get perfect timing!” she screamed. “Life doesn’t send you a calendar invite!”

He dragged his hands down his face. “We are twenty-two. We are broke. We fight about gas money. And now you want to bring a baby into that?”

She stepped closer, trembling. “I don’t want to bring a baby into it. The baby is already here.”

“It’s barely the size of a seed!”

“It’s still ours!”

He shook his head, backing away like she was something dangerous. “We have options.”

There it was again. Options. Her expression hardened into something almost unrecognizable.

“You mean an abortion.”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s what you mean.”

“I mean we don’t have to ruin our lives because of one mistake!”

The second the word left his mouth, he knew. Mistake. Lena stared at him like he had just slapped her across the face.

“Say that again,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Say it again.”

He didn’t.

“You think this baby is a mistake?” she asked, voice shaking with fury. “You think I am stupid enough to call it that?”

“I meant the situation!”

“No. You meant the baby.”

He looked away.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “My mom was nineteen. Nineteen. Everyone told her I was a mistake too.”

“I’m not everyone!”

“You sound exactly like them!”

He snapped. “Your mom struggled her entire life, Lena! You told me she cried in the kitchen because she couldn’t afford groceries!”

“And she still chose me!”

“And she never finished school!” he shot back. “She never got out of that crappy apartment!”

“At least she didn’t kill her kid to make it easier!”

The word hung there. Kill.

Marcus recoiled. “That’s not what I’m saying, Lena! Quit putting words in my mouth!”

“That’s what it feels like.”

“You don’t get to twist it into murder because I’m scared!”

“You don’t get to dress it up as logic because you’re selfish!”

He stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Selfish? You think I’m selfish for not wanting to drag a kid through poverty?”

“I think you’re selfish because you’re scared you’ll end up stuck.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“No?” she fired back. “To have a dad who bailed? To grow up watching your mom do everything alone? No, I definitely don’t know anything about that.”

He pointed at her, shaking. “Do not compare this to him.”

“How is it different?”

“I am still here!”

“For now!”

That statement landed with the subtlety of an atomic bomb.

“For now?” he repeated. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“You know what it means,” she said, tears streaming but voice vicious. “The second this got real, you were looking for a way out.”

“I’m trying to prevent a disaster!”

“You’re trying to erase responsibility!”

“I didn’t ask for this!”

He realized too late that he should’ve kept that to himself. The words were already out there, doing more damage than he could have imagined. Her face went white-hot.

“You didn’t ask for this?” she repeated slowly. “The fuck you mean you didn’t ask for this?!”

“You think I did this alone?” she demanded. “You think I got pregnant by myself?”

“That’s not what I—”

“You were there, Marcus. Every single time.”

He slammed his hand against the wall. “I know that!”

“Then stop acting like I trapped you!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You don’t have to!” she screamed. “It’s all over your face!”

He stared at her, something ugly rising in him. “If you keep this baby—”

She froze.

“If I keep it?”

He swallowed, but he didn’t back down.

“If you keep this baby without thinking this through… don’t expect me to just pretend that I wasn’t against it.”

The room went silent.

“Are you threatening me, Marcus?” she asked quietly.

“I’m telling you I don’t know if I can do this. If we should do this.”

“There it is,” she said, voice hollow. “You’re leaving.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just did.”

He ran his hands through his locs, pacing like a trapped animal. “I am not my father.”

“Then prove it. Because from where I’m standing, you sure as hell look like him.”

“I’m trying!”

“No,” she said, tears cutting down her face. “You’re doing exactly what he did. Panicking. Looking for escape routes. Making it about how unfair it is to you.”

“Because it is unfair!” he exploded. “Everything was finally starting to feel stable!”

Her eyes went cold.

“So that’s it,” she said. “I’m chaos.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is.”

He felt something in his chest crack. “I am terrified I’m going to become him,” he admitted, voice raw. “That I’ll wake up one day and resent you. Or the kid. That I’ll look at our life and feel trapped.”

“And you think I’m not terrified?” she shot back. “You think I don’t know what it costs to do this, especially if I have to do it alone?”

The words echoed. Alone. They both heard it. He looked at her stomach. Then at her face.

“You’re really going to do this,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Even if I’m not ready?”

“Yes.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“And if I can’t?” he asked.

Her voice broke, but she didn’t look away.

“Then you’ll just be another ain’t shit ass nigga who left.”

That did it. He grabbed his jacket off the chair.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I need air.”

“Of course you do.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Call it what it is?”

He stopped at the door, hand on the knob.

“I’m not him,” he said again, but it sounded weaker now.

She stood in the middle of the living room, one hand protectively over her stomach, the other shaking at her side.

“Then stop proving me right.”

He hesitated. For half a second, it looked like he might come back. Like he might choose to not follow his father’s footsteps and stay. Instead, he opened the door and stepped out into the night, letting it slam behind him.

The apartment felt enormous without him in it. Lena stood there, alone, breathing hard, the echo of the door still ringing in her ears. In the bathroom, the light still hummed. On the sink, three other tests lay in a neat row. Positive. Damning.And suddenly, so was the silence.

The Crush

Posted on by under Short Stories

He loved every minute of her company. If only she knew he existed. That was the tragic poetry of it, really.

Evan Carter had spent thirteen years in the same classroom orbit as Lily Ramirez. Thirteen years of shared pencils, shared group projects, shared fire drills and field trips and fluorescent-lit mornings. From the sticky tables of kindergarten to the scuffed tile floors of senior year, she had been there: three seats to the left, two rows up, sometimes behind him, sometimes ahead. Always close enough to see. Never close enough to touch.

In kindergarten, she wore her hair in crooked pigtails and cried on the first day of school. He had offered her his blue crayon. She had taken it without looking at him.

In fourth grade, she beat him at the spelling bee. He’d clapped the loudest.

In eighth grade, she tripped during the relay race, and he ran back to help her up. She thanked him politely—“Thanks… Evan, right?”—and the way she said his name had kept him awake for three nights.

