The Works of Nick Hayden

geralt / Pixabay

You feel it too, don’t you, that uneasiness when you wake in the middle of the night, that exhaustion when you open your eyes in the morning and think, “Not again”? You keep moving, keep checking your phone, keep on keeping on, because if you pause, if you hesitate, if you let yourself drift for more than a few moments, you come across that great, silent expanse that surrounds us all. Time. And it’s changing, it’s ebbing and flowing, there are currents and undercurrents and great shifts in the deeps.

You know something is wrong. A fish doesn’t know it’s wet, but we know that Time is there, enveloping us, flowing past and eroding us. It isn’t natural. It shouldn’t be.

We have disrupted Time.

I cannot prove it. No one can, because those who did it can become invisible, can change everything and anything to their liking. But think. If time travel exists–it doesn’t matter when it’s created or how, simply that somewhere, in some timeline, it was–then everything has been altered. It’s an undeniable syllogism:

Mankind creates.

Mankind is corrupt.

Therefore, mankind corrupts what it creates.

Time has been rewritten, is being rewritten, will continue to be rewritten forever. And we sense it. What is deja vu, what is the Mandela Effect, what are psychics and ghosts and myths but the mind grasping at shadows of what used to be but is no longer?

Perhaps there is a battle raging behind the scenes, forces of good and forces of evil directing the rudder of events to set our path. Perhaps some lone inventor, mad with power, pulls the levers of history to see what happens. Perhaps time travel is discovered again and again, first in this century, then in the next, and these exceptional explorers stumble across the works of each other with surprise and irritation. And we can never know that history has shifted, that Kennedy lived, that Rome ruled for millennia, that we nuked ourselves to oblivion. Because when someone goes back and fixes it (or break it–is there a right path or just a spaghetti of events?) we slip effortlessly into the new reality, like putting on a new set of clothes.

Don’t call me crazy. Don’t lump me in with flat-earthers and Bigfoot hunters. Explain to me our obsession, show me I’m wrong. Why do we count every second? Why do go mad when we turn 40? How is it possible we waste time? You will tell me it’s because time is limited, that it’s a non-renewable resource, but it’s more than that. It goes fast, it goes slow, it goes both at the same time, it creeps up on us, it passes without notice, it makes us hurt. There is friction between us and Time. We have changed our skin so often we have begun to feel it as something other than ourselves.

I shouldn’t say anything. It changes nothing. What do we do against our temporal masters? We can’t begin to know their motivations. I should keep my revelation to myself. But then I began to wonder–how did I come upon this revelation? Is it a remnant of something I once knew? Did I meet one of these travelers, before the past, my present, was changed? Was I one of them?

But this is all meaningless. Whoever is out there stepping all over past, present, and future has no hope. You can stack the events in whatever way you want, but it will not matter because what I said before is true. Man is corrupt. No amount of tinkering