ONLINE STORIES Collection, Part One by C.M. Humphries

ONLINE STORIES Collection,
Part One
By C.M. Humphries
www.cmhumphries.com
Collection I/Humphries 2
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Small Grains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Under the Blade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Normality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Lovely Weather in Long Brooke . . . 14
Excluded Sample . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
FROM DOWN IN THE DIRT
Small Grains
“It’s a message in a bottle,” Alyssa said as she shook a bottle full of sand.
“No, it’s definitely not,” Craig responded, his eyes squinting as they struggled to make
out the finer details of the bottle and its contents. “It’s either a dumb hour glass or a souvenir
bottle, the ones they sell in tourist shops.”
Alyssa place the bottle between her left arm and side, snug underneath her armpit, and
sprinted off towards a small cabin that sat at the top of a hill. Craig chased after her as she
headed away from the ocean. He kicked sand into the air with ever step he took. His calf
muscles grew sore as he scaled slanted sand dunes. No matter how fast he ran or how much
effort he put out into catching her, Craig could not keep up with his younger sister.
“Wait up!” Craig yelled, though he was losing his breath. He started to clamp his chest as
he began to scuttle.
At the sight of Craig taking small strides and clutching his chest, Alyssa began to panic
and slow down. She took a few glances behind her and discovered Craig was falling behind.
Before, there was a distance between the two of them, but now Craig was acting like prisoner
strapped down with ankle weights and shackles. Craig became petrified and fell to the sandy
ground.
“Craig!” Alyssa screamed as she darted back towards the ocean. Her face felt hot from
mixed emotions; the tears that she began to cry felt like sulfuric acid running down her cheeks.
“Craig! Oh my god, Craig! No!”
She slid beside her brother like a runner to home base. She placed the bottle down on the
beach and struggled to reach underneath Craig and flip him over. She knew CPR would be wise
to perform while waiting for help.
“Don’t die on me, Craig. Don’t die on me,” Alyssa repeated as she readied resuscitation.
As her hands were about to slam down on Craig’s chest, a smile spread across his face.
“Ha-ha,” Craig said as he swiped the bottle from his sister. He stood up and then loped towards
the cabin.
To his surprise, Alyssa was much faster than he fathomed. Slam! Craig could hear the
sound of his sister tackling him down echo over the beachfront. For a minute, Craig thought he
could taste blood.
Alyssa snatched the bottle and looked into it. “What?” she muttered as the contents of
the bottle began to change. Instead of small grains of sand sitting at the bottom of the bottle, a
playground began to form. Emerging from the limited amount of sand: monkey bars, a swing set,
a seesaw.
“What is it doing?” Craig asked. His eyes opened wide as his mind succumbed to
bedazzlement.
Alyssa’s look of confusion contorted until it developed into a beautiful expression of joy.
A smile. She said, “I was thinking about this last night—how much I wanted to play at the
playground.”
“Who’s your buddy?” Craig had to ask after seeing a granular version of his sister
hanging around a boy her same age.

“I don’t know.” And Alyssa knew that was the truth as she scratched the back of her
head.
“Maybe it’s because you don’t have any friends,” Craig said, tormenting his sister as she
snagged the bottle. He looked into and once again, the sand changed. The playground became a
couple of cars on a straight, which looked like Hot Wheels. “Huh, I told Dad I wanted cars for my
birthday.”
“It shows what you want,” Alyssa said as she watched Craig’s thoughts being portrayed
in a sand bottle. She could even see little people driving the cars around, which turned the
pretend city into a living one. People roamed the streets. Stores changed their door signs to
OPEN.
Alyssa and Craig took a deeper look into the bottle. “Look, it’s me!” Alyssa said, thrilled
to death by the sight of her driving a car.
“It’s just pretend,” Craig replied. He became short on breath, but tried to hide it.
The sand lookalike of Alyssa revved the play car’s engine until the real Alyssa and Craig
both though they could hear it over the sound of seagulls and the ocean waves smashing against
the rocky cliffs down the shoreline.
She sped down the roads like a pubescent high school boy trying to prove his
masculinity. Then, a small boy stepped in front of the car, and before the sand-made Alyssa
could slam on the brakes, it was too late. Blood splattered across the pavement. Alyssa jogged
away from her car and towards the body. She screamed at the sight of the body. Who was the
passerby? It went without saying.
Alyssa dropped the bottle and turned to her brother, who had fallen to the ground,
clutching his chest.