By junior year, Lily Ramirez had become the kind of girl teachers described as “bright” and classmates described as “out of your league.” She laughed easily, spoke confidently, and somehow managed to make even a wrinkled school hoodie look like it belonged on a magazine cover.

Evan, on the other hand, had perfected the art of invisibility. He wasn’t unpopular. He wasn’t awkward in any spectacular way. He was simply… there. The dependable lab partner. The quiet guy who got good grades. The one who said “nice shot” at basketball games but never took the shot himself.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Loving her quietly was enough. Being near her was enough. Until it wasn’t.

The realization came in March of senior year. Graduation banners were beginning to be hung in the hallways. College acceptance letters were discussed like trading cards. People who had known each other since they still believed in cooties were suddenly making promises about staying in touch.

Evan watched Lily at her locker, laughing with her friends, sunlight slipping through the high windows and catching in her hair. In a few weeks, she’d be gone—to a university two states away. And he would still be the boy who never said anything.

The thought hit him like a slammed locker door. If he didn’t try now, he would carry this silence for the rest of his life.

That night, he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. What’s the worst that could happen? She says no. But another voice whispered: What if she doesn’t even know who you are? The idea terrified him more than rejection.

The next morning, he made a decision. Not tomorrow. Not after prom. Not at graduation when emotions were high and everything felt cinematic. Today.

He spotted her during lunch, sitting beneath the old oak tree near the edge of the courtyard—the same tree where their class had taken a group photo in second grade. She was alone, flipping through a book, sunlight dancing across the pages.

His legs felt like borrowed equipment as he walked toward her.

“This is it,” he said to himself. “This is the moment.”

“Hey, Lily.”

She looked up. And smiled. Not the polite smile she gave strangers. Not the distracted smile she gave teachers. A real one. Warm. Almost… relieved?

“Evan,” she said easily, as if she’d been saying his name her whole life. “I was wondering how long it would take you.”

His brain stalled.

“…What?”

She closed her book. “I’ve been in the same class as you since kindergarten. You really think I don’t notice when you’re staring at me during assembly?”

His face burned. “I— I wasn’t—”

“You were,” she said, amused. “And you always let me borrow your notes in math. And you always volunteer to be my lab partner when no one else does.”

“That’s because—” He stopped. There was no point pretending now. “Because I like you.”

The words hung between them, fragile and electric. She studied him, and for a terrifying second he thought he’d misread everything.

Then she laughed softly. “Evan, I’ve liked you since eighth grade.”

He blinked. “You… what?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “You ran back to help me when I fell during the relay race. Everyone else kept running. You didn’t.”

“That was just—”

“Kind,” she finished. “It was kind.”

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It felt like standing at the edge of something new.

“I kept waiting,” she admitted. “I thought you’d say something eventually.”

“I thought you didn’t know I existed.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve always existed to me.”

The simplicity of it made his chest ache.

He swallowed. “So… would you maybe want to go out with me? Before graduation? There’s that little café downtown—you know, the one with the fairy lights?”

Her smile widened. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world didn’t burst into applause. The sky didn’t shift colors. The bell didn’t ring at some perfect cinematic second. But something changed. Years of quiet glances and almost-moments crystallized into something real. As they stood up together, walking back toward the building, their shoulders brushed. And this time, neither of them pretended it was an accident.

Sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures. Sometimes it’s about finally finding the courage to say what’s been true all along. And sometimes, the person you think hasn’t noticed you— has been waiting for you to speak all along.

The Second Novel

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His computer crashed and suddenly all of his work disappeared. The screen went black without ceremony: no warning spin, no flicker of mercy. Just darkness. And in that darkness, the hollow reflection of Daniel Mercer’s face stared back at him.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Six months of work. One hundred and twelve thousand words. Gone.

“No, no, no, no…” His fingers hovered over the keyboard as if refusing to accept the verdict. He jabbed the power button. Nothing. He unplugged the cord, plugged it back in. Still nothing. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the rain battering the apartment windows. He had been so close.

After his debut novel, The Glass Orchard, exploded onto bestseller lists, Daniel had become the literary golden child. Interviews. Podcasts. A film option. Readers calling him “the next great voice of his generation.”

And then came the calls for the second book. The one that would really matter. The one that would prove he wasn’t a fluke.

For months, he had written and deleted. Drafted and abandoned. His publisher’s emails had grown increasingly strained in their politeness.

Just checking in!

We’re excited to see where this is going.

We’ll need a draft by the end of the quarter to stay on schedule.

Fans were less polite.

When’s the next book?

Don’t pull a one-hit wonder on us.

Hope you’re actually writing and not just enjoying the fame.

The words had crawled under his skin.

And then, three months ago, it happened. The idea. It struck him like lightning. A story about memory and identity. About a man who wakes each morning in a different version of his life. It was sharp, intimate, strange in exactly the right way. It felt dangerous. It felt honest. It felt like something worth writing. Daniel had barely slept since.

Tonight, he had written the final chapter. The final page. The final sentence. He had leaned back, staring at the blinking cursor beneath the words:

He finally understood that the life he was chasing had been his all along.

A fitting ending. A triumphant one. And then the screen went black.

Now he was on the floor beside his desk, screwdriver in hand, staring at the open belly of his laptop like a surgeon mid–failed operation.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Don’t do this.”

He wasn’t a hardware expert. He knew this. But desperation has a way of making the most amateur of us bold. He removed and reattached the battery. He searched his phone for emergency repair tutorials. He tried different outlets. Different chargers. He held the power button down for thirty seconds, sixty seconds, ninety. Nothing.

The silence in the apartment grew heavy. His thoughts spiraled. You should have printed it. You should have backed it up manually. You should have known better.

His deadline was in forty-eight hours. His editor had made that crystal clear.

No extensions this time, Daniel. Marketing’s already in motion.

