Short Stories

Each of these stories has been re-edited since its initial publication. I hope you enjoy them.

“Grandpa Dave” – Shotgun Honey – February 29th, 2024.

Grandpa Dave had sleeves of tattoos and a full back piece, but not that artistic black and grey or colorful Japanese shit. You couldn’t get that kind of work in prison. His ink was light blue, with thin lines and minimal shading. Two angels kissing. A bear. Script that had become unreadable.

Dave was a bad husband, absent parent, and an awful grandpa. He’d heard people ramble on about the joys of parenthood, but he didn’t get it. On those occasions, he’d left the room for fear he would say something he’d regret.

What was there to like?

Even his grandkids turned him off. Spoiled brats, the lot of them.

So, when he spied his ten-year-old granddaughter, Avery, across the lawn, the only one he’d never met, his expectations were low. She was dressed like a pop star in tights and a halter top, her midriff exposed, her high heels so high Dave worried she might collapse.

Avery met his gaze, held it, and flicked her chin toward the punch table.

Is she motioning to me?

Dave thought she was, but why?

Me? he mouthed.

She nodded, yes.

Intrigued, Dave found himself walking to the table and filling a red cup. Avery stopped to talk with a group of kids playing video games on a portable tablet, then moseyed over to the aunties for a chat, making Dave stand there and wait. When she finally strolled over to the table, he’d been standing there for five minutes.

“I heard you do crimes,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Huh?” Dave blurted.

“Are you hard of hearing? I. Heard. You. Do. Crimes.”

Dave felt like he’d been catapulted across the yard. Confused, he was slow to respond.

“You awake, old man?”

Her eyes were as black as oil, intense like a con’s on the yard.

“I’m awake,” Dave said.

“Good, I was worried you’d nodded off. My name’s Avery.”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

She stepped toward him. “See that phone?”

Dave looked over her shoulder.

“On the chair. Red case,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“I need you to create a diversion, so I can steal it.”

“Steal it?”

“Jesus, I can’t tell if you’re deaf, dumb, or just plain fucked in the head.”

Dave lit a cigarette, contemplating the feeling that grew from his stomach and rose through his chest, getting caught in his throat. What it was he didn’t know.

“You shouldn’t swear,” he said, surprising himself.

Avery unfolded her arms. “Why not?”

“You’re too young. You shouldn’t steal neither.”

“You did.”

Shit, she has me there.

“I probably started around your age,” he said, blowing smoke, “but I didn’t steal phones. I robbed people. People and banks.”

“And look at you now,” she said sarcastically.

What’s with this kid?

Dave took a drag, watching her face contort ever so slightly.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he said.

“I’ve made up my mind,” she countered. “You can help me or not, but either way, this is happening.”

Dave knew people did what they wanted, and no amount of pleading, speech-making, or blackmail could change that.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said. “I’ll occupy the aunties. You walk smooth and fast, but not too fast. And don’t hesitate. Where will you store it?”

Avery revealed a fanny pack that she wore backwards. She spun it so it faced the front.

“That works,” he said. “Don’t leave it there long, though. Hide it somewhere.”

Avery nodded.

“You ready?” Dave said.

“Born ready.”

Dave approached the aunties, tossed his arms around two of them, and inserted himself into the conversation. Avery followed him, turned to the chair, and extended an arm. She plucked the phone, dropped it in the fanny pack, and strolled past the aunties. Dave caught her eye and winked.

Ten minutes later they were back at the table, smiling, and drinking punch, when that funny feeling returned. Only this time he realized it for what it was: the desire to share what he knew.

His skills.

His wisdom.

And he had to admit, the girl had potential.

“What’re you thinking about?” Avery said.

Dave didn’t answer, wrapped her up in a massive hug, and squeezed with all his might.

“I’ll Unleash Hell On You” – Punk Noir Magazine – March 11th, 2024

Avery got her first real scar when she was eleven. Her grandpa, Dave, had just gotten out of prison—he did eight years for armed robbery—and they’d hit it off. She was the only one in the family not afraid of him. Sure, he had tattoos and a bad rep, but that was all exterior. With Dave, Avery saw inside to a man who needed more.

The first rule he taught Avery was to start small.

“You don’t begin doing banks and armoured cars,” he said.

“Why should I listen to you? You got caught,” Avery said, cocky, like she knew it all.

“The only reason I got caught is because my partner had shit-for-brains. Got himself pinched and ratted on me. Which brings me to rule number two. Only work with people you trust.”

They chose a hotdog cart on the corner of Broadway and Main and decided on the quiet pocket after lunch when the cart would be flush. Dave refused to let her handle a gun, so they went with a softer approach. Avery would pass a note to Manny Pickering, the guy working the cart. Manny was forty-three, pudgy, and worn out, with blue-black circles under his eyes, and greasy black hair poking out of the hairnet he wore.

They’d done some reconnaissance work, and learned Manny was divorced, had two kids, and watched porn every night like it was SportsCenter.

“What if he refuses to give me the money?”

“It’s a possibility. That’s why the note needs to be convincing. What’re you going to write?”

Avery thought about it. “Give me the cash or else.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, keep it simple, right?”

Dave nodded.

The next day at half past one, Avery sauntered up to the cart holding a disposable grocery bag, as Dave leaned against a tree, watching closely. She passed Manny the note.

He read it and smiled. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

Manny looked over both shoulders, checking for witnesses. Then he back-hand slapped Avery hard enough to send her to the pavement.

Dave straightened, but Avery had the wherewithal to raise a hand toward him.

STOP.

Dave froze, and against his better judgement, let Avery handle it on her own.

She stood, speaking slowly, blood leaking from her cheek. “Give me the money or I’ll unleash hell on you, motherfucker.”

The look on her face—a blend of sheer determination and homicidal rage—must have startled Manny because his eyes grew wide and he filled the disposable bag with cash.

That night, counting the money, Avery told him what she’d said.

“Unleash hell on you, motherfucker,” Dave echoed, smiling. “Not very lady-like.”

“Lady-like? You’re stuck in the past, gramps. Me? I’m a bad bitch.”

Dave laughed as he glued her cheek closed. Tough broad, he thought.

They ordered pizza, Dave polished off a six-pack, and Avery basked in the glory of a job well done. She hoped the cut left a scar.

“Sanctuary” – The Yard Crime Blog – Sept. 26th, 2024

Dave admitted he’d been too lenient. Tweens were in that awkward phase, their hormones all messed up, with mood swings that shifted like the waves of a hurricane. If you asked Dave, he’d tell you it came from them being unsure who they were. Dave had known who he was since he got his first tattoo when he was fourteen, a crow on his left forearm. Lately, though, he’d been questioning ideals he hadn’t questioned in decades.

It was his twelve-year-old granddaughter, Avery, that brought this self-reflection to the forefront of his mind. She’d been living with him for a while now, and he’d let her do what she wanted with very few rules. But that had been a mistake. A big, whopper sized mistake.

Avery stayed up all hours, left dirty dishes with caked on food laying around the house to the point where Dave had found mold growing on them, and she talked back like a five-hundred-dollar an hour lawyer arguing on behalf of a client on death row. A conversation with her resembled a debate with Donald Trump.

If Dave said it was 2:30, she’d say no, it’s 2:28. If he made grilled cheese sandwiches, she’d take one bite, push her plate away, and say I can’t eat this shit. If he asked her to clean her room, she’d respond you can’t make me.

A year and a half ago, when Dave first met Avery, he couldn’t believe how much he enjoyed being around her. Dave’s daughter, Sara, had been a nightmare in her teens, but Sara pulled her shit together at twenty-five when Avery was born, got a job as a receptionist with an engineering firm, and hadn’t had a drink in five years before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Sara passed three years ago—two years after the original diagnosis, and Dave had missed it all. He’d been serving a ten-year sentence in Stony Mountain prison for robbing a bank. He even missed the funeral.

When Sara died, Avery went to live with her father, a knucklehead named Sawyer—stupid fucking name—but it didn’t work. She’d been shuffled from relative to relative until Dave agreed to take her in a few months after he got out. He considered going the legal adoption route, then said fuck it, I’ve never done anything legal in my life, why start now?

Dave decided to show Avery the ropes, and teach her what he knew about stealing, the only thing he’d ever been good at. Prior to the arrest that landed him inside, Dave had robbed six banks, four restaurants, fifteen or twenty citizens in various locations, countless poker games, too many houses to count, and a laundromat. The truth was Dave had been a shitty parent, an untrustworthy employee the few times he’d had a straight job, and his general demeanour—a combination of surly and just plain mean—rubbed people the wrong way. One cellmate, Reese Calisco, called Dave the grumpiest bastard he’d ever met.

But as he neared sixty, Dave’s anger had faded like the tattoos that covered most of his upper body, yet Avery remained an enigma. She handled herself with a calm menace he didn’t know how to interpret, and she had developed what his dad used to call a bad attitude. Hell, the girl scared him. Fear and intimidation had their place, but this was too much. Something needed to change and fast.

Dave knew a guy from the joint who’d opened a gym. His name was Cory, but people called him Bricks.

***

Bricks was five- nine, one seventy, but Dave had watched him pummel men on the yard forty and fifty pounds heavier. Bricks had a black belt in something called jiu-jitsu. Truth was, before prison, Bricks had been an amateur champion and a line cook at a restaurant called Ziggy’s. Then one night, angry because his manager cut his hours from forty to twenty-five a week, Bricks had robbed the place not fifteen minutes after his shift ended. He wore a balaclava, and would have gotten away scot-free, had he not forgotten to change his shoes. The manager recognized his blue Chuck’s. That’s how he’d ended up in Stony Max.

When Avery met Bricks, her shit eating grin dripped with pissy pre-teen snark, and Dave wanted to shake her, scream Show some respect!

How you carried yourself mattered. How you approached people mattered. Respect mattered.

But, as Dave introduced Bricks, Avery was oblivious to these philosophies.

“You Avery?” Bricks said.

“You know I am,” she responded. “Stupid question, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hey, lose the attitude,” Dave said, embarrassed.

Bricks smiled, said to Dave, “You weren’t kidding.”

Dave shrugged, defeated. “She’s getting worse.”

Bricks walked onto the mats. When Avery didn’t follow, he said, “Take off your shoes and come here.”

Avery didn’t like being told what to do, but she listened, joining three sets of people rolling around, fighting for position, wrestling on the mats. Bricks whistled, and a slight, wiry girl a couple of years younger than Avery ran over from a heavy bag. The kid wore a Gi, red-faced, and sweaty.

“This is my daughter, Zara,” Bricks said.

The girls stood two feet apart, face to face. Neither spoke.

Bricks raised his right arm between the young women, held it there, and turned to Avery. “Dave tells me you’re tough, but undisciplined. Here, you’ll learn how to conduct yourself.” He paused. “When I drop my arm, fight.”