FROM UNER THE DIRT
Under the Blade
Their silk shirts under expensive jackets, vests—their tacky and pricey dress shoes. They’re the
epitome of American success. In their American dream they’ve never been self-effacing, I
guessed, yet as I pointed the barrel at all of them, I was as good as God. I knew their type:
ruthless S.O.B.s who’ve backstabbed and cheated to the point that someone else cried in defeat.
Look at them, humbled and kneeling, pleading for mercy underneath disgusting phlegm-filled
sobs. Should I have pitied them? No. If not for them—if not for those greedy, undermining power
gluttons—I would have never been in that forsaken bank. If not for them, I would be depositing
funds rather than withdrawing with force.
“Sit down,” I commanded the clients. They scurried around like moles above ground. I
fell into recollection.
My day started like any other: boring, routine, and uninviting. Of course, if my day had remained
mediocre, I would have nothing to say right now, nothing to do. There’s a fair chance I would’ve
contemplated suicide, but due to my daughter, I would have never tried. Nevertheless, my day
twisted for the worst. Daylight became demonic.

Young, blonde, and beautiful, my daughter ambled into my room, tears in her eyes. Her
grandmother, who had just brought her back from the doctor, slipped me a medical report. As I
read the document, my daughter—her body soaked with nervous perspiration—rushed into my
arms, embracing me. Conclusion: my daughter’s kidneys were failing and they said it might’ve
been my fault. $54,875 could save her. I had a mere $11,000 in my savings; next to nothing in
my checking account. That day I met the ass-end of life, or as some say, someone took a dump
on my life.
Black gloves, a black ski mask, and a pistol. Wal-Mart, Kohl’s, Don’s Guns. I kept my purchases
separate to avoid suspicion. The sad part was that I had no idea how to fire a gun. It didn’t
matter. There was no other way to obtain almost $55,000—to save my daughter’s life. Her name
was Emily and her life was my own. She was my soul. She was like the light at the end of the
tunnel. Emily was like the blood that ran through my veins; without her, I would cease to exist.
Incognito, I stood in front of what I would have called yuppies had it been the 1980s. At the sight
of my pistol, those rich bastards were like hamsters fighting to escape a closed cage. Some of
them might have been overcharging surgeons and doctors. My blood ran hot at the notion.
If they tried to escape, I would catch them—perhaps kill them. I’d shoot the doctors four
or five times.
“How much do you want?” a teller asked, stealing my attention from the yuppies. “All of
it?”
I watched as his shaky left hand snuck underneath the counter and felt for the panic
button. “Press it and you’ll be responsible for two deaths,” I warned. The crowd behind me
moaned, those self-centered pricks. “Shut up back there!”
The teller was shaking. I replied, “$54,875.”
He looked at me like I was the insane one. No, all those medical people were the crazies.
Pricing life like they owned it. God, I wanted to kill ever last one of them, but if I did, I would’ve
had the same problem, though without a solution. “That’s all I want,” I said. “Make it $55,000
even. That’s easier. Don’t make me hurt anyone.”
Once the teller handed me a bag with all the cash, I fired a few rounds into the ceiling
and departed.
Four months flew by, during which I paid off Emily’s life.
Now, a little girl sits with her grandmother, talking to me through a private phone on the
other side of a bullet-proof pane. I want to hold her.
Tears streaming down her face, Emily says, “I love you.” She knows Daddy was bad, but
can appreciate his motive.
“They can have the money back,” I whisper to her, assuming that she understands. The
surgery had already been performed on the both of us.