He imagined the headlines if he failed.

Sophomore slump confirmed.

Mercer can’t repeat debut magic.

He sank back against the couch, the disassembled laptop resting uselessly on the coffee table. The rain kept falling, steady and indifferent. He felt foolish for having believed he’d outrun the pressure. For thinking inspiration alone could save him from the weight of expectation. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe the book wasn’t good enough. Maybe he wasn’t.

His phone buzzed. A notification from a fan account: a photo of someone’s dog curled up with a worn copy of The Glass Orchard. Captioned: Still my favorite book of all time.

The kindness of it hurt more than criticism. Daniel pressed his palms to his eyes. Think Daniel, think. Backups. You had to create backups in case this happened. He had meant to buy an external hard drive months ago. He never did. He had told himself he would. He had told interviews he was “meticulous about process.”

He laughed bitterly. Unless—

His hands froze mid–gesture. Cloud server.

When he bought the laptop, the technician had insisted on enabling automatic cloud backup.

“It syncs in the background,” she had said cheerfully. “You won’t even notice it.”

He hadn’t thought about it since.

Daniel scrambled to his feet so quickly he nearly knocked over the coffee table. He grabbed his phone, opened the cloud app with shaking fingers, and logged in.

Loading. Loading. The spinning circle felt like mockery. And then—

Folders. Documents. A list of file names with tiny timestamps beside them.

His heart pounded harder. He tapped the manuscript folder. There it was.

Second_Novel_Draft_v27.

Last synced: 11:42 PM.

He glanced at the microwave clock.

11:47 PM.

Five minutes ago.

A strangled sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob.

He opened the document preview. The text filled the screen. Chapter titles. Paragraphs. His words. All of it. He scrolled to the bottom. The final sentence.

He finally understood that the life he was chasing had been his all along.

Daniel slid down against the kitchen cabinet, phone clutched to his chest. Relief flooded him so violently it left him dizzy. It wasn’t gone. He wasn’t finished. Not yet.

The laptop would need repair. The formatting would need checking. There would still be edits. Rewrites. Doubt. But the story existed.

And maybe that was the lesson he’d been circling all along—the thing his first book had taught him before success made him forget: Stories aren’t fragile because of technology or deadlines. They’re fragile because of fear.

He had written this one not to outdo his first book, not to silence critics, not to satisfy algorithms—but because he finally found something he needed to say.

Daniel wiped his face and let out a long breath. Tomorrow, he would borrow a friend’s computer. He would download the manuscript. He would send it to his editor. Tonight, he simply sat there in the dim kitchen light, listening to the rain and feeling, for the first time in months, like a writer again.

The Soldier

Posted on by under Short Stories

I could hear the bullets split the wind as they whizzed past my ears, a vicious, insectile sound that made my neck curl into my shoulders like I could somehow disappear into my own spine. The world had narrowed to fragments: dust bursting from the wall in front of me, the metallic bite of cordite in the air, the radio crackling nonsense and panic all at once. My finger rested on the trigger, a familiar pressure point I’d trained into muscle memory, and yet it felt like it belonged to someone else.

“Contact left!” someone shouted. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the voice in my head repeating what it had learned was necessary to survive.

I pressed my cheek harder into the stock of my rifle and peered down the sight. Shapes moved between ruined doorways across the street—figures, not faces. Targets, not people. That was the language they taught us. Clean words for messy things. I had used them before, plenty of times, without hesitation. Pull, recoil, adjust, breathe. Simple. But this time something snagged.

A memory, stupid and small, floated up uninvited. My mother’s hands, always smelling faintly of soap, cupping my face the day I left. “Remember who you are,” she’d said. Not be brave. Not come back a hero. Remember who you are.

Another burst of gunfire stitched the wall above my head, snapping me back into the moment. Chips of concrete rained down my collar. I tasted grit and fear. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might bruise me from the inside. I leaned out just enough to fire. The rifle bucked. Once. Twice. The sound was deafening, final. I didn’t know if I hit anything. I didn’t want to know.

We advanced by inches, then feet. Shouting. Smoke. The street smelled like burning trash and hot metal. I caught a glimpse of one of them; close now, too close, ducking behind an overturned cart. He couldn’t have been much older than me. That thought landed heavy, as if age itself carried moral weight.

I lined him up in my sights. Center mass. That’s what they drilled into us. Efficiency over everything. My finger began to tighten. And then he looked at me. Not in a dramatic way. No slow-motion revelation. Just a glance, quick and startled, like a deer realizing too late it’s been seen. His eyes were dark, wide, terrified. Exactly like mine must have been.

My finger froze. A voice screamed inside my skull: Do it. Do it or you die. Do it or your friend dies. Do it because this is what you’re here for. Another voice, quieter, infuriatingly calm, asked, What happens after?

I thought of the men I’d already killed. Faces I pretended not to remember, yet somehow always did. I thought of the nights when sleep came in jagged pieces, when I woke choking on dreams I couldn’t explain to anyone back home. I thought of how every time I pulled the trigger, something in me flinched, just a little, like a wire being bent again and again.

Gunfire erupted to my right. One of ours went down, yelling, clutching his leg. The spell shattered. Training surged back, angry and urgent. I fired again, not aiming now, just reacting. The figure across the street vanished from view.

We pushed forward, because that’s what momentum demands. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking felt dangerous.

Minutes or hours later, time had lost its meaning by then, we took the building. The shooting slowed, then stopped. The silence afterward was worse, thick and accusing. My ears rang. My hands shook as the adrenaline drained away, leaving something hollow behind.

Inside, I found him. He lay slumped against a wall, the overturned cart nowhere in sight. Blood darkened his shirt, blooming like an ugly flower. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. He looked younger up close. Younger than I’d thought. Younger than I was. I don’t know if it was my bullet. That uncertainty should have comforted me. It didn’t.

I crouched there longer than necessary, my rifle hanging uselessly from its sling. All I could think was that somewhere, someone had told him to remember who he was, too. Somewhere, a mother waited for a knock on the door.

The radio crackled again, orders spilling out, already moving on to the next objective. The war had no room for my pause, my doubt, my sudden, aching clarity.

As I stood and followed the others, my legs heavy, I understood something with terrible certainty: the real firefight wasn’t over. It wasn’t even close. It had lodged itself inside me, a battle between the soldier I’d been shaped into and the person I was still trying, desperately, not to lose. And no one had taught me how to win that one.

The Secret Admirer

Posted on by under Short Stories

Her heart pounded as she looked at the card attached to the bouquet of flowers on her desk. The flowers were peonies: blush pink, her favorite, though she couldn’t remember ever mentioning that at work. The card was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of ink and something warm, like cedar.

For the woman who always notices the light.—A.

She sat back in her chair, pulse loud in her ears. No last name. No explanation. Just the confident curve of the letter A.

Around her, the office hummed on: keyboards clacking, the copier groaning, someone laughing near the break room. No one seemed to notice that her world had tilted.

“Pretty,” her coworker Jenna said, leaning over the cubicle wall. “From who?”

“That’s the problem,” she said, forcing a smile. “I don’t know.”

That night, she replayed every recent interaction like a detective at a cork board. There was Mark from accounting, who lingered too long when he talked. There was Evan, her downstairs neighbor, who always held the door and asked about her day. There was even Daniel, her ex, who had an unfortunate habit of resurfacing when she least expected him.

The next day, another gift appeared. This time, a book she’d once loved in college, slipped into her tote bag sometime between her morning meeting and lunch. Inside the cover, in the same ink:

You looked happiest when you talked about this.—A.

Her skin prickled. Someone was paying attention. Really paying attention.

She began to notice things after that: small, unsettling things. Her coffee order waiting for her at the café before she’d reached the counter. A playlist emailed to her work address titled For the Commute Home, filled with songs she loved but never shared publicly. Notes appeared in places that felt too intimate: her windshield, her mailbox, once even tucked into the pocket of her coat. Always unsigned. Always thoughtful.

Her curiosity curdled into obsession. She watched reflections in windows, lingered in hallways, scrutinized smiles. Every kindness felt suspicious. Every glance lingered a second too long.

When the evidence began to point toward Evan, her neighbor, she felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. He knew her routines. He could access her building. He fit, almost too neatly. She decided to test the theory. One evening, she mentioned, loudly, pointedly, that she hated lilies. The next morning, a single lily waited on her desk. Her stomach dropped.

That night, she knocked on Evan’s door, heart racing. When he answered, surprised and barefoot, she saw genuine confusion in his eyes as she accused him. He laughed, then stopped when he saw her face.

“I’m flattered,” he said gently, “but it’s not me.”

She went home shaking, certainty crumbling.

The following week, the messages grew bolder.

“You’re getting close,” one note teased.

“I like watching you think, “another said.

Fear threaded through her fascination now. She considered going to HR, to the police, but how could she explain that nothing explicitly threatening had happened? That someone was loving her from the shadows?

Then came the invitation. An envelope slid under her apartment door, heavy and final.

“I owe you the truth,” it read. “Tomorrow. 7 p.m. The park on Willow Street.”

She didn’t sleep.

At 6:55, she sat on a cold bench beneath a flickering lamppost, every sense sharpened. The park was mostly empty, dusk pooling between the trees. Footsteps approached. She stood. The man who stopped a few feet away was… ordinary. Mid-thirties, maybe. Brown jacket. Nervous hands. A stranger.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I think you have the wrong person.”

He swallowed. “I don’t.”

She stared at him, waiting for recognition that never came. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he said softly. “That’s the point.”

Her breath caught. “Then why?”

He took a careful step closer, stopping when she stiffened. “I work across the street from your office. Third floor. I see you every morning by the window before anyone else arrives. You always pause, just for a second, and look outside like you’re reminding yourself of something.”

Cold crept up her spine.

“I noticed,” he continued, voice trembling, “because I do the same thing. I started wondering who you were. Then I noticed the way you listen when people talk. The way you smile at nothing. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

“You followed me,” she said.

“I watched,” he corrected, then flinched. “I know how that sounds. I never wanted to scare you.”

“You did,” she said, steadier than she felt.

He nodded, shame flooding his face. “I won’t bother you again. I just… needed you to know it was real. That I was real. That it wasn’t a game.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and complicated.

Finally, she said, “You don’t know me.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to. Still do.”

He left then, disappearing down the path, not once looking back. She stood alone under the lamplight, heart still pounding, but differently now. The mystery was solved, yet nothing felt settled. Somewhere between being seen and being unknown, something fragile had broken open.

The next morning, there were no flowers on her desk. She found herself strangely aware of the window as she sat down, of the light beyond it, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

The Day a King Died

Posted on by under Short Stories

I had come to Memphis for a lie. That’s the cleanest way I know to say it. A lie wrapped in a good suit, tucked into a borrowed smile, paid for with cash I didn’t tell my wife about. The Lorraine Hotel sat warm and familiar under the April sun, its turquoise doors open like it was welcoming family instead of secrets. I signed the register with my real name anyway. Habit, I guess. Or guilt.

She was supposed to arrive later that afternoon. We’d planned it carelessly, like people do when they don’t believe the world can interrupt them. I stood outside my room on the second floor, leaning on the railing, listening to laughter drift up from the courtyard. Someone had a radio playing Sam Cooke low. Somewhere a man joked about barbecue. Life, ordinary and stubborn, kept moving.

Then Dr. King stepped out onto the balcony.

You could feel it when he appeared, like the air shifted to make room for him. I’d seen him once before, years earlier, from about half a block away, his voice rolling over us like thunder you trusted. Seeing him now, so close I could count the lines at the corner of his eyes, I felt suddenly exposed. Like he could look at me and know exactly why I was there.