“Fight?” Avery barked. “Like fists and all?”

“Yes.”

“This little thing? I’ll break her in two.”

“I think you’ll find her a ready opponent,” Bricks said.

Dave watched from the corner of the gym, too nervous to sit. He leaned against a wall, then, when that didn’t work, shuffled from side to side.

Bricks sliced the air with his arm and Avery exploded at Zara with a right that Zara side-stepped. The younger girl extended a leg, tripped Avery, and flung her to the mat. Avery rolled and attempted to get up but couldn’t because Zara jumped on her back and dragged her down. Avery bucked, yet Zara held on and wrapped her legs around Avery’s upper thighs, sliding her left forearm under Avery’s chin, locking in a rear naked choke.

Dave watched Avery’s face blossom purple. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Tap,” Bricks said.

Avery’s mouth moved, as saliva flew and dripped from her lips. Dave opened his mouth to speak, thinking stop the fight, but didn’t say it.

Bricks hovered over Avery, ear to the side, like a lifeguard listening for breath. He looked at Dave. “She’s saying I’ll never tap.”

As Avery went to sleep, Dave gagged.

My god, she’s dead.

He sprinted to the mats, terrified. “Is she okay? Is she dead?”

Bricks tapped Zara’s shoulder, and Zara released the hold, pushing Avery’s weight off and walking away like it was just another day at the office. Bricks held Avery’s head like a child, patiently waiting until she regained consciousness.

Thank God.

The fight lasted twelve seconds.

***

Dave sat in the truck with the air on. It was July, sticky hot and humid. Avery sat next to him, looking forlorn.

“You all right?” Dave said.

She nodded.

He curled his bottom lip, biting down like he did when faced with a situation he didn’t have the answer to. Raised to be hard by his father, Dave only knew tough love or neglect. Nothing in-between. He’d been that way with Sara and with Avery during their first months together. Now, though, he didn’t know.

Was bringing her here a bad idea? Maybe she needs something else?

“Listen,” he began, “I—I like having you live with me. And I want to continue showing you what I know about the life. But things at home need to change.”

Avery folded her arms in front of her chest. “I know…”

“I’m not looking for perfection, but here’s what I expect…”

She side-eyed him with one of her patent death stares.

“You eat what I cook. If you don’t like it, make yourself something else. I cook once. Two, you clean up after yourself. Your room’s a pig sty. The clothes on the floor go on hangers, in drawers, or in the laundry basket. Dishes go in the sink. And three, the backtalk stops now. If you have something to say, you say it the right way. I don’t mind you disagreeing with me, but the attitude isn’t part of it. Am I clear?”

She adjusted her arms. “Yes.”

Dave watched a man enter the gym with his son, holding the door for a woman, also avec child, before the four of them disappeared inside. He motioned at the gym. “What do you think of this?”

Avery uncrossed her arms, scratched her chin and jaw. It was a masculine gesture, one Dave had seen cons on the yard do hundreds of times, and a move he’d used himself while trying to come up with a story or excuse, or to postpone a decision.

“I like it,” she said, then a dark shadow crossed her face. “I can’t believe that kid beat me.”

“Zara’s been training since she was three years old,” Dave said, as if that was going to help Avery feel better.

“But she’s younger and smaller than me.”

“Avery, you’re a kid,” he said quietly, hoping it didn’t come across as condescending. Her wariness matched a person much older, and it killed him inside. “Listen, I haven’t always been a good person.”

“Because you robbed banks?” Avery said.

Dave sighed. “No, breaking the law isn’t good or bad, it just is. There are laws you can break that make you bad, but I never broke any of those. Me, I wasn’t good because I didn’t treat people well, especially the people I loved. With you, it feels like—” Dave said, his voice picking up steam, “like I have a second chance.”

Avery looked different. It was the first time he’d watched her think deeply about something without the confrontational cockiness he’d come to expect. Tears welled behind her eyes. “I think I know what you mean, it’s just… since my mom died, no one wants me. I’m angry…”

Dave wanted to grab her and scream no, that isn’t the way it is. I want you, but he stopped himself and listened, really listened. Avery had lived with her dad, her cousin Jen’s family, her cousin Todd’s family, and her Grandma—Dave’s ex wife—and now him. All in three years. Her feelings were real, and they were valid.

“I miss your mom,” Dave began. “Every day. That’s why I need you to know how I feel about you, about your life. If you don’t like stealing, tell me, and I’ll never mention it again. Shit, I’ll help you become anything you want. Doctor, lawyer, teacher, or a goddamn astronaut. Whatever you want.”

A smirk crossed Avery’s face. “I like stealing.”

“Me too,” Dave said, smiling.

A moment passed, and Dave wondered if he was doing okay, if he was finding the right words, the right message.

“Doing hard things builds character, and a person needs rules and a routine. Are you willing to go back in there?” he said.

She nodded. “I am.”

***

The next two months passed in a blur. Avery trained five days a week, ate well to fuel her body, and adhered to the new rules Dave outlined in what was known around their apartment as the conversation in the truck. Dave was trying to listen more, judge less, and Avery had shown progress, pausing before she spoke and respecting their home more often than not.

There had been shitstorm moments, no doubt, and in those moments, Dave questioned if he was even capable of change. There’d been screaming, throwing things, and hurt feelings, but maybe that was what progress required. A little pain.

Avery had put on size. Her legs were strong, and her biceps had little ridges. Her shoulders looked broader, and her jiu-jitsu skills had improved dramatically since that impromptu match with Zara. Bricks had been satisfied with her development. He’d been tough on her, but not unreasonably so, and, to Dave’s great anxiety, it was time to test Avery’s skills. Her first tournament would be at the convention center, and she’d be fighting in the 98 lb weight class.

Dave elected not to make a rousing pre-match speech, and instead hugged Avery and told her she’d done the work, and that he was proud of her. She left the truck and the next time he saw her she was on the mats, warming up.

Avery’s opponent was a short-haired girl with olive skin whose last name was Matsoukis. The fighters shook the ref’s hand, then each other’s. Avery made strong eye contact with Matsoukis, then crouched, bouncing gently on her haunches. The ref shouted, “go,” snapped his hand in the air, and slid back to police the action.

The fighters jostled. Avery swatted Matsoukis’ hand to the side and dove for a leg, but the Greek girl sprawled. Avery extended a leg and swivelled her hips to get her opponent to the ground, but Matsoukis hopped on one leg and remained upright, slipping out and squaring off again.

Matsoukis went for a leg this time, and as she lunged forward Avery wrapped her arms around Matsoukis’s neck in a makeshift headlock. They moved in a circle, Matsoukis trying to slip out, Avery holding on. Then Avery dropped onto her back, pulling Matsoukis with her to the canvas and locking in a guillotine choke.

Matsoukis’s body made a triangle—feet on the mat, bum in the air, head in Avery’s chest—and she grimaced, her face darkened, and her breaths became shallow as Avery squeezed like she was trying to pop Matsoukis’s head off.

Then, when it looked like Avery had the win, Matsoukis did the unthinkable. She jumped with enough power that her body rose, and for a split second she was upright, like that ship ride at the county fair, the one that swings until the ship reaches the top, and you always wonder if it’s coming back down or going all the way around. Matsoukis’s body was frozen in time before it toppled forward, landing face up. It caught Avery by surprise, enough for Matsoukis to break free, jump up, and attempt a takedown. Avery sprawled, but the more experienced fighter ended up in mount, and as Avery pushed up to get away, her right arm became exposed. Matsoukis latched onto it, turned, and went for the armbar.

Dave felt déjà vu.

He stepped forward to intervene, realizing quickly it was a match, a sanctioned competition monitored by judges and refs. There were rules. It was not the street, where seeing a friend or loved one in a tight spot meant you helped them, no questions asked. No, he had to let this play out. Shouts of ‘you got her!’ and ‘break it!’ came from the crowd.

Dave locked eyes with Avery and mouthed ‘tap.’ A slight shake of her head. Avery would never do it. He watched her arm bend past its natural capabilities, saw the anguish on Avery’s face, and when the ref stopped the fight, awarding Matsoukis with the win, he knew the arm was broken.

Later, on the drive home from the hospital, Dave chin-nodded at the cast on Avery’s arm. “Why didn’t you tap?”

“I’ll never tap.” Avery smiled, then chuckled to herself.

“What?” Dave asked.

“This truck, it’s our—what do you call it?—sanctuary? Is that the right word? We have our best chats here.”

Sanctuary, Dave thought. Good word.

It was his turn to smile, and as he looked at his granddaughter, something struck him for the first time. He was in awe of her.

“I love you, Avery Claiborne.”

Avery’s face got hard, that vicious stare. Narrowed eyes. Sharp cheeks. Lips bent in a sneer. Then it broke into a wide grin. “Are you getting soft on me, old man?”

“Maybe a bit…”

“Well, I guess you’re allowed. After all, you’re what, ninety?” Avery dropped the sarcasm. “When are we going to rob something?”

Dave laughed so hard he almost drove off the road.

“Soon,” he said. “Soon.”

“King Marty” – Pistol Jim Press – August 30th, 2025

Marty lives to consume.

Clothes. Cars. Booze. Cigarettes. Caffeine. People.

He drinks so many Iced Brown Sugar Oatmeal Shaken Espressos that the barista has started calling him Big Sugar. She’s cute, so he laughs, then heads back to the office where he trades stock and screams into a headset at some asshole he’s never met.

Marty’s twenty-seven, hardly old, but he feels wily, like he’s been around.

He lives large in a thousand square foot condo overlooking Central Park, and he’s never acknowledged the people who sit on the curb asking for change outside his building. Truth is, he’s never seen them.

The walls of his place are lined with Amazon boxes, stacked eight feet high and unopened. Brunello Cucinelli T-shirts, Burberry joggers, and vintage Nikes. Electric can openers and titanium steel frying pans. An industrial air compressor and a Weber E70 gas grill. Blu-ray discs of his favorite films—Mean Streets, Goodfellas, and Heat—and books he’ll never read.

Later, during the police investigation, newspapers will call him a ‘hoarder with mental health issues,’ yet Marty doesn’t see it that way. As he weaves in and out of the boxes, he sees proof of success and feels something akin to fulfillment, nitro fuel that swims in his blood. He knows he’s made it, believes it, even, the way a religious person trusts in what they’ve never seen, only felt.

Marty sees his dad, with whom he works, in a stylishly tight suit, the grey hair above his ears expertly tapered. He smells his dad’s potent aftershave, hears his voice reverberating through the office like polished wood, heavy and solid.

Marty never knew his mom, a woman his dad describes as forlorn. She died of breast cancer when Marty was two, and the only memories he has of her are from the hospital with a bandana tied around her head, blueish-black circles framing each eye of her gaunt face. Marty loves her, but the love is performative, a trauma to post about on socials.

He doesn’t interact with women much. In fact, the last time Marty had a woman in his condo, she’d tripped on a set of flowerpots and broken her wrist, an ordeal that had cost him ten grand, money he considers well spent. It was that or a lawsuit.

At 8:06 pm, Marty steps out onto the balcony for a cigar.

“Martin …”

The voice pulls Marty into the present moment, and he turns to where a man sits on a chair at a small table, calm menace wafting off him like smoke.

“Frank—Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” The words drop from Marty’s mouth like ball bearings. “I can pay you soon. I swear.”

“Too late for that.”

“I—”

Four hands lift Marty up from behind and then he is falling, falling, falling. His twisted scream spirals into the night, a whiny, putrid sound lost in the echo of sirens and the hubbub of commerce.

“Juror Number Three” – Hoosier Noir Vol. 7 – February 20th, 2025

My first impression of the defendant was that he was old. Not middle-aged or retirement old, but close to the grave old. As I stared at him from the juror’s box, I realized he was only in his seventies, and the deep crow’s feet, sandpaper skin, and dark circles under each eye were most likely souvenirs of hard living. He reminded me of my dad, a man I hadn’t seen in two decades.

The Crown attorney, a tall white woman who struck me as the type of person that backs her Range Rover into a parking stall, approached the jury. “My name is Laurie Tich, and I’m going to take a few minutes of your time to explain why we are here.” She paused. “The defense is going to ask you to believe it’s because of misunderstandings related to an extra-marital affair, but the evidence is going to show that Michael Blahey planned, stalked, and executed the victim, Jay Albom. As a result, Blahey has been charged with one count of first-degree murder. This carries a minimum sentence of twenty-five years in prison. I will prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant is guilty of the crime he’s been charged with. Thank you.”

Blahey’s court-appointed lawyer was young, twenty-seven or so, a handsome Black man named D’Anton Scarsdale. “What Ms. Tich calls evidence is a witness who saw the crime from hundreds of feet away in the dark, and a series of text messages. You’ll learn my client’s wife, Sharon Blahey, and Mr. Albom, the victim, had been sleeping together unbeknownst to their spouses for more than six months. Six months,” Scarsdale said, pausing for effect, and it felt like an eternity. “My client was angry, and yes, he sent some strongly worded texts, but in no way do they prove murder. Bad judgement, yes, but not murder. How many of us have sent texts or emails we regret? It doesn’t make us murderers. Before we get into the nitty-gritty of the case, though, I want to remind you that the burden of proof is on the prosecution to prove to you these charges beyond a reasonable doubt. A. Reasonable. Doubt.” He smiled. “Thank you for your time.”

That night I warmed up two slices of pizza and ate them sitting across from my cat, Smoky, waiting for Josie to call. The first Screwdriver I drank had two ounces of vodka, the second had three, and the third was a free pour. My phone vibrated.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

“Why do you sound funny, mom?” my daughter said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, as a streak of panic entered my blood and shocked me into coherence. “I’m fine.”

“Van…” a male voice on the line said. “You’re not fine.”

It was Brody, my ex, and Josie’s dad. He’d shortened my name to what he used to call me with affection. Now, it felt like a threat.

“You’re drunk,” he added.

I sat up. “Are you eavesdropping?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re sober.”

“Jesus, is Josie still on the line?”

“No… because you aren’t sober.”

There was pity in his voice, and it made me mad. “This is an invasion of my privacy. I’m not drunk, I’m—”

“Give me a break, Vanessa. I know you. You’re slurring your words.” Brody waited for me to respond, but I refused to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he continued calmly and somehow that hurt more than if he’d screamed at me. “You’ve been in and out of Josie’s life for three years. I want you to have a relationship with her, but—”

“What about you, huh?” I focused hard on the pronunciation of each word. “Over there, acting like you’re a saint. You’re a drunk, too. Just like me.”

“I’m clean now,” he said. “Two years. And I’ve been with Josie the entire time. On my own.”

“Congratulations.”

“Listen, I’m not doing this. We’ll call again tomorrow. Same time.”

He hung up and I stumbled to the kitchen, mixed another drink, and drank it watching SportsCentre.

***

I woke up in the chair and had a quick drink—hair of the dog—showered, dressed, and was back in court by 9:00 _AM. My body leaked alcohol, and my brain felt like a wet noodle. Tich looked at me with eyes I interpreted as judgmental, and for a moment I thought she knew I’d gotten drunk last night, like she was about to chastise me.

Number Three’s hungover—I want her off the jury!

But Tich never said a thing.

Instead, she spoke loudly, my head pounding. “A smart person once said that coincidence is the word we use when we can’t see the levers and pulleys. Well, as it pertains to the murder of Jay Albom, I’m going to show you the levers and pulleys.”

Then she called Sama Amaringhe to the stand, an officer who specialized in forensic technology. Amaringhe identified the victim’s phone and spoke to the validity of the text messages Michael Blahey had sent to the victim in the days leading up to the murder, and they were bad.

Watch out. I’m going to fuck you up.

Keep looking over your shoulder, fuckhead.

Touch her again and your dead.

It seemed to me that Blahey did it. What were the chances a person received texts like that and then ended up murdered by someone else? And if Blahey didn’t do it, who did?

At break I applied deodorant, washed my face, and looked in the mirror. I saw my mother, her worn-out rough-hewn mug peering back at me.

She raised me by herself, working the boozer’s shift—noon to eight—at Safeway. I’d been so proud of how strong she was when I was in high school. She’d been through hell with my bio-dad, a marginally employed stoner asshole who’d left the day after my tenth birthday, and she didn’t take shit from anyone. Cross paths with Wanda Pasternak and you’d better bring you’re A-game or she’d tear you to shreds.

At the time it felt like us against the world, but as I got older and developed the same habits she had, something changed, and a tiny hatred grew within me. From that point on my mom made me sick, right up until two years ago when she jumped off the balcony of her apartment in St. James. I told myself she was at peace, her suffering over, but now that sounded like horseshit.

As I stared at my reflection, a recurring thought ricocheted in my brain: You’ve become your mom. I returned the travel deodorant to my purse, wishing there was deodorant for life, a stick of anti-perspirant you could roll on that covered the stench of it all.

When the trial continued, the defense had their chance to cross examine Amaringhe.

Scarsdale unbuttoned his grey suit and approached. “Can you tell me when the texts were sent?”

“October 21^st.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know the exact times each text was sent.”

“Yes.”

“Can you share those times with us?”

Amaringhe re-adjusted himself in the seat, sighed. “10:22, 10:23, and 10:25 _PM.”

“All within three minutes?”

“Yes.”

Scarsdale turned to the jury. “The victim was found on October 25th, four days later. Mr. Amaringhe, do you think the texts—all sent within three minutes—could have been the result of stress, nothing more than a low moment experienced due to the infidelity of his wife?”

Tich stood. “Objection.”

“Withdrawn,” Scarsdale said. “Mr. Blahey deeply regrets sending the messages, but they are unrelated to the crime. People say horrible things to each other every day, especially behind screens. This is nothing more than a bad decision during a moment of crisis.”

The day wrapped and from the Law Courts Building I walked along Broadway to the Velvet Glove, a bar two social classes above my usual watering hole. It had been a long day, and I wanted to clear my head with a drink or two before riding the bus home.

High-backed leather chairs sat in front of a long wooden bar. Elegant fixtures hung every eight feet casting barely enough light to read from the menu, but the perfect amount so everyone looked good. Perpendicular to the bar was an interior window cut into a red brick wall that allowed customers to see into the kitchen. Chefs in white coats chopped vegetables, tossed meat in pans, and shuffled the contents of sizzling woks. Behind the bar, hundreds of bottles glowed on built-in shelves, as two bartenders, both men, wore all black, white towels slung over their shoulders. The place was packed.

I met a guy in his fifties with a greying brush cut. He rambled on about his work, something financial, for an hour, but he paid for my drinks and a room at The Fairmont. The sex was loud, sweaty, and gross, and it would be accurate to say I both enjoyed it and hated myself for that.

In the hotel bed after, I thought about my dad. Where he was. What he was doing. If he was alive. I wondered if my mom would still be alive if my dad hadn’t left. The fairytale ended around 2:00 _AM, and I drifted into a restless sleep.

***

The next day Tich sauntered to the front of the court room like she’d just had a clever thought.

“Exhibit A is the murder weapon,” she began, her voice smooth. She placed the gun on the wooden railing of the box. “A Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatic handgun. You’ll notice the registration numbers have been burnt off, most likely with some kind of acid.”

The foreman picked up the plastic bag, inspected the gun, and passed it to the next juror. As we inspected the gun, Michael Blahey sat on the stand, awaiting Tich’s first question. He looked relaxed, as if it were nothing more than a friendly conversation in a coffee shop, and not an interrogation that could impact on his freedom. My mom complained that my dad had that quality, a distance from the stress other people felt, like he existed in a bubble.

One Christmas—I was eight—my dad brought home a Labradoodle puppy. We named her Rosie, and as I ran my fingers through Rosie’s reddish-brown curls, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I’d always wanted a puppy, and now I had one. God, I loved that dog. Rosie licked my cheek, then jumped on the couch, ecstatic, and I knew she felt the same way I did. Rosie and I were a team.

But my dad hadn’t run it by my mom first and they got into a massive argument. Who was going to clean up after it? Take it for walks? Pay for food and the vet? When we returned Rosie three days later, my heart broke and I cried until the new year. I didn’t trust my parents for a long time after that.

“Mr. Blahey,” Tich said, pulling me from the memory, “is it true you own a Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatic?”

“I did.”

“Let me re-phrase: Is a Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatic currently registered in your name?”

“Yes. But it was stolen.”

“How convenient.”

“Objection,” Scarsdale barked.

Tich re-set. “When was your gun stolen?”

“I forget the date.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Blahey reported his Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatic stolen on October 3^rd. Twenty-two days before the victim was murdered.”

“If you say so,” Blahey said.

“Mr. Blahey, what are the chances the man sleeping with your wife was killed by a stranger using the very model of gun you own?”

“I don’t know. It could happen.”

“I don’t think a reasonable juror would believe in that low probability.”

“Objection.”

“Nothing further.”

The following day Scarsdale got his chance to explain the weapon. A woman in her forties sat on the stand. She looked like a runner, lithe, but strong.

“Ms. Gallant,” Scarsdale said, “please explain to the court what you do for a living.”

Gallant was all business. “I work for the city as Policy Coordinator in the Firearms Registry Department. I’m responsible for maintaining a record of all gun purchases, monitoring trends, and communicating with local and national governments to ensure safe and fair policies are in place and being adhered to.”

“How long have you in this role?”

“Six years.”

“What did you do before you were Policy Coordinator?”

“Military.”

Scarsdale rose and stepped forward. He turned and faced Gallant. “Can you tell the court how many Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatics are registered in Manitoba?”

“Three thousand and four,” Gallant said without hesitation.

Scarsdale whistled. “Three thousand?”

“… and four.”

“In your professional opinion, would you say that’s a lot?”

“Yes. It’s the most common handgun. But that number only represents licenses. The real number is likely more than that.”

“So over three thousand Smith and Wesson .40 semi-automatic handguns?”

Gallant nodded. “Yes. I’d say the number is closer to four.”

“…thousand.”

“That’s right.”

“Ms. Tich said it’s improbable the victim was killed with the same model gun…” Scarsdale stepped closer to Gallant. “But I’d say it’s probable. No, let me re-phrase—it’s likely.”

Likely.

I remember a counsellor in a sober house using that word to describe the chances of my mom relapsing. He’d said she was ‘likely to drink’ and he was right. She’d managed four days sober, and then I’d found her passed out on the couch in her apartment, a puddle of vomit on the carpet next to her. Empty wine bottles strewn about. Ashtray full of dozens of dead soldiers. The place smelled like a corpse. I was fifteen.

I stared at Scarsdale. Score one for the defense.

***

Scarsdale called Mr. Blahey’s friend to the stand, a man named Neil, who swore he’d been at a movie with Blahey at the time of the murder. Tich asked to see ticket stubs, which Neil didn’t have. She showed video from a camera in the lobby of the theatre to prove no one matching the defendant and his pal Neil came in between five o’clock and midnight on the night of the murder. Neil claimed they’d entered and exited through a side door, so he didn’t have stubs, nor would they have appeared on security cameras. Tich followed that up by saying all exterior doors to the theatre are kept locked.

“We waited for an employee to step out for a smoke,” Neil said, and snuck in.

After Neil, Tich summoned an eyewitness who said she saw a ‘thick’ man—Blahey was short and stocky—put a gun to the head of the victim and pull the trigger. The witness lived across the street, and she’d watched the murder from the couch in her living room. But it was dark, after 9:00 _PM, and worse, the witness fidgeted throughout her testimony and mumbled. It hurt the prosecution’s case, but not enough to change my mind. I was still ninety-five percent sure Blahey had killed the victim.

***

The deliberation began on a Friday.

In the jury room, the foreman, a woman named Jennifer, asked us to take our seats. Everything on Jennifer came to a point—nose, ears, chin—and she was the type that liked to hear herself talk.

“Okay,” Jennifer said. “We deliberate until we’ve reached a unanimous verdict or such a time that we feel we are hung. Don’t hold your breath for that, though. Judge Holtz has never granted a hung jury.”

There were more than a few wide eyes, as people settled in. I didn’t drink last night, and it felt strange not to have a slight headache, deep fatigue, and a foggy brain. I’d like to tell you it was so I’d have a fresh mind for the vote, or because I was inspired to turn my life around by some epiphany I’d experienced during the trial, but those would be lies. I’d abstained because I’d run out of vodka and had forgotten to pick some up on my way home from court. Leaving my house for the store—coat on, purse slung over my shoulder—the phone rang.

Josie.

It was an hour earlier than her usual call, and I stared at the screen as it rang.

Should I…

Shouldn’t I…

I picked up before the fifth ring that would send the caller to voicemail.

“Hi, mommy,” Josie said, her happiness radiating across the line.

Tears burned my eyes, and I let them fall. “Hi, baby. It’s so nice to hear your voice. I’m glad you called. I miss you.”

I heard a click, letting me know Brody had been on the line. He’d waited until he knew I was sober.

“How was school?” I tore a paper towel from the roll in the kitchen and wiped my nose. “Are you learning lots in kindergarten?”

We talked about her friends in class, her teacher, Mrs. Carter, and about the classroom pet, a gerbil named Frankie.

“Great name,” I said.

“I love show and tell, mommy. I brought a picture of a snapping turtle.”

“The one we took together at the zoo?”

“Yeah, that one.”

There was such joy in Josie’s voice, and I wondered at what age we lost that. At what age life became a burden. When she recited the alphabet, I had to get another paper towel.

After the call, I could have gone out, but something caused me to stay in. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I went to bed.

I thought about that phone call as Jurors Five and Seven discussed the probability of someone other than the defendant shooting Jay Albom. It was quite an impressive group of listeners. No side conversations. No one doodling. Number Eight took notes. All eyes on the speakers engaged in what could only be called a respectful debate.

But it didn’t feel right.

I thought about my dad who’d I’d loved—still loved—even though I hated him.

I thought about my mom and her suicide.

I thought about my divorce, my drinking, and my attitude, the Grand-Canyon-sized chip on my shoulder I’d lived with for as long as I could remember.

I stood up, overcome by the idea that the room was too quiet, too contained, too civil.
“If he did it…” I blurted out, “will a conviction bring justice?”

Number Five stopped mid-sentence and turned, as did most of the jurors.

“Three,” Jennifer said. “I see you have something to say.”

“I do, well… yes, I do.”

“The floor is yours,” Five said, harboring no obvious resentment at my interruption.

“We know next to nothing about the defendant, just that he sent some threatening texts to the man who was killed,” I said. “He’s married—divorced soon—and worked odd jobs his entire life.” I felt an unusual pull to vote not guilty. “He’s got what, maybe ten years left to live?”

“At best.”

“See, that’s what I mean. A conviction won’t bring back the victim or prevent the affair that allegedly caused this whole thing. That’s over. It won’t take away the pain.” I paused, trying to get the words just right. “Can we say for certain he killed Jay Albom on the weak account of an unreliable witness and three text messages?”

Eight made a noise. “Of course not. But I think we can say the evidence shows he did it within reason. A Smith and Wesson semi-auto is registered in his name, a gun he claims was stolen. Come on… you can’t tell me it’s reasonable that the man sleeping with his wife was murdered by that very same weapon.”

“Reason is a funny thing,” I said. “What’s reasonable to me might not be reasonable to you, and vice versa.”

“That’s true,” Eight conceded.

The room went silent, as each one of us—seven women, five men—contemplated the idea that it was impossible for us to know the truth, and even if we voted honestly, who was to say what motivated our votes. A belief? A silent agenda? A hidden bias?

“At the end of the day,” I began, “I think he’s guilty, but I’m not sure if a conviction brings justice. I guess it’s punishment, but justice? I’m not sure about that.”

Eight nodded, Five looked away, and I shook out my blouse—it was suddenly very hot in the room.

“Are we ready to vote?” Jennifer asked. The group eyed each other again, but nothing was said, and no objections came as she passed small squares of paper and pencils around. “Don’t write your name, just guilty or not guilty.”

Everyone wrote, folded their papers, and Jennifer collected them. She took her seat, dropped the papers on the table, and read them, one by one.

“Well,” Jennifer said, “there you go…”

We filed into the box and Judge Holtz entered the courtroom. She looked at Jennifer. “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your Honor.”

Jennifer handed our decision to the bailiff who delivered it to Holtz. The judge read silently, her expression neutral. She returned the verdict to the bailiff, and the bailiff gave it to Jennifer.

“All rise,” Judge Holtz said, and the entire courtroom stood. “In the matter of first-degree murder, how do you find the defendant?”

Scarsdale looked eager, but it was hard to tell how Blahey felt. His left hand rested on top of his right, connected mid-body like a fig leaf on a classical sculpture. He stared straight ahead.

“We find the defendant…” Jennifer said, “guilty.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd, loud chatter, and the exhalation of a breath held too long. Holtz smashed the gavel, and two security guards walked Michael Blahey out of the court room. On his face I saw relief.

Again, I didn’t drink that night. I thought about it as I left court, and as I waited for the bus. If thinking made it so, then a gallon of vodka would have appeared on the seat next to me, conjured from the darkest corners of my mind. I was so used to making bad decisions that it felt surprising to make a good one. That’s why it hit so hard a week later when a letter arrived with an unfamiliar address on the envelope:

4490 W Reformatory Road
Pendleton, Indiana

I opened the envelope, took out a handwritten letter, and read:

Dear Vanessa,

I didn’t know right away. It wasn’t until day two that something cliked. You had a look I’d seen hunreds of times on your mother and that’s when I knew. Your my daugter. At first, I was going to wait for the verdict and then let my lawyer know. It would have been an automatik mistrial. I’m guilty of a lot of things but I didn’t kill Jay Albom.

I changed my name years ago, and since then I’ve been on the strate and narrow. A decent man. Before that I was not a good person. I know you had a hard life and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry for what happened to your mother. All of it. Your mom sent me pictures of you for a while. You probebly didn’t know that. I remember one of you standing in front of a ham and pineapple pizza with a grosed out look on your face. You were eleven or twelve. Remember that? Fruit on pizza should be a crime.

I’m at peece with the conviction. It sure is funny how life works.

Just wanted to let you know I think about you and I’m sorry.

Love you,

Michael Blahey (Greg Pasternak)

I dropped the letter and fell to the floor.

Daughter.

I didn’t kill Jay Albom

Ham and pineapple.

Love you.

I was right.

Or was I?

Could Blahey be lying, playing on my emotions to get himself out? Is he even my dad?

But the picture—the pizza—I remembered it.

I believed him, and I couldn’t let him—my dad—rot in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. I rifled through a drawer next to the fridge, tossed bills to the side, and found the summons.

I called the number.

“Plenty of Time” – Close to the Bone – December 27th, 2024

A third party had assembled us and provided aliases—Vito, Michael, Sonny, and Fredo— to ensure anonymity. In balaclavas, we stormed in, waved automatic weapons, and shouted some version of get down, nobody move!

I was Sonny, on crowd control. Michael collected wallets. Vito bagged the cash from the registers. And Fredo drove.

I never had a tin can to piss in or a window to throw it out, so after, when the boss handed me twenty grand, I blew it at a strip club instead of paying child support.

Patron.

Lap dances.

Cuban cigars.

Cocaine.

It went that way for three days.

I could have blown town, sent some cash to my ex, and started fresh, but that isn’t me. I live for the mad rush of it all, the neon lights, and the chaos.

The cops hauled me in on that fourth day, played security footage from the bank, and I watched, still feeling okay, until I saw the adhesive tape covering the tattoo on my neck come loose. One cop, a big dude with unruly sideburns, pink skin, and a gut like he had a Christmas turkey stuffed in his shirt, hit pause.

“There…” he said, “you see that? That’s you, brother.” He smiled. “You are right fucked.”

You could see the word INVINCIBLE in cursive plain as day on my neck.

The other cop, a thin man with darker skin who I thought could be Portuguese, had a calm demeanour. “Anything to say?” he asked.

I’d done time in Hardee Correctional down in Florida, so my ink was in the system. No use denying it.

“Lawyer,” is all I said.

The DA offered eight years, five if I told them what I knew about Vito, Michael, and Fredo. And I knew a lot. As we planned the heist, I collected information about each man. Nothing much at first.

I’d talk about the Grand Canyon or a midwestern city, watch for a reaction. Mention Boston or New York, see if their eyes flickered.

When I discussed kids playing on a playground across the street from a taco truck we were eating at, did they stop, think about their own children?

Did they mention a favorite sports team or food specific to a place?

How’d they dress?

What music did they like?

Were they in tune to politics, and if so, who’d they show interest in?

Did they like cars?

Were they religious?

It was slow work, but by the time we pulled the job, I knew Vito was from Chicago, married, and that he’d done time there. He worked a straight job as a mechanic between scores. Michael walked with a limp he’d had since birth, courtesy of a muscular deformity. A Californian, he voted Democrat, was open minded for a crook, and fancied himself something of a history buff. Fredo grew up in Atlanta and he was in the Aryan Brotherhood. My guess is he got into that scene in his teens when his parents moved the family to Alabama. He had two kids and an ex who raked him over the coals like it was her job.

I thought about turning them in. In fact, I wanted to. It might be nice to see my boys, Arlo and Jeffrey, more. I mostly saw them on the big holidays, not enough to leave a mark, and with every passing year I felt the distance between us grow.

But sell out a member of your team and, in this game, you’d never work again. Eight years wasn’t that long. I’d be out by forty-five with a long life ahead of me. Plenty of time to connect with my boys, and plenty of time to pull more jobs.

“I’m no rat,” I said to my lawyer. “I’ll do the time.”

“Mad Mara” – Dark Waters Vol. 2 anthology – December 20th, 2024

I asked Jay Hanrahan into the room, provided ear plugs, and explained how the MRI machine would record images of his hip. Hanrahan struggled to lay down, and when he’d finally achieved that feat, I pressed the button, sliding him into the cylinder.

Most people don’t realize how loud an MRI machine gets, with a loud whir, the occasional rattle, and a low, continuous hum. The futuristic-looking device was reminiscent of a mini spaceship.

Last week I’d dyed my hair and cut three inches off. I wore over-sized dark rimmed glasses. I kept the lighting in the room low. In nurse’s scrubs, I felt like a different person—he wouldn’t recognize me.

“You’ll be inside for thirty minutes,” I said. “Please try to remain still.”

“Thirty minutes?” he gasped. “Jesus… that long?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

I’d been waiting for this moment for two years. In fact, I’d been standing next to my son’s grave the first time I thought about killing Jay Hanrahan. After the accident, several people told me “Living well would be the best revenge,” but they had never lost a child to a drunk driver.

The best revenge is not living well. The best revenge is revenge.

I stayed in bed for weeks after Cody passed. My husband, Logan, begged me to get up.

“At least try,” he said. “You’re strong. You can do it. At least try to move forward.”

Move forward?

I told Logan I was done trying, and I would never get past it, knowing that what happened to Cody was possible. That it could happen to someone else.

Logan left soon after, which seemed to be a turning point, and one afternoon, a seismic shift occurred. Or maybe it had been coming on slowly and I just never felt it.

You can kill him.

A whisper in the shadows at first, but soon the words grew louder.

You can kill him.

Then they were a roar.

You can kill him.

I got out of bed, made coffee, and ate two pieces of toast. On a whim I drove to the Y, purchased a membership, and lifted weights. After, I showered and bought groceries. I combed my hair and put on makeup. I brushed my teeth.

The next day I did it again.

And again.

Ten-minute workouts grew to twenty, then thirty, and soon an hour, sometimes more. Having quit my job, I had the time. I started learning about calories, protein, carbs, and fats. I ate well. I read. I enrolled in a jiu-jitsu class. I watched movies.

And a year later, in the best physical shape of my life, I went to court each day to watch the trial and almost died a second time when Hanrahan’s lawyer got the results of his blood sample tossed out. The hospital officials made an error while collecting it immediately following his arrest. As a result, Hanrahan was found guilty of dangerous driving but not manslaughter. He was sentenced to time served. A year.

One. Fucking. Year.

For killing my son.

I listened to the judge deliver the sentence, contemplating how I’d kill Jay Hanrahan, the voice so loud I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one else could hear it.

You can kill him.

I could shoot Hanrahan, but that didn’t seem like enough. He drove over my son like he was a speed bump.

I could stab Hanrahan, but he was big, twice my size, and I’d have to sneak up on him and slit his throat. Much too messy.

I could hit him with my car. There was a certain poetry to it that I liked, but there were several ways a body could deflect that meant death could not be guaranteed.

None of those options did justice to the crime perpetrated against my boy. Then one night, as I re-read transcripts of the trial, I read the line that changed everything. I’d missed it watching in-person, but reading it later, the ink on the page flickered neon, bright, clear, and true, like the sign above a nightclub.

Hanrahan was on the stand, and in response to a question he made an off-the-cuff remark: “I got a bad hip.”

I hired a private investigator, who somehow accessed Hanrahan’s medical records. Hanrahan saw a doctor a month before he’d killed my son. An x-ray showed he had osteoarthritis, a degenerative condition for which there was no cure. At some point, he’d need an MRI to confirm the damage, and eventually, a new hip. When he was arrested and awaiting trial, the process got put on hold. As a free man, Hanrahan visited a doctor, and the process started anew.

There was a six to ten month wait for an MRI, so I bribed a woman to schedule Hanrahan’s appointment at the high end of that window and enrolled in the eight-month MRI Technician and Spectroscopy program the next day.

We learned about pathology, applications, procedures, instrumentation, sectional anatomy, and patient care. The last sixteen weeks were a practicum, where a veteran technician observed and guided the student experience. I was thirty-five and the oldest person in my class, affectionately known as the ‘old woman.’ The work was fine, albeit not overly fulfilling.

Finally, I wrote the Canadian Association of Medical Radiation Technologists certification exam, passed with flying colors, and accepted a position at the St. Boniface Clinic.

***

Hanrahan became noticeably agitated thirty-two minutes into the MRI. “Hey… how much time is left?”

I spoke into the microphone wired into speakers inside the machine. “Cody. Rust.”

Hanrahan froze, then his body jerked as if electrocuted, and he banged his head. “Fuck!”

I watched him squirm on the monitor, as I let my son’s name sink in.

“How’d you know about that?” he cried. “I served my time… I paid my debt to society!”

There was scorn in his voice, like he’d been the one who’d suffered. He continued to thrash, trying to snake his way out of the machine, but the tray locks. Perhaps a smaller, nimble person could have gotten out, but not one as big as Hanrahan.

“Let me out!” he screamed. “What is this? Let me out!”

I sunk the needle into the soft crevice between his first and second toes, released the drugs, and closed my eyes. I waited to make sure he was unconscious, then activated the power and slid the rack out. I moved the stretcher next to the rack, taking my time, remembering all those heavy weights I’d lifted in preparation for this moment.

Hanrahan weight two-seventy-five, and I’d never deadlifted that amount—my one rep max was one-seventy—but he was elevated, so it was less about lifting and more about controlling his bulk. If I went too fast, Hanrahan’s momentum would cause him to roll off the stretcher onto the floor and I’d never get him up, not without help.

I stood behind the stretcher, bent at the knees, and pulled, slowly rolling him, inch by inch, pound by pound until he tipped, falling face first onto the stretcher.

I covered him with a blanket, wheeled him out the back door, and repeated the roll, sending Hanrahan into the back of my Sorento, his left arm and leg protruding like unruly strands of hair poking out of a ball cap. I folded him in, closed the hatch, and went back inside to tidy up.

***

The first thing I did was starve him.

A sip of water every five hours. No food the first two days. On day three I went into the room.

“My name’s Mara Rust,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”

Hanrahan lunged, causing the restraints to pull taut. “Fuck you!”

“You’re going to talk to me about my son. His name was Cody.”

Hanrahan’s eyes flared at the name with recognition. He flung his weight side to side, but it was no use. He was restrained in a GhostBed Flex Adjustable that had cost me four grand, but it was worth it. I could bring him into the upright position without removing the cuffs, and the structural integrity of the unit was such that he couldn’t break the frame.

“Tell me about that day,” I said.

Hanrahan just shook his head.

I took to eating supper in the room. Butter chicken with white rice. Pulled pork on a bun. The smelliest meals I could think of, and I made orgasmic noises as I ate.

On day four, I beat him with a bar of soap I’d tucked inside a sock. Then I dragged a piece of paper across his arms and legs. Death by a thousand cuts.

“Tell me about that day,” I said again.

“Fuck you, you crazy bitch!”

It was Sunday—day five—when the conversation happened. I fed Hanrahan a piece of dry bread, water, and sat down with a plate of nachos covered in ground beef, cheese, and salsa. I took a bite, moaned euphorically, and waited.

“This isn’t going to change anything…” he said. “You kidnapping me. The torture…”

I chewed, then took a sip of water. “You’re probably right.”

“So why do it then? Your kid’s dead—”

I stood suddenly and stepped toward him, but not of my own volition. My body had reacted without my brain telling it what to do. He threw his hands up to protect himself. Fists cocked, I froze.

Breathe.

I let my arms fall and sat down, my chest in my throat.

“Do you remember the accident?” I said.

Hanrahan sent a look my way and sighed. “No. I don’t remember a Goddamn thing. I was… I’d been drinking.”

“In court, during the trial, one of the things I couldn’t wrap my head around is how you didn’t seem remorseful.”

“How would you know that? How would you know how I felt?”

“Because I watched you. I saw the smile on your face at sentencing. You looked like you’d won.”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” he said, but some of the intensity had melted away. “You want me say I wasn’t happy to get a short sentence, and I can’t do that. But I didn’t think I’d won, I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

He paused and I wondered if bringing him here was going to bring me the closure I craved.

“What were you hoping for?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“The death penalty…”

“There is no death penalty in Canada.”

“There should be.” I leaned forward, then sat back. “I wanted a life sentence—twenty-five years.”

“I was drunk…”

“That’s no excuse! That’s…” I faded out, tired and feeling stuck, like I was floundering in quicksand. “You know, I had a speech ready to go. I even wrote it out.” I pulled the paper from the pocket of my jeans. “Now, I don’t know what to say to you.”

“A speech…” Hanrahan grunted out a laugh. “You people…”

“What does that mean? Who’s ‘you people?’”

“You—rich people.”

“I’m not rich,” I said, jolted upright by his claim. “I have a regular job. My ex has a regular job. We’re normal.”

“Really?” He tilted his head back and eyeballed the room dramatically. “Luxury vinyl plank flooring. Built in shelves. Six-inch baseboards and crown moulding.” He planted his gaze on me. “If the rest of the house is like this, it must be worth three-quarters of a mill, at least. What kind of car you drive?”

I hesitated.

“BMW? Mercedes?” He smirked. “Oh, no, wait—it’s a Range Rover, isn’t it?”

I didn’t need to answer, but for some reason I did.

“BMW coupe,” I said.

“And what does your husband do?”

“My ex-husband,” I corrected. “He works in finance.”

“Finance…” he scoffed. “Lady, you’re rich.”

I’d never thought of myself as rich. Scott had a good job, and I kept the house when we separated. We had decent vehicles, but rich? No way.

I tried again.

“I think what I wanted to say to you—what I want to say—is that my son’s life was worth more than a year.”

“Who said it was only worth a year?” Hanrahan countered.

“The judge, for one, and you when you smiled at sentencing.”

“No one said that, and I certainly don’t think that.” Hanrahan lifted his arm like he was going to scratch his face, but the cuffs prevented it. “How much do you think a life’s worth?”

“It depends on whose life we’re talking about. Yours? Nothing. A child’s? Everything.”

“See, that’s the truth of it,” he said, his voice firm. “That’s how you really feel, like I’m a piece of shit. I was a child once, too. You think my life went the way I wanted it to go? It didn’t.”

He’d always been a monster to me and nothing more. To see him as a human being would be to give in, and to let go of the anger would be to forget my son.

But I was curious.

“Tell me your story,” I said.

He studied me hard for a minute. “You’re not messing with me?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay…”

His life started with two parents, a younger sister, and a dog named Bob. Then his dad lost his job building rotorcraft parts at Boeing International. The first thing to go was the house, which they sold, and downsized, meaning eight-year-old Jay moved schools, and had to say goodbye to friends he’d known since kindergarten. Around this time his mom’s behaviour became erratic. She’d always been the marches-to-her-own-drummer type, but it had gotten worse. More extreme. She was either in bed all day or selling their stuff online. One day, Jay got home to an empty house.

“She’d sold the couches, kitchen table, and chairs while I was at school,” he said. “My dad got a job in a warehouse working nights, but the pay wasn’t the same. He was always tired, stressed, and unsure what to do with my mom. When she disappeared for a two-day stretch, he called emergency services… they found her ranting in a McDonald’s play area about government spies, the flatness of Earth, and immigration. Then it got worse.

“I dropped out of high school in grade 11.” Hanrahan sniffed. “Did all kinds of shit. Sold drugs. Stole cars. Then I went straight and did carpentry. I always drank, though. Always.”

He’d had a tough life, but who hadn’t?

I left the room, sat quietly on the couch, and weighed the pros and cons of killing him. It wasn’t much of a debate. Soon, I knew I couldn’t forgive him.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

I gagged Hanrahan, told him to be quiet, and checked the doorbell camera on my phone.

Oh no…

The man standing there was twenty-five or so, thin, and had an army brush cut. He looked like the kind of person who ratted out colleagues when they took an extra long lunch. I read the logo on the breast of his polo: Department of Corrections.

More doorbell.

Hard knocks.

Shit shit shit.

If I didn’t answer, he’d just return.

In the kitchen, I loaded the syringe, considering where to insert it. I forced myself to take deep breaths and held the needle behind my back as I opened the door.

“Hello,” I said in my calmest voice.

“Hi,” he said pleasantly. “Are you Mara?”

“Yes, how can I help?”

He flashed his credentials, something I could tell he liked doing, and introduced himself as Nate Wamsley.

“Do you know someone named Jay Hanrahan?” Wamsley said.

“Who?” I responded, right hand on the doorknob, left one hidden.

He smiled like he knew I was lying. “I was at my favorite sandwich joint for lunch, Shifty’s Sandwiches, enjoying a BLT on rye, no mayo, and a coffee, wondering where I might find Mr. Hanrahan. His neighbours said he hasn’t been home in days. He’s missed work, too. So, I looked into his case, read articles about the accident that occurred almost two years ago. I read how Hanrahan had run a red light, injuring a patrol, and killing a child. He was convicted of dangerous driving and served a year, but I guess that wasn’t enough for you.”

The blood vibrated in my veins. “What do you mean?”

“The boy’s name was Cody Rust. Parents, Tim and Mara Rust. That’s you,” Wamsley said, pointing. “There’s no delicate way to say this… I know Jay Hanrahan had an appointment at the St. Boniface Clinic on Tuesday night, and he hasn’t been seen since then. What are the chances the man responsible for the death of your son ends up getting an MRI where you work, only to disappear? Wouldn’t you agre—”

I swung the door open and pounced, aiming the needle for the exterior of his left thigh, sinking the plunger. He realized what I had done and reached for the needle, but I swiped his hand away until he collapsed on the steps.

Two Weeks Later

The rain pattered the windowpane like fingers made of wood, as kids and their parents braved the inclement weather, screaming ‘Trick or Treat,’ carrying pillowcases or plastic buckets shaped like pumpkins. The wind swept through the entrance, as I admired my yard. I’d gone all-out this year.

An eight-foot-tall witch sat on the lawn, plugged in, and glowing like a jelly fish.

The trees were covered in fake cobwebs.

Dry ice leaked from the open garage like smoke.

Spooky sound effects emanated from speakers hidden in the garden along the walk.

And the kicker, the cherry on top of an incredible scene, was the men who lay comatose on stretchers on either side of the front entrance, just inside, but far enough away that trick-or-treaters could not know for certain if the men were dummies or real.

I’d given each of them a massive hit of ketamine, and they lay cuffed to their GhostBed Flex Adjustable beds, drooling, eyes rolled back in their sockets.

When a child asked if they were real, I smiled and said, “Of course not.”

A group of five kids arrived, screaming for candy without a care in the world. Their laughter echoed in the night as I closed the door and smiled at Hanrahan and Wamsley.

My captives. My charges. My children.

“The Show Off” – Punk Noir Magazine – May 19th, 2024

Gray stole glances at Hanna from across the room in Mr. Noble’s class.

She had arrived mid-semester, gorgeous, into punk music, and smart. Funny, too. They’d talked at Leo Sandberg’s party two weeks ago, been texting every night since. She would side-eye him in class, smirking mischievously, and it drove him nuts.

He’d taken her to supper at a steakhouse, but she’d played coy after, not even a kiss. They’d gone to the movies next, and this time he made sure to flash a wad of bills.

“Woah,” she’d said, impressed.

The following weekend, at Dave Benson’s rager, Gray asked Hanna if she wanted to get high.

“Hell, yeah,” she said.

Alone with Hanna in a bedroom, he laid his supply on the dresser, pulling drugs from his backpack like it was some warped version of a clown car. An ounce of reefer. Seven grams of blow. Fifty hits of e. And thirty oxys.

“What’ll be?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She paused, and when Gray turned to her, she held up a badge. “Just your freedom.”

“Hanna…” Gray froze, the reality of her words sinking in. “You’re a narc?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “But my name’s not Hanna.”

“Go With God” – Urban Pigs Press – December 13th, 2023

Grandpa asked me to sit with him on the front porch, as he fingered a dip out of the tin and stuffed it in his lower lip. The sun flared in the dark blue sky and a hawk soared overhead. It was too hot, the type of heat that made you burn real quick, and I remember sweating through my shirt.

“How you doin’, Tuck?” Grandpa said.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah? School’s good?”

I leaned back and the wooden rocking chair creaked. “It ain’t good, but it ain’t bad, neither.”

Grandpa considered it. “School’s for the birds. Any more fights?”

“A couple.”

“How’d you do?”
“Undefeated.”

“You must be fightin’ girls,” he said, then smiled, letting me know he was just busting my chops. “You got friends?”

“A couple,” I said again, wondering what this was all about.

Grandpa nodded, his jaw square, his sandpaper cheeks smooth. He shaved twice a day, said naps were for pussies, and still worked forty hours a week at the mill. Drank corn liquor every night from jam jars with hands the size of telephone books. When he caught me with a backhand because I’d skirted my chores, my ears rang for damn near an hour.

“I want to tell you about your dad,” he said, catching me off-guard.

“My…”

“Your dad. My son.”

I’d never met the man. Not once.

I’d asked Grandpa so many times I’d lost count, and he always told me to mind my business.

Grandpa spat a rope of tobacco juice that landed eight feet away on the dirt next to the porch. “He’s a fighter. Made it all the way to the show. Pay-per-view,” he sang. “People spend good money to watch him fight now. I guess you could say he’s the biggest thing to ever come outta’ Macklyn.”

Confused thoughts swirled in my head.

The biggest thing to come outta’ Macklyn?

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“How many boxers you know came outta’ Macklyn, Tuck?”

“One. Dante Rhodes.”

“That’s him.”

“Dante Rhodes is my dad?”

“He changed his name when he left, but that’s him all right. Chose a Black name, but it works for him.”

I must have looked like a fish outta water, mouth opening and closing, gasping for air. I’d always been bad with words. I knew what I felt but the sentences got stuck somewhere between my brain and mouth.

“Say something, boy.”

What could I say? I had about two million questions. Why did you keep this from me? Does that mean we’re rich? If so, how come we live hand to mouth? Why didn’t Rhodes reach out to me when my mom died? Does he even know I exist?

Of all the questions I could have asked, I chose, “What’s my dad’s real name?”

“Raymond Joy.”

Same last name as me.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“You were too young.” Grandpa spat again, another impressive strand of saliva. “You’re fourteen now and fourteen’s a man. Ray fights tonight, on your birthday. Seems fitting we watch, don’t it? Poetic.”

Grandpa was a hard man, set in his ways. He knew engines and we’d restored two Chevy half tons, got them running real good. We had a big garden, and Grandpa taught me how to can vegetables and make jams. I cried the first time he made me slaughter a chicken, and even though I’d slit the throats of dozens since then, Grandpa wouldn’t let me forget and still called me soft.

“How’d Rhodes get outta’ Macklyn?” I asked, trying to figure it out. “No one gets out of this town.”

“The day after his fourteenth birthday he quit school and stole a car,” Grandpa said. “Drove to the city and got a job as a dishwasher in a Polish kitchen called Janik’s. He smelled like cabbage rolls for two years.” Grandpa smiled. “He lived in hostels and joined Romano’s Gym. Trained with Romano himself, a small Fil-i-pino who knew Pacquiao back home. Ray’s thirty-five now. Not too many fights left.” Grandpa nodded, confirming something within himself. “A boy should see his dad work. It’s good for his soul.”

That night we drank and smoked and watched the fights on the undercard. Grandpa’s buddy, Darrell, sat next to me. One kid who looked my age got knocked out in the Third, and for a moment I thought he was dead.

The liquor was sweet and potent, burning the back of my throat. Darrell drank fast, talked with his hands like he knew karate, and vibrated in a twitchy way that made me uneasy. He never shut up, addicted to the sound of his own voice.

At 10:30 _PMGrandpa told Darrell to shut his pie hole, as Rhodes’ opponent walked to the ring wearing a long, shiny white robe with tassels that dragged on the ground like a bride’s dress, yet the name on the back instilled fear.

Sal “The Killer” Vicente.

Even though I’d never met Dante Rhodes, I panicked, struck with the notion that he could get seriously injured. Killed, even.

Vicente dropped the robe and danced in his corner, shadowboxing. His chest was flat, his abs washboard, his back layered with muscle and a tattoo of an angel with massive wings that swept across his shoulders. The wings dripped blood and the angel’s face was a skull.

But Vicente froze when ‘Copperhead Road’ began. Everyone did.

The tune blared, fireworks lit up the arena, and the crowd went off like the Fourth of July as my dad sprinted to the ring like he couldn’t wait to fight. He wasn’t wearing a robe, and his team followed him at a distance, unable to keep up. When he got to the ring the cut man slapped on the grease, and Rhodes ducked under the ropes.

That’s when Grandpa tossed a small baggie on the coffee table. Meth, most likely. I knew a few kids who’d experimented with it, but I stayed away from those guys because their lives were worse than mine. I’d been drinking and smoking since I was eleven, but not like this.

Grandpa opened the bag, picked up his knife, and used the tip to lift a pile to his nostril.

Inhaling, the powder disappeared, and he swung his eyes on me.

“Special occasion,” he said.

Darrell did the same, then closed the baggie and tossed it my way. “Pick-me-up?”

Grandpa flicked his chin ever so slightly, giving me permission to take a bump. The ring announcer saved me, introducing both fighters and drawing our attention to the television.

The fight began and Vicente sprang from his corner and stepped forward quickly, his hands up high. He threw first, and often, and Grandpa got frustrated by Rhodes’ inaction.

“Hit the guy!” he shouted.

Darrell laughed and drank. Grandpa did another bump, loaded his lip, and spat into a tin can. He sipped from a glass.

Round Two and Three looked just like One. Vicente used Rhodes’ face for target practice, and except for a right, left, left, right flurry, my bio-dad did sweet fancy nothing.

Rhodes didn’t look hurt, though. In fact, the guy didn’t smile or grimace when he got hit. He just ate the punches.

“The fuck’s wrong with him?” Darrell said. “Throw a punch!”

“It’s like his arms are glued to his body,” Grandpa said. “Come on, son. I taught you better.”

In the Fourth, something changed.

Rhodes opened with a left hook that got through, and he followed it up with three punches in succession, forcing Vicente to lock on to him until the ref separated them. Vicente retaliated with a hard, straight right between Rhodes’ mitts, bloodying the older fighter, but Rhodes didn’t react, he just kept moving forward.

Both fighters were sweating hard now, hair matted, blood on their faces.

In Five, Vicente got Rhodes good and dropped him. Rhodes opened a cut above Vicente’s eye in Six, a nasty gash the size of a caterpillar. The fighters went toe-to-toe in Seven, and by Eight, the fight had become a brawl.

A carnival-like atmosphere wafted over the crowd, and in Nine, people stood, smiling, grabbing each other, and screaming, astonished at the carnage they were fortunate to be witnessing.

I looked at Grandpa and Darrell.

They stared at the TV, rapt, and I wondered about them. Had they lived lives they were proud of, or did they have too many regrets to count?

I saw the baggie on the table and felt sweat trickle down my back.

Rhodes trapped Vicente against the ropes in Ten, pounding his body until Vicente fell to the canvas. Vicente got up quickly, and Rhodes gazed across the ring, waiting for more. The commentators described his neutral expression as ice cold.

Round Eleven was uneventful, but Twelve took off like a rocket. Vicente flashed a grin, the ref stepped to the side, and the men met in the middle of the ring as if planned, throwing wildly, alternating between lefts and rights.

I couldn’t say for how long it lasted. Five seconds? Ten? Twenty?

Rhodes drove Vicente back, stunning him with a right that clipped the younger man’s chin. Staggering, Vicente tossed his arms up to protect himself, but Rhodes was patient. He let the hands go up and then hit Vicente with two body shots, bing bang, and Vicente winced and stumbled, holding his side.

Then Rhodes unleashed a punch from three years ago, aiming for the fifteenth row, through Vicente’s face, and when it connected, I knew the fight was over. Vicente fell hard, a sack of hammers, his limp body crashing to the mat.

Grandpa and Darrell jumped to their feet, hollering and backslapping, old men excited like children pulling their first fish from the pond. The camera zoomed in, and Rhodes smirked but didn’t raise his arms. Trainers, doctors, cornermen, and security rushed in, causing a ruckus like I’d never seen before. It was mayhem. Rhodes’ team picked him up and carried him around the ring on their shoulders.

Grandpa shouted, “That’s my boy!”

I stood and high fived Grandpa and Darrell like I’d won something myself.

Rhodes grabbed the mic in the post-fight interview.

“I been fightin’ my whole life,” he said, breathing hard. “But I can’t do it no more.”

Shock played like a song on the interviewer’s face. “Dante, are you retiring?”

“Yessir.”

Rhodes walked out of the ring without another word. That was my dad, my blood, and I felt kinship with him, and with these men here now. We were all connected, from the same place, and that meant something.

Grandpa did a bump and held the knife out to me.

“Want one?” he said.

The commentators were going back and forth, calling it the fight of the year, an instant classic.

Darrell’s eyes bugged out of his head, and he swayed on his feet. His awful smile was full of lies. Grandpa wasn’t much better. His white stubble had come in and it made him look unkempt and mean.

“Want one?” he repeated.

My life had consisted of catfishing, school, and tending to my chores. I had a couple friends, boys from farms near us, but we weren’t close. Maybe it was the booze, the excitement of the fight, or the shock of learning that I had a famous dad. I’m not sure but I accepted the knife.

“Do I plug my nostril?” I asked.

“Up to you,” Grandpa said.

I pressed my left index finger to my nose, brought the knife to my face with my right hand, and breathed in. My brain shivered with pleasure as the drug seeped into my blood and life made sense, like each event was meant to be. My mom’s overdose. Grandpa’s harsh lessons. Dante Rhodes. All of it. I felt like I mattered.

That night we got belligerent.

More booze, dope, and at some point, women arrived with young, stupid giggles. Darrell and I laughed, listening to Grandpa’s heavy breathing from down the hall.

At first light, the house looked and smelled like death. Empty glasses. Ashtrays overflowing. Sticky spills on the floor. A condom wrapper in the bathroom garbage made me sad.

I packed a bag and crept out of my room. Darrell was tangled in a blanket on the couch, but Grandpa wasn’t there. I found him smoking a pipe on the porch, looking like an unmade bed. Hair mussed. Grey skin. Bloodshot eyes.

I suddenly saw my future if I stayed there. Cutting lumber at the mill, drunk every night, and in more fistfights than I could count. Probably a stint or two in jail.

I walked down the steps to the yard.

“Go get’em, Tucker,” Grandpa said, and held out his hand.

And that’s when I knew it had all been part of his plan to get me out of this town. This life. I took the money from his hand and didn’t look back.

That afternoon I stole a car from the gas station and drove to the city. I had a hundred bucks and a dream.

“Million Miles of Fun” – Punk Noir Magazine as part of Mixtape Side A (story 3) – September 10th, 2023

Sean hasn’t read the newspaper in a decade. He never watches the news, nor does he listen to it, read from websites, or go on social media, and when he hears people discuss politics or sports in the grocery store, he moves to a different line.

He’s never owned a cell phone.

Ask him who the mayor is, or the prime minister, or the president of the country next to his, and he couldn’t even harness a guess. He wouldn’t be able to tell you who won the Super Bowl or Stanley Cup, and he consumes politically ambivalent books, movies, and TV shows.

When he works, delivering mail for the city, he listens to true crime podcasts about murders that occurred years earlier, and if someone rants about a current event at the monthly staff meeting, Sean goes to the bathroom until the diatribe is over. He’s not anti-social, but he keeps to himself. There’s a difference.

Too much information is what it is, and Sean refuses to be part of it.

Instead, he lifts weights five days a week at the Y. His diet is precise. In fact, his garden had a banner year, producing so much lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes that each neighbor received a basket. In winter, he builds a rink in his backyard. Two-by-sixes nailed together, a thick, white tarp underneath, and when the temperature hits minus fifteen, twenty, twenty-five degrees Celsius, he’s out there with the hose, steam rising off the ground like dry ice on the set of action flick. It’s only twenty-by-thirty-five feet, but it’s enough. Sean does man makers every night until his legs burn.

But there are challenges.

He is forty this year, a milestone birthday, and who will he celebrate with?

Most men his age talk about sports and work and politics and their families, so friends have fallen by the wayside. His last date was two years back, and the woman, Carla, launched into a speech about public education before their meals had even arrived.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sean had said. “But I don’t discuss the news.”

“Yeah, right …” Carla thought he was joking. “So, my kid’s school is—”

Sean cut in. “I’m serious.”

Confusion splashed across her face. “What do you talk about?”

It was a valid question, and one Sean had been asked many times. He had a philosophy, a code of sorts.

“I love music. I watch movies and TV shows. I read a lot. I like fitness. I write.”

“Okay…” Carla said, dragging out the ‘ay.’

Then she asked him if he’d seen the latest episode of The Bachelor.

“This isn’t going to work,” Sean said.

Despite not eating, he dropped cash on the table and left.

Sean’s new thing is bird watching.

He used to think of bird watchers as deficient, like they lacked personality and could not make friends, relegated to the bottom of the proverbial gene pool. To stare at a bird, an animal so common?

But then two squirrels nested in the trees in his backyard, another mundane animal he thought, until he watched them jump from tree to tree, collecting sticks, playing, eating, and being affectionate. Unbelievable. His appreciation grew.

That’s when he reassessed the birds.

First, in his yard. Next, at work.

They are everywhere.

Robins. Goldfinches. Woodpeckers. Sparrows. Crows. What beautiful creatures!

Sean sits on a bench near the small manmade lake at the park, deep in thought, when someone says, “Red-winged blackbird?”

“Pardon?” Sean blurts, turning.

And there she stands.

Tall, like 5’10,” and curvy. She’s younger than him, with coarse blonde hair, long and wavy.

“You’re looking at a red-winged blackbird,” she says.

Sean gets his bearings and realizes she’s talking to him.

“Indeed,” he says.

“It’s a male. You can tell by the colours—”

“—black with a small patch of red and yellow on the shoulder,” he says.

“That’s right.”

“And the females are brown and streaked. A tiny bit of yellow surrounds the beak.”

“Correct.” The woman smiles. “I’m Madison. Well, Maddy.”

“Sean.”

She asks if he comes here often, and he says yeah, every day, and she tells him she just moved to Winnipeg from the east coast. He believes humans emanate energy, and it can be warm, harsh, interested, aggressive, or any number of other descriptors that prove little more than summary labels, yet they are helpful in that they form a first impression. Maddy’s energy is open and curious. Sean likes it.

“Have you had lunch?” he says.

Twenty minutes later they sit across from each other at Coffee Grinds, one of his favorite spots. He goes with the turkey club on rye, and she tries the Greek salad.

Sean asks where she’s from out east, and Maddy says Halifax.

“I love Halifax,” he says. “Visited in 2019. Spent most of the trip wandering around downtown, reading by the ocean. I was surprised how much I liked it.”

“Surprised?”

“I guess I didn’t know much about Halifax. Vancouver, Montreal, and Toronto get all the headlines in this country.”

Her laugh wraps around him like an embrace, and he finds himself smiling.

“That is true,” she says. Then, sheepishly: “What do you do for work? That’s the question adults are supposed to ask each other, right?”

“I’m a letter carrier going on eighteen years. You?”

“I’m a journalist. I start with the Free Press next week.”

Sean’s heart somersaults, and his stomach drops.

A journalist? Are you kidding me?

A feeling of impending doom grows within him, and for the first time in a long while, he’s worried, scared she’ll bail when he shares his philosophy of abstaining from the news.

Should I lie?

No, I like her.

“A journalist …” Sean says to buy himself time. “I need to—what I mean is…”

Maddy waits a beat, soaks in the discomfort on Sean’s face.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I have this, well …”

“What is it?”

“—a code. I don’t follow the news.”

Maddy laughs and it’s full of joy.

“That’s it? I thought you were going to say you belonged to a cult.” She pauses, realizing something. “Is that why I haven’t seen you with a phone?”

“Yeah, I’ve never owned one.”

“Wow.” Maddy reaches across and pokes his arm. “A unicorn, here in the flesh.”

It’s his turn to laugh, and it feels good, but fear lingers.

“I want to be clear. I haven’t watched, listened to, or read anything relating to current events, sports, or politics in close to ten years. Since my thirtieth birthday. When I hear people discussing those topics, I leave the room.”

Maddy says, “You’re serious about this?”

He nods, and she contemplates his words.

“I understand part of what you’re saying,” she says, “but journalism—at least how I practice it—is about storytelling, and letting people know what’s going on in their communities, their country, and the world outside their home. It’s about holding those with power accountable. It’s about truth.”

Sean nods again, listening, unsure how to respond.

“How did this begin—your code?”

How did it begin? She wants a reason, something that caused me to be this way.

“I was at the movies—Scorsese’s new one—and I looked around before the movie began. Three-quarters of the people were on their phones. The middle-aged couple next to me was discussing a local story that had been in the news. I guess a teenager had been arrested for something, selling drugs the woman said, and when he resisted, the police tasered him. Two women, mid-thirties, on the other side of me, in-between texts, talked about abortion laws becoming more restrictive, and how this was a good thing. And a foursome in their early twenties in the row ahead of me laughed at memes with Donald Trump’s mugshot. I walked out of the theatre and that was it. I guess you could say I’d had enough.” Sean looks across at Maddy. “Is this going to be an issue for you?”

“Oh, look who’s getting cocky? Are you thinking there’s going to be a second date?” she asks. Even her mocking comes out gently, though.

“I was—well, I hoped …”

“I’m busting your chops, Sean. I want to see you again.”

She cooks for them on the second date, a turkey chili recipe that is spicy and delicious. He brings an apple crisp and vanilla ice cream, and they eat dessert on her deck under a cloudless, bright blue sky. When they end up in her bedroom, it feels like they are a couple. Maddy is such a happy, likeable person that afterwards, as he lies next to her, he’s surprised it went this way. He’s not sure why he associates niceness with sexual conservatism, but he does.

August flies by.

They take long walks, cook meals together, and read. They go to movies and check out a concert, a punk band Sean likes called Propagandhi. Maddy likes the band’s intensity.

Summer ends, and the leaves fall, pooling at the curb like the border of a picture frame. Sean feels like he’s in an alternate universe, being watched or photographed from afar. They talk about books, movies, and music, but never work or anything in the news.

In September, fissures appear, minute weaknesses in the foundation of their relationship. A little more silence in the car, less to say. Maddy suggests a book club, and it works for a while, but then fades.

It’s the day before Halloween, what Sean calls Gate Night. Maddy comes by after supper, and Sean knows she’s off. Her body is stiff, her expression cold concrete.

“I need to talk with you about something,” she begins.

“Okay…”

They sit next to one another on the couch.

“I need to be able to share with you about my job … about what’s going on in the world. I think we’re a good match, but it’s like we’re hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Maybe not hiding but holding back. At least I am. We lack intimacy. If we can’t talk openly, how is this going to work? How can we know each other?”

Sean scratches his jaw, hears the scruff. He’s been expecting this conversation.

“I know,” he says. “I feel it, too.”

Sean senses there’s more.

“Can I tell you about my day?” Maddy says.

The air is sucked out of the room,

and he feels dizzy, like an alcoholic with years of sobriety ordering a drink, watching the bartender pour and slide the glass across the counter. Sean can taste it.

Can she tell me about her day? Do I want her to?

Sean doesn’t want to go back to being alone, but he’s terrified to abandon his code.

“Will your day involve the news?” he asks.

“Of course,” she responds.

“I like you, Maddy, and I don’t want this to end, but I don’t want to hear about the news.”

She pauses, looks hurt, then stands, shaking her head. When she leaves, it’s silently, without a goodbye.

Sean picks up a Lawrence Block novel and reads, pushing her from his mind like a splinter.

“One Cold Moment” – Guilty Crime Story Magazine – November 6th, 2023

Will swung the gun toward the crowd as he backed up, leaving employees and patrons face down on the floor. It was the eighth bank he’d robbed, and a similar exit each time.
        In and out in less than three minutes.
        To his car waiting on a side street.
        Remove the mask.
        Drive the limit.
          This time, though, it was different. He had an inside woman with access to the
vault, and in his possession was more than two-hundred grand. He had to get gone. Not later. Now.
        But what about Tommy?
          His son needed life experience, and Will often wondered if he’d been too easy on the boy. The original plan was to leave him, fuck it, with his ex-wife, but turning onto the highway now, he couldn’t do it.
        Will sighed. “Shit…”
        He banged a U-y, conscious not to squeal the tires, and pulled over. The text he sent to Tommy read: Be outside the school in 10.

When he pulled into the school’s pickup circle, Tommy was waiting. The kid hopped in, and they merged into traffic. As Will drove, Tommy stared silently out the side window like he always did, not even bothering to ask why he was being picked up early.
        “How was school?” Will asked.
        “All right.”
        “How’re your classes?”
        “Pretty good.”
        “Exams coming up?”
        “Yup, in January.”
        “How are your marks?”
        “Good.”
        “Got plans for tonight? It’s Friiiiiiday,” Will sang, laughing.
        “Nah.”
          Will wished Tommy had something to do. A date, a party, anything other than studying alone in his room. But with an average in the high nineties in courses that Will had never heard of, Will couldn’t give Tommy a hard time. He’d spent his high school years drinking beer and chatting up girls, riding dirt bikes in the summer, and sledding in the winter. He liked to joke that he graduated with an A in living.
        What’s my plan here? Will thought. I can’t take him with me. Maybe I say goodbye.          “Listen,” Will said, “I’m going out of town for a while.”
        Tommy turned. “Who’d you rob this time?”
        The kid was smart, and Tommy chuckled. “I didn’t rob anyone.” Technically, that was true. “I just want to get away for a while.”
        Cold, dry air hammered the truck as Will navigated the narrow, single lane road, one of the overused routes now that the city had grown. Snow covered the fields that surrounded the highway, and the sun hid behind gray clouds and a darkening sky. Will saw their turn in the distance when a brown blur flashed in his periphery.
        WHAM!
        Glass flooded the cab and snow plastered their faces. Will fought to keep the vehicle from rolling and they hit the bank hard, coming to a complete stop. His head bounced up and down, the engine hissed, and he drifted into unconsciousness.
        In the dream, Will trampled through tall, summer grass, finding himself walking beyond the wooded area that marked the outline of his property. He looked down, realizing he held a child. It was Tommy.
        Will sat under a tree and rocked Tommy back and forth. A soft breeze mussed his hair, and the sun cast a glow on his forehead.
        “Dad! Wake up!”
        Will opened his eyes, as Tommy hovered over him, talking.
        “Dad, you all right?”
        Blood leaked from Will’s forehead as he checked himself for broken bones. Seeing none, he fumbled for the seatbelt and clicked the button.
        “We hit something,” Tommy said. “It’s—it’s over there.”
        Will wrenched open the driver’s side door, as an ache gnawed behind his eyes. He followed his son to the shoulder of the highway, where a deer was trying to stand, but fell, moaning something awful. Will knew right away the animal would die, but Tommy didn’t know about that kind of thing. He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You okay?”
        Tommy flinched. “Ye—yeah, I think so. It’s dying.”
        “I know.”
        Blood trickled from the deer’s nostril.
        “What should we do?” Tommy said.
        “It’s suffering. Only one thing to do.” Will unsheathed the knife on his hip, flicked it open, and knelt.
        “No,” Tommy said, tugging on Will’s arm. “I’ll do it.”
        Will froze, shocked, wondering if Tommy had the stomach for what needed to be done. His boy had spent his life avoiding conflict.
          “You up for it?” Will said.
        “You treat me like a baby!” Tommy said with force. “I’m not weak. Give me that—”
        “Okay,” Will said, passing his son the knife.
        Tommy gripped the knife with his right hand, kneeling beside his father.
        “The jugular is here. Drag the knife across like this…” Will said, motioning with his empty hand. “There will be blood.”
      Tommy’s lips moved silently, and Will thought he was praying, but he did what Will had shown him. Blood the color of reddish tar poured forth, steaming in the frigid cold.
        They both stood silent, inert, and Will shuffled, nervous, frozen like that for thirty seconds, staring into each other’s eyes. It felt confrontational, and that’s when Will saw it, the darkness in Tommy’s eyes. His boy still held the knife.
        “Take me with you,” Tommy said.
        “I—” Will began. “I can’t take you.”
        “You’ve never been much of a father,” Tommy said, letting the sentence fade.
        Tommy was right. He’d spent half of the boy’s life in prison, absent for most of the rest.
        “Sometimes I do things I know are wrong,” Will said. “I can’t help myself. But you, you got a future… a life to be proud of.”
        “I saw the bags in the back of the truck,” Tommy said, ignoring his father’s words. “I know one’s full of cash. Take me with you. I need this.”
        Tommy flinched, and Will readied for a blow, but it was just Tommy reaching out and for a hug, a good, solid embrace. After Tommy let go, Will looked off into the distance.
        “You sure?” he said.
        Tommy nodded.
        “All right then.”
        Neither spoke as they headed toward the truck. Tommy checked his phone and Will gawked at his son, seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time and wondering how he got so lucky.