FROM Blood Moon Rising
Normality
With the blade already slicing through the skin of her throat, all he could whisper was, “I love
you.”
Clumsily falling to the ground like a tossed ragdoll, Garret’s mother fell, her arms pointed
straight at her son as if she was reaching out to him. Abrupt and anticlimactic, Garret’s mother
joined her husband.
Walks in the park, eating with silverware rather than flimsy, inefficient plastic cuttery
were just two of the many things Garret longed for. He was ravenous for normality. Rehabilitated
by the Long Brooke Asylum, Garret started making goals for himself like anyone else. Like
anyone else. Like anyone else, damn it!
Only one more obstacle divided desire from reality. Underneath her long blonde hair,
disguised by her extraordinarily blue eyes and tremendously immaculate complexion, was a true
heathen controlled by the same forces that declared Garret as subhuman; that he wasn’t like
anyone else. Like anyone else.
His sister Morgan was a soul blessed by the very hands of God, but learned through
books written by Lucifer. Despite her willingness to help others, she only wanted to destroy
Garret. To put him in Hell again. Garret had never met the devil, so it was better off that
someone who knew the monster would live in his eternal realm.
Tears burning down her cheeks, Morgan couldn’t control herself. Hovering over her
parents as if she was performing a method of reincarnation, Morgan was awe-struck and
paralyzed by rotten emotion.
“Morgan,” Garret said, his tone smooth and unvaried, “please don’t make this difficult.”
Morgan didn’t say a word. Slowly, she staggered backward.
Garret mocked her movements, only forward. “You need to help me.”
“Get away,” Morgan warned in a pathetic whisper. “Please, you’re fine.” Morgan started
widening her stride. She was walking.
Garret parroted her movements. Stalked her.
“Oh God, please,” Morgan begged. “I’m not like them. I don’t think you should’ve been
sent away.”
“Oh yes I should have,” Garret said through clenched teeth. He teased her with the blade.
She ran.
Garret went through the front door.
Out of the back door. A tree, a bush, a raccoon. Some dew, some birds, some stars. Morgan’s
chest burned as she ran, but not because she was physically out of shape.
A gnome, a different tree, a raccoon sprinting away. Some dew, some birds, some stars. Garret
searched for his sister, his knife always ready.
A different tree, raccoon tracks in mud, a gnome. Some dew, some birds . . . no stars.
Garret stood above his sister, leaning over as if taking a better look at her in the darkness of the
night. Morgan turned around from facing the ground. She took a deep look in his eyes. Outside of
a sudden blankness that lied in the forefront, she could see a soul searching for its way out.
Garret smiled as he helped Morgan to her feet. Falling from her throat, through her body, and
out of her feet, the tension that had built inside of Morgan dissipated. Only the lingering notion
that she did not understand Garret tarnished her composure.
“I love you,” Garret muttered as he whipped Morgan around so that her back lay against
his chest. He pressed the knife against her throat.
“Why?” Morgan fought to ask. Her tears reflected the stars.
“Because I want you be like you.” The knife neared. Garret petted Morgan’s hair as she
imagined him etching his initials in her throat.
Garret shoved Morgan straight up, holding her arms crossed behind her back. The knife
flirted with her throat. A single stream of blood cascaded down her neck.
“Please, please, please” Morgan pleaded. “You don’t need to be like me.”
He was ready to achieve his goal.
“Fine,” Morgan said while trying to calm down. “But you won’t feel any better. You’re
human too. You’ll feel guilt. Pain. Regret.”

Suddenly, Morgan felt free. Her feet touched the ground and the knife was no longer
against her neck.
As he walked away from Morgan, wondering if she’d ever forgive him, Garret whispered,
“I love you.”
Owls hooting in the night, stars illuminating the yard, trees rustling in the wind, dew
chilling his ankles, and a harvest moon directing his path: Garret noticed these things, which
meant he was outside. Alive and free. Like anyone else.

FROM FULL OF CROW
Lovely Weather in Long Brooke
From the minute I stepped into my office building, I knew something changed. Or maybe changed
wasn’t the best way to describe what happened.
It should’ve started like any other day at the office: filing papers, calling customers,
meeting with bosses who didn’t even know my name—nothing that could’ve ever interested me.
Work was money; that’s all. Having that lackluster notion in mind, I strolled along the sidewalk of
Long Brooke’s downtown strip on my way to work.
Long Brooke was a decent sized metropolis at the heart of Chase County. In a way, it
represented the twenty-first century in comparison to its neighbors that remained a couple
hundred years behind. Tall glass edifices testing time and proving the progress of mankind all at
once. Small coffee shop between expensive jewelers and tailors. It wasn’t a town for American
Eagles, Starbucks, or Wal-Marts. I enjoyed ambling throughout town just because of the blend of
big enterprise, mom-and-pop business, and everything in-between.
And like most work days, my walk took longer than usual and I found myself a few
minutes late before I decided to even head toward work.
I wished I would’ve taken even longer.
I raced to work, making it there sooner than I realized. Rushing up an enormous
staircase, turning the corner, and jogging down the hall, I made it to my office just ten minutes
late, which was quite impressive compared to my track record. Lungs on fire, legs throbbing, I
slipped in front of my office door and pulled the keys out of my pocket. To my surprise, when I
stuck the keys in the lock, the door swung open and strange fragrance of vanilla and coffee
poured out, like a gallon of milk tipped too quickly.
Then: “Who the hell are you?” a man sitting behind my expensive oak desk asked.
Who the hell was I? Who the hell was he? “What are you doing here?” I asked the
stranger, a hint of dangling fear in my voice. “Can I help you?”
“I think you’ve got this all backwards, son.” He showed off his squared, well-aligned
teeth. They screamed money. “You must have the wrong office. I’m very busy and I have no
appointments today.”
“What are you talking about? You’re in my office.” I hurried to the desk and flipped
around a gold picture frame. “See, this is my family and me . . .”
My family and him. The same frame. The same smiles. The same poses. But I wasn’t in
the picture; this asshole was. “What have you done to my picture?”
“Your picture?” he asked. His smile faded, and soon his eyes narrowed, sharp like
machetes. “Son, you better get out of my office. I don’t want to call security.”
Swiping the picture, I turned from the desk and chucked it at the far wall. No sound came
from the collision, although I could clearly see the glass shatter. I stepped over to the wrecked
frame picked it up. The photo remained intact, even the stranger’s face. On the ground, I found a
small cut out of my face covered by the glass. I tossed the frame on top of it.
“What have you done?” the man asked. He pressed the intercom on the desk and at once,
security scurried to the glass office doors.
Their stomping resonated across the office, like a stampede through a vast, empty plain.
My head pulsated at the clutter.
“Men,” I said, “take this man—”

--A bull of a guard charged at me, his shoulder crashing into my rips like an SUV into a
moped. Felt like a knife to my lungs. I’m pretty sure I tried to scream, but only warm chunks of
air ricocheted between the walls of my throat.
The guards all came at me, grabbing my limbs, dragging me along.
Down the stairs, letting the back of my feet slam against the hardwood steps. Out into the
street. My forehead into the pavement.
I stumbled to my feet, ready to curse at the guards and make impossible threats. But a
quick honking scared me straight up. A truck. I knew then what “like a deer in the headlights”
really meant.
Racing wheels unable to stop.
My sore legs unable to move.
The truck screeched, but the space wasn’t enough for braking. Metal near my side.
I stepped over and tripped on a drain below the sidewalk. Trying to regain my balance, I
teetered before falling onto a small produce stand. Tomatoes, cantaloupes, apples, and various
produce scattered across the sidewalk. The merchant, a small ratty man, tired to collect his
product and demanded my assistance. But I remained focused on the truck as it zoomed by, the
driver hollering some gibberish at me, waving his fist out of the window.
For hours, I strolled around the center of Long Brooke, searching for that one thing that would
take my mind off of what happened in my office. Whatever did happen in my office? No matter
how much I thought about it, nothing made sense. And it seemed particularly off for such a
beautiful day. A sky like a blue geode. Sun bright and yellow like fresh daisies.
I didn’t care much to compare the weather to work, however. For the most part, I
meandered around the city wondering what the hell I would say to my wife and boy. “Sorry,
honey, but someone stole my job, literally, and a bunch of guards kicked my ass. Oh, and I
almost got hit by an oversized truck.” Oh yeah, that would work.
Nonetheless, I made my way home by late afternoon.
I gazed at my house, fond of its clean brick foundation and alpine white color. Three cars
sat in the driveway: my Chevy Cobalt and my wife’s blue Toyota Prius. Wait a minute, three
cars?
I scrambled up the driveway, onto the stone path, and onto my porch. My hand raced for
the door knocker and pounded the brass handle until the door opened on its own. Just like the
office. I stepped inside the home.
The sweet smell of something in the oven—teriyaki chicken? The sound of my son
playing with Hot Wheels in the upstairs bedroom. I tossed my coat on the staircase railing and
continued my way into the kitchen.
I glanced at all the photographs as I passed by. After the office incident, I looked forward
to seeing my own face.
But none of the family portraits seemed familiar. They’d been replaced by individual
pictures, which seemed all right to me. One of my son. One of my beautiful should’ve-been-a-
model wife. Yet, I couldn’t find a picture of me, which seemed to make sense, because I never
had a picture taken of just me.
More relieving was the lack of a picture of the man from the office. It seemed silly of me
to think that he would take over my home life, too. I moved on.
“Hey, babe,” I greeted my wife as I stepped into the kitchen.
Instead of responding with her usual, “Hey, handsome. How was work?”, she remained
still with a puzzled on her face and a steak knife at her side.
“Whatcha cooking?” I asked, although the smell ruined the surprise.
“What are you doing in my house?” she asked, her tone sincere and shaky.
“You won’t believe what happened at work today—What?”
“Please, just get out.”
“Honey—”
“—Just get out. Don’t make me call my husband.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Get out, get out, get out!” She charged at me with the puny knife in hand, shoving it up
my chest.
Blood trickled down my chest, soaking my sky blue dress shirt red. Only a superficial
wound, though.
“What’s going on, Mommy?” a tiny voice said from behind me.
I twisted around and spotted my son entering the kitchen, toy car still in hand.
“Go to your room,” my wife warned.
“Who’s this man?” he asked.
A plastic explosive went off under my ribcage. Fighting the sting of the laceration, I
leaned down on one knee and said to him, “Daniel, you know who I am. Please, just say my
name.”
“Go to your room,” my wife repeated.
Daniel cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes, as though he began searching
the catacombs of his young memory. “But I don’t know your name,” he said.
No. “Please don’t say that, Danny. C’mon, I’m your daddy. I’m your father.”
“My daddy’s at work,” he said.
My wife stepped between us and scooted Daniel towards the staircase, saying, “Go on.
Go upstairs and play with you toys. This man shouldn’t be here.”
I wanted to rip my own eyes out. What the hell was happening?
“You,” my wife said, turning around to look me in the eye. “I don’t know who you are, or
what kind of sick shit you’re trying to pull here, but get the hell out of my house. Our
neighbor’s—”
“—Captain Brown of the Long Brooke Police Department. I know,” I said, holding my
chest again.
Her eyes grew wide and her arm hoisted the flimsy steak knife above her waist, pointing
at me. “Get the hell out of here, you sick pervert! Get the hell out!”
I didn’t know what else to do, so I ran for the front porch, swiping the pictures off the
wall as I passed by.
“Don’t you dare!” my wife screamed at me.
Too late. I already made it outside.
She followed. “Randy!” she screamed, popping her head out of the door. Randy Brown,
the cop.
As if he’d been waiting for this moment the entire day, Captain Brown sprinted out of his
doorway, across the small yard separating out houses. He was well into his late forties with a
belly that giggled as he ran, but he dashed to my house quicker than I could have myself.
“What’s the problem here?” he asked without showing any sign of being winded.
“Randy,” I said, “something’s wrong and I—”
“—I’m not asking you,” he interrupted. He pointed at my wife. “I’m asking her.”
“I dunno,” she spat out. “He came into the house swearing I knew him and that he was
my son’s father. He stole the pictures!” The steak knife pin-pointed the photos in my right hand.
I couldn’t let the portraits slip from my fingers, despite Captain Brown starting them
down.
He stepped forward and reached for my arms. I swung back.

He hopped over the small staircase and removed his nightstick and began swinging
wildly.
A hit to the chest. One to the shoulder. Two to the neck. It became impossible to dodge
them. The next blow—one to the back of the head—acquainted my face with the porch. I
struggled back to my feet, and through my dizzy haze, spotted a glock materialize in Brown’s
hand. I couldn’t remember seeing him pull it out of the holster, which was very likely due to my
newfound blurred vision.
Something cold rushed over me, like a winter wind. Slumping my head down, I spotted a
well of blood instead of a small part of my abdomen. All strength left me.
I plummeted onto the wood, the pictures escaping from my grasp. Bone-chilling
handcuffs locked my arms behind my back.
“Get up!” Brown demanded while he tried to yank me up by my locked wrists.
Was he kidding? However, with a little effort on my part and more on his, I made it to my
feet. I wobbled as he pushed me forward. At any point I could’ve fallen down, but that wasn’t my
main concern. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know what I was concerned about at all. You can’t
discover the answer before knowing question, right?
“Randy,” I said, the words ripping like thin paper, “you know me. Damn it. Just say my
name.”
“I’m gonna find out who the hell you are, that’s for sure,” he replied. He jabbed my back
with the handgun.
I tried to turn around, but Brown wouldn’t let me, so I settled for turning my head to the
side. My mind seemed to be combusting inside out as I was taken away.
Daniel stepped out of the door and grabbed my wife’s hands. I shaped his name with my
lips, but he didn’t so much as utter mine.
“Who was the man?” I heard him ask her.

She just shook her head and replied, “Just someone who couldn’t take the pressure.”
Once we reached Brown’s Dodge Charger, I could no longer hear their voices. I just
observed the weather. It was truly a lovely day. A cool breeze. A mild temperature. Perfect little
sky, the kind that wipes depression away. It was just one of those days you could really lose
yourself in, I figured as Brown slammed the backdoor closed.

From Excluded.
(© C.M. Humphries 2010-2011.)
Prologue
Decades Ago
Raven’s Crook, Chase County
Shimmers in the darkness, crystalline beads of rain cascaded down young Liddell
Douglas’ black jacket towards a murky, maroon puddle. He grunted as he fought to
remove his father’s collector’s knife out of another boy’s chest. Douglas watched the
boy’s eyes roll backwards into their permanent position. One last expression crossed
the boy’s face, one of surprise and confusion.
I’ve done no wrong, Liddell thought. Simply justice.
The boy symbolized oppression and needed to be shown his place. Liddell
couldn’t take it anymore; the push, the shove, the theft. The boy never left him alone.
Liddell possessed a small stature, yet the boy picked on him for different reasons. The
hatred all derived from a single thread of disgust for the name Douglas. It all came
down to a last name. In Chase County, the name Douglas represented two things: power
and fear. The boy felt the need to prove himself every day at school in front of the
other kids. “But now look at you,” Liddell said to the lifeless body.
Along the edge of the knife blood shaped a liquid spider, dripping, spreading. A
new sense pride warmed Liddel’s body.
Douglas ripped the sleeve off of the boy’s shirt. Cloth in hand, he wiped the
blood off of the knife. He enjoyed the majestic imagery of the blade cleaned by way of
cloth and rain.
He looked towards the sky. In the near distance, sunlight broke through the dark
cloud cover. He smiled.
Liddell took one last glance at the boy before he placed the knife in his jacket pocket.
He sighed and then headed for home

www.cmhumphries.com

ONLINE STORIES Collection, Part One by C.M. Humphries

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

ONLINE STORIES Collection, Part One by C.M. Humphries

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

ONLINE STORIES Collection,

Under the Blade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Lovely Weather in Long Brooke . . . 14

FROM DOWN IN THE DIRT

bottle, the ones they sell in tourist shops.”

“Craig! Oh my god, Craig! No!”

to perform while waiting for help.

could taste blood.

hanging around a boy her same age.

to death by the sight of her driving a car.

the rocky cliffs down the shoreline.

passerby? It went without saying.

clutching his chest.

FROM UNER THE DIRT

Under the Blade

funds rather than withdrawing with force.

fell into recollection.

twisted for the worst. Daylight became demonic.

moaned, those self-centered pricks. “Shut up back there!”

The teller was shaking. I replied, “$54,875.”

even. That’s easier. Don’t make me hurt anyone.”

other side of a bullet-proof pane. I want to hold her.

can appreciate his motive.

surgery had already been performed on the both of us.

FROM Blood Moon Rising

joined her husband.

anyone else. Like anyone else, damn it!

anyone else. Like anyone else.

paralyzed by rotten emotion.

Morgan didn’t say a word. Slowly, she staggered backward.

widening her stride. She was walking.

Garret parroted her movements. Stalked her.

Garret went through the front door.

searched for his sister, his knife always ready.

that she did not understand Garret tarnished her composure.

his chest. He pressed the knife against her throat.

“Why?” Morgan fought to ask. Her tears reflected the stars.

imagined him etching his initials in her throat.

He was ready to achieve his goal.

human too. You’ll feel guilt. Pain. Regret.”

against her neck.

meant he was outside. Alive and free. Like anyone else.

FROM FULL OF CROW

Lovely Weather in Long Brooke

wasn’t the best way to describe what happened.

Long Brooke’s downtown strip on my way to work.

big enterprise, mom-and-pop business, and everything in-between.

minutes late before I decided to even head toward work.

I wished I would’ve taken even longer.

I raced to work, making it there sooner than I realized. Rushing up an enormous

poured out, like a gallon of milk tipped too quickly.

stranger, a hint of dangling fear in my voice. “Can I help you?”

around a gold picture frame. “See, this is my family and me . . .”

security scurried to the glass office doors.

My head pulsated at the clutter.

“Men,” I said, “take this man—”

air ricocheted between the walls of my throat.

The guards all came at me, grabbing my limbs, dragging me along.

street. My forehead into the pavement.

Racing wheels unable to stop.

My sore legs unable to move.

almost got hit by an oversized truck.” Oh yeah, that would work.

Nonetheless, I made my way home by late afternoon.