He laughed at something someone said behind him. That’s the part that stays with me, the ease of it. The way his shoulders loosened. A man unguarded for half a second.

The sound that followed didn’t belong to the day. It cracked the air open. At first, my mind refused it. Firecracker. Car backfiring. Anything but what my body already knew. I saw him jerk, saw hands reach, heard shouting rip through the courtyard. Someone screamed his name, stretched it long and broken like it could pull him back.

I remember gripping the railing so hard my palms burned. Remember thinking, absurdly, this can’t be happening while I’m here for this reason. As if the world owed me better timing.

Chaos took over fast. Doors flew open. Feet pounded stairs. Sirens rose in the distance like a wail from the city’s chest. I backed into my room, heart hammering, and stared at the bed that had been waiting for sin. It looked small and stupid now.

I didn’t pack. I didn’t wait for her. I walked out of the Lorraine with my head down, moving against the crowd, against history unfolding in real time. I felt like a coward slipping away while something sacred bled out behind me.

That night I walked until my legs gave out. Memphis burned in places: anger, grief, disbelief spilling into the streets. I found myself sitting on a church stoop I didn’t recognize, listening to an old woman pray out loud for a man she’d never met and loved like kin.

That’s when it hit me: all my careful distance, all my excuses about bills and fear and “not being that kind of man,” and history had still dragged me into the room. I’d been close enough to hear the sound that changed everything, but not close enough to have earned it.

Dr. King talked about the mountaintop. About seeing the Promised Land even if he didn’t reach it. Sitting there in the dark, I realized I’d been living in the valley on purpose: ducking, hiding, telling myself survival was enough. It wasn’t.

I went home the next morning and told my wife the truth: not all the details, but enough. Enough to start over. I quit my job within a month and took work where the pay was thin and the days were long. I marched. I registered voters. I stood between angry men and frightened children and learned what real fear felt like, and what it meant to walk anyway.

Sometimes I think about that balcony. About how close I was to a moment that split the country open. I went to Memphis chasing something small and selfish, and I left carrying a weight I never set down. But it’s a good weight. A necessary one.

I didn’t get to choose the day I woke up. I only got to choose what I did after. And for the first time in my life, I chose to stand where I could be seen.

Tomb of the Forgotten King

Posted on by under General, Short Stories

Fear forced his heart to beat like a bass drum as he opened the door, each violent thud echoing in his chest as stone scraped against stone. The slab resisted at first, as though weighing his worth, then finally gave way with a low, anguished groan. A breath of air escaped the tomb: cold, ancient, and fouled with something that made his stomach turn. It was not merely dust. It was the smell of confinement, of time compressed into rot.

Elias Kade stood frozen, one hand braced against the door, the other gripping his lantern so tightly his knuckles had turned white and his palm began to ache. The flame flickered, its light stretching weakly into the darkness beyond. He had imagined this moment countless times while hunched over cracked manuscripts and brittle maps, tracing burial chambers with the tip of his finger. In those imaginings, he had felt awe. Reverence. Triumph. Not this.

The darkness inside the tomb was dense, almost tactile, pressing outward as if eager to spill into the world. Elias felt it brush against his face, cold as damp linen. His instincts screamed at him to step back, to seal the door and retreat to the safety of daylight and research libraries and colleagues and rational explanations. But he had not come this far to turn away.

“This is real,” he whispered, though the words sounded thin and uncertain in the narrow corridor. He stepped across the threshold.

The temperature dropped immediately. The warmth of the desert sun vanished as if severed by the stone door, replaced by a chill that seeped through his boots and crawled upward, settling deep in his bones. The lantern’s glow revealed walls carved floor to ceiling in hieroglyphs: prayers, offerings, processions meant to guide a king safely into the afterlife. The carvings were sharp, their edges unnaturally crisp, as though the artisans had finished their work only days ago instead of millennia. Elias swallowed hard. Impossible, he told himself. Dry climate. Exceptional preservation.

The shadows clung stubbornly to the recesses between the carvings, refusing to disperse even when he brought the lantern closer. For a fleeting moment, he thought one of the figures turned its head. He blinked rapidly, heart racing.

“Get a grip,” he muttered.

This was his first excavation. Until now, his career had been confined to climate-controlled rooms and academic conferences, his hands more accustomed to paper than stone. When the opportunity to join the excavation team arose, when they needed someone fluent in archaic inscriptions, someone who knew the burial customs of minor dynasties, he had accepted without hesitation. Unearthing the tomb of a long-forgotten king was the chance of a lifetime. He had not considered what it would feel like to be alone with the dead.

The corridor widened ever so gradually, and then opened into the burial chamber. Elias halted at the threshold, breath catching in his throat. The room was vast, its ceiling supported by thick pillars carved with protective prayers. They rose like petrified sentinels, each etched with symbols meant to ward off intruders. The air felt heavier here, pressing down on his chest, making each breath an effort.

At the center of the chamber lay the sarcophagus. It was massive, black stone veined with pale lines like cracks in bone. Its surface was smooth, unmarred by time or theft. No chisel marks. No fractures. No signs of intrusion. Untouched since it was placed in the room. Elias felt a thrill of fear cut through him. Untouched tombs were rare. Untouched tombs were dangerous. He approached slowly, lantern held high. The light glinted off the stone, revealing inscriptions running along the lid. He recognized the name immediately.

Khetamun. A minor king. Barely a footnote in most historical records. A ruler whose reign had been brief and poorly documented. Yet nothing about this tomb spoke of insignificance.

As Elias circled the sarcophagus, he noticed something odd. Certain honorifics had been scratched away, their elegant symbols replaced with crude, jagged markings. The workmanship was frantic, uneven, as if carved by a trembling hand.

“Defacement?” Elias murmured, crouching closer.

The markings were not random. They formed a pattern, one he did not recognize. A chill crawled up his spine. The lantern flickered.

Elias straightened sharply, heart leaping into his throat. The flame wavered, shrank, then steadied. He exhaled shakily, though his breath fogged in the cold air.

“Old oxygen pocket,” he reasoned aloud. “Air circulation.”

His voice echoed strangely, lingering longer than it should have. As he turned back toward the sarcophagus, he became aware of a sensation he could not immediately name. A pressure behind his eyes. A faint ringing in his ears. Then he heard it.

A sound: soft, indistinct. Like breath brushing past his ear. Elias spun around, lantern swinging wildly. The chamber remained empty, the shadows pooled at the edges of the room.

“Hello?” he called out meekly, hating the tremble in his voice. Silence answered him. Thick. Watchful. Almost ominous.

He laughed weakly. “You’re alone,” he told himself. “You knew this would be unsettling.” But the laughter died quickly.

Drawn by a force he could not explain, Elias returned to the sarcophagus. His fingers brushed the stone, recoiling from the unnatural cold. He found the mechanism almost by accident, disguised seamlessly within the carvings. His hands hesitated.

Every rational part of him urged caution: documentation, consultation, procedure. But another voice whispered beneath those thoughts, insistent and hungry. Open it.

He pushed. The lid shifted with a shriek of stone on stone, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a scream. Dust billowed upward, stinging his eyes and throat. Elias coughed, waving the lantern to clear his vision. When the dust settled, he leaned over the open sarcophagus. Inside lay the remains of Khetamun.

The body was wrapped in linen, blackened and fused to brittle bone. Gold amulets rested against the chest, their surfaces dulled and corroded as though something had eaten at them from within. The skull tilted slightly, jaw parted, frozen in an eternal attempt to speak.

But it was the wall behind the sarcophagus that stole Elias’s breath. Carved deep into the stone, crude and unmistakable, were words that did not belong to ritual or reverence.

I WAS NOT MEANT TO DIE

The lantern shook violently in Elias’s grip.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s impossible.”

The pressure behind his eyes intensified, blossoming into pain. Images flooded his mind: parched land cracking beneath a merciless sun, a king kneeling before silent gods, priests chanting words they barely understood. A ritual meant to bind a soul to the land, to save a dying kingdom. A ritual that failed.

The whisper returned, louder now, layered upon itself. “I am still here.”

The shadows along the walls began to move. They stretched and twisted, peeling themselves free from the carvings, forming long, clawed shapes that reached toward the sarcophagus and toward him. The temperature plummeted, frost creeping along the stone floor.

Elias staggered back, heart hammering wildly against the inside of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t know.”

The whispers swelled into a chorus, grief and rage intertwined. “You opened the door!”

Driven by pure terror and instinct, Elias slammed the sarcophagus lid shut. The stone sealed with a thunderous crack that shook the chamber. The shadows recoiled, snapping back into the walls like smoke caught in a sudden wind. Silence fell. Elias collapsed to his knees, sobbing, the lantern clutched against his chest. He did not know how long he stayed there, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

When he finally fled the tomb, stumbling back into the brutal sunlight, he felt hollowed out, as though something had followed him to the threshold and pressed itself deep into his memory.

The discovery would make headlines. Scholars would praise his translation, his courage, his contribution to history. But Elias would never return to the field again. And sometimes, late at night, buried deep in the quiet stacks of a research library, he swore he could still feel cold breath against his ear; and hear a voice that has been waiting far too long for the door to open again.

First Hunt

Posted on by under Short Stories

He was finally entering manhood and now was the time. Storm Runner stood at the edge of the high ridge overlooking the valley, breath frosting in the crisp morning air. He had barely crossed thirteen summers, but today he would walk with the hunters. Today, he would be counted among the grown men of the Ani-watu—the River People—his tribe nestled deep in the rolling green hills of the early American frontier.

A thin mist clung to the forest below, blurring the shapes of trees so they appeared like spirits rising from the earth. Storm Runner tightened his grip on the bow he had carved himself, smoothing his thumb across the polished wood. His father’s voice echoed in his memory.

“Tools are only as strong as the heart guiding them.”

His father, Black Cedar, emerged beside him, tall and broad, carrying the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior. “You breathe too fast,” he murmured.

Storm Runner exhaled and nodded, trying to steady himself.

“It is good to feel fear,” Black Cedar said. “It shows the heart is awake. But do not let it rule your hands.”

Storm Runner wanted to answer with something wise or strong, but all he managed was a tight smile. His father didn’t seem to mind.

The party gathered—ten men, all respected hunters. Strong Elk, who laughed even in the face of hardship; Two Rivers, whose tracking skills were unmatched; and old Gray Squirrel, the elder who had hunted more winters than any man alive. A few offered Storm Runner nods of encouragement; others simply watched to see how the boy would carry himself. Today was tradition. Today was responsibility. Today was everything.

They moved at dawn, slipping into the forest like shadows. Storm Runner walked near the rear, his senses alive. Every cracking twig, every whisper of wind through branches, felt magnified. The forest was waking with them: birds scratching in the underbrush, distant rustle of deer, the burbling creek ahead.

Gray Squirrel knelt by the water, dipping his fingers into the soft mud. “Deer passed here not long ago,” he whispered. “A buck. Heavy.”

The men nodded. They began to follow the trail, steps soft and deliberate. Storm Runner bent low to study the tracks. His grandfather, Ghost Wind, had drilled lessons into him on how to read the land. “A track is a story,” he had said. “If you listen, the earth will tell you what happened.”

Storm Runner traced the shape, noticing the deep impression of the hooves—yes, a large buck, moving steadily but not fleeing. The boy smiled faintly as pride warmed his chest. He was ready.

They stalked deeper into the woods, weaving between towering pines. After an hour, they spotted their prey grazing in a glade. The buck was magnificent—antlers branching like small trees, fur shimmering in the dappled light. Storm Runner’s breath caught. This was the moment. But just as Strong Elk began to signal positions, the forest shifted. The birds went quiet. The breeze stilled. The world tightened around them.

Storm Runner felt it before anyone else—the unease creeping in like a cold finger tracing his spine. He opened his mouth to warn the men. But before the words could come out, a gunshot cracked across the valley. The buck bolted. Men dove behind trees. Another shot followed, then a third, echoing through the forest. Shouts carried through the trees—harsh, commanding voices. Storm Runner froze for a heartbeat before Black Cedar grabbed him by the arm and pulled him behind a fallen log.

“Soldiers,” he hissed. “Union soldiers.”

Storm Runner’s heart hammered. Why were soldiers here? Their lands were far from towns or battlefields. The Ani-watu tried to stay hidden from the war tearing the country apart. But war often wandered where it didn’t belong.

Blue-coated figures emerged through the brush, rifles raised. Though only a dozen or so, they moved with grim purpose.

Two Rivers muttered, “They must have tracked us. Or the deer.”

No one believed that. The soldiers spread quickly, forming a loose semicircle. They were coming for the hunters. Storm Runner clutched his bow, hands trembling. Black Cedar crouched beside him, eyes fierce but calm.

“Remember what I taught you. The forest is your ally. Listen.”

Storm Runner nodded, though panic clawed at his chest. The men around him looked tense. Some were already wounded from the first shots. They were outnumbered, exposed. Another volley of gunfire blasted through the clearing. Bark splintered. A warrior cried out. Storm Runner squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

“Listen, boy,” Ghost Wind’s voice whispered in memory. “When fear speaks too loudly, hear the world instead.”

He forced his breath to slow. Through the chaos, he listened. The creek. The slope of the ridge. The cluster of pine needles masking soft, unstable ground. The deer path looping behind the soldiers. The world was speaking.

Storm Runner tugged at his father’s arm. “The ridge,” he whispered. “It’s soft. We can trap them there.”

Black Cedar met his gaze. He didn’t question the boy. Not today.

“Go,” he said. “Tell the others.”

The boy slid through the brush like a fox, keeping low, weaving between trees. Shots cracked overhead but missed, the soldiers distracted by the warriors’ evasive movements. Storm Runner reached Strong Elk first.

“We must draw them toward the ridge,” he whispered urgently. “The ground there will collapse under many feet.”

Strong Elk blinked. Then a grin spread across his bearded face. “Ahh. Ghost Wind’s trick.” He slapped the boy’s shoulder. “Go, tell the others!”

Storm Runner raced from man to man, relaying the plan. Soon the warriors shifted subtly into new positions, moving with practiced silence. A sharp whistle—Storm Runner’s signal—cut through the trees. Arrows flew. Warriors darted between trees like living shadows. The soldiers, believing they were pushing the hunters back, surged forward with renewed aggression. Right toward the ridge.

Storm Runner scrambled up the side of the slope. He remembered he and his grandfather testing the hillside last spring, Ghost Wind saying, “One day you will use even the land as your shield.”

He struck the ground with his bow, hard and rhythmic. The soil loosened. Pebbles tumbled.

Below, the soldiers advanced in a line—too many men on too unstable a slope. The earth groaned. Then it gave way. A roar of sliding earth filled the forest as the ridge collapsed, sweeping half the platoon down in a cascade of mud, stone, and broken tree limbs. Men screamed, some trapped, others scrambling desperately. The remaining soldiers staggered back in shock. That was the moment.

The Ani-watu warriors emerged from the trees with fierce cries, arrows and spears flashing. Strong Elk led the charge, his battle roar echoing across the valley. Black Cedar’s blade struck like lightning. Even old Gray Squirrel moved with age-forgotten speed.

Storm Runner, still on the ridge above, fired arrows to cover them—each shot guided by instinct, training, and the beating heart of the forest around him. The soldiers faltered, morale broken. Some fled outright, disappearing into the trees. The battle was over within minutes.

Silence fell slowly, hesitant to return. Storm Runner climbed down, limbs trembling. The men gathered, some wounded, all exhausted—but alive.

Strong Elk clapped the boy on the back hard enough to jolt him. “You saved us all, little warrior.”

Two Rivers nodded. “A plan worthy of Ghost Wind himself.”

Black Cedar approached last. No words at first. Just a warm, steady hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You listened,” he said quietly. “You trusted the land. You trusted yourself. Today, the spirits walk proudly beside you.”

Storm Runner swallowed hard as emotion swelled in his chest. A hush settled as Gray Squirrel stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff. He studied Storm Runner for a long moment.

“Storm Runner,” he said in a voice like rustling leaves, “you entered the forest today as a boy. But you return from it as something else.”

Storm Runner lifted his chin, meeting the elder’s wise, weathered gaze.

“You have earned your place among the men of the Ani-watu,” Gray Squirrel declared. “From this day on, you stand as a warrior of the River People.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the group. Black Cedar’s eyes shone with fierce pride. Storm Runner felt his heart grow fuller than he thought possible.

He walked home with them beneath the fading afternoon light. The land was quiet again, but it felt changed—more alive, as if acknowledging him. He had entered the hunt a child. He returned a warrior. And the forest knew his name.

The Jury Room

Posted on by under Short Stories

It had taken five long days, but the jury had finally come to a decision.

The windowless deliberation room—Room B, according to the peeling sign outside—felt more like a bunker than a space meant for reason. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering occasionally, as though even the electricity was tired of the arguments repeating themselves.

Day five had begun with the same bitter divide that had ended day four. Marilyn Blake, Juror Number Four, sat rigidly in her chair, arms crossed like stone gates blocking any chance of compromise. She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t stubborn for the sake of being stubborn. She was terrified—of the case, of being wrong, of the ways a single decision could warp a life forever. But fear made for sharp edges.

“You’re all being reckless,” she said now, her voice trembling with something brittle. “The prosecution doesn’t need perfection. They need proof beyond a reasonable doubt. And I still have doubt—but not about his guilt.”

Tom Herrera slammed his notebook shut with a snap that made half the jurors flinch.

“Marilyn, that’s the entire point! Reasonable doubt means if you do have doubt about his guilt, then we can’t convict!”

“That’s your interpretation.”

“It’s the law!” Alexis burst out, practically leaping out of her chair. “We’ve read the instructions seventeen times!”

The foreman, Leonard Briggs, pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave a red mark. “Everyone sit,” he murmured. “Please.”

But the room was too small for the emotions swelling inside it. Frustration. Exhaustion. Helplessness. No one sat.

Juror Nine, an older man named Harris with a soft voice and hard opinions, muttered, “This is going nowhere. Again.”

Juror Six rolled her eyes. Juror Ten openly groaned, slumping forward and burying his head in his arms. Then came the moment everyone knew would push them over the edge: the rehashing of the key witness testimony.

Tom pointed at the timeline on the whiteboard—now crowded with crossed-out theories, sticky notes, and half-erased scribbles. “Look at it. Look! The witness couldn’t even identify what shirt the man was wearing. First it was blue. Then gray. Then she said she couldn’t remember because of the streetlight glare!”

“She was traumatized!” Marilyn snapped back. “Trauma affects memory!”

“Yes, it distorts memory,” Alexis said, stepping closer. “It makes it unreliable. Which is exactly why—”

A hard knock sounded on the door, muffling Alexis’s words and making the jurors jump. Lunch had arrived. Lukewarm lunch meat sandwiches. Again. No one touched the food.

The foreman stood, resting both palms flat on the table. “Before we spiral again, let’s try something new. Let’s take turns saying what scares us most about making the wrong decision.”

Marilyn stiffened. “Feelings aren’t relevant.”

“They’re driving your vote,” Alexis said quietly. “So they are relevant.”

Silence. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Juror Eleven—the quiet one, always observing—said softly, “I’m scared of ruining a man’s life.”

A few others nodded, murmuring agreement.

Tom said, “I’m scared that if we convict him, we’ll be doing what the prosecution wanted, not what the evidence supported.”

Harris said, “I’m scared that if we don’t convict him, and he did do it… there’ll be another victim.”

The air tightened. Even Tom couldn’t counter that fear. Finally, all eyes shifted to Marilyn. Her jaw moved. Once. Twice.

“I’m scared,” she said hoarsely, “that you’re all seeing something I’m not. Or… that I’m seeing something you can’t. And either way… I’m terrified of being the reason we’re wrong.”

The confession hung in the air—raw, vulnerable, honest. For the first time in five days, she looked less like a wall and more like a person trying not to crumble.

Leonard approached her gently. “What can help you feel sure? Tell us, and we’ll do it.”

Marilyn hesitated, then whispered, “Go through the photos again.”

They did. Slowly. Carefully. The room grew still as she studied them with trembling hands. Tom watched her closely—not with frustration this time, but with hope. Alexis held her breath. Even Harris sat forward.

When Marilyn asked, “Wait—show me that one again,” everyone leaned in.

Something clicked. A detail she’d misinterpreted. A timestamp she’d never fully registered. A shadow in the background that changed everything. Her breath caught.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Then louder: “Oh.”

It took another hour for her to gather herself enough to change her vote, but the moment her voice didn’t crack on the words “Not guilty,” the room felt as if it had been holding its breath for five days and could finally inhale. Eleven sighs of relief followed. Some were shaky. Some were whispered prayers. One sounded like a stifled sob.

When they filed back into the courtroom, they were changed—bonded by conflict, battered by responsibility, and united at last. And when the foreman announced the verdict, the defendant didn’t celebrate. He simply closed his eyes with a gratitude so heavy it nearly bowed him forward.

But behind the jury box, Marilyn pulled in a long, trembling breath. Not guilt. And not doubt. Just relief—the fragile kind earned only after a long, harrowing storm finally breaks.

Waking up 45

Posted on by under General, Rants & Random Ramblings

Alright… let’s get the formalities out of the way…

“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Wordsmith, happy birthday to me!”

Now that that’s done…

Good morning, world! I hope these words find you healthy, wealthy, and happy. I’m technically writing this the night before my actual 45th birthday, because I don’t really foresee myself sitting down to do it at any point during the day. So let’s get to it…

Today is the first day that I woke up and felt old. Usually when someone says that, there’s a negative connotation to it. Their body hurts, their health is failing, something along those lines. That’s not the case here. Don’t get me wrong, my back and hips are on fucking fire right now (I desperately need to go see a chiropractor). I feel like a full fledged adult now (mind you, I’m 45 years old. I’ve been an adult for a long fucking time now). Maybe it’s the sudden emergence of my first gray hair or the laundry list of health issues I’ve had to deal with lately. Either way, I fully understand why my dad was beyond content to spend his free time in the house, watching TV.

Speaking of my father, I’m picking up more and more of his habits as I get older. First came the affinity for coffee. It started off innocently, but I’m now at the point where I don’t really think I can function at my highest level without a cup or two. Hell, I kind want a cup right now! (It’s currently 12:15am for context) I’m even getting to the point where I prefer to drink my coffee with less sugar like he did. Next, came the mannerisms. It used to be a joke. I would lightheartedly say that Willis was speaking through me. But now, I think there might be some validity to that. Or maybe I was always this way and now I’m noticing it more. Either way, if you met me in my mid-30’s, you actually met my father. Lucky you.

I’m also coming to the realization that I need to do a better job of limiting people’s access to me. I’m starting to feel like I’m too old to be inundated with the bullshit that some people decide to populate the word with. With that being said, I’m gonna take some time over the next few days to prune my social media. Someone who shall remain nameless would say that I need to completely get rid of it. And while she might have a point, I don’t necessarily think I’m quite there yet. Maybe one day. Baby steps and all.

That’s all I got for you folks today. Thank you in advance for al the birthday well wishes. Peace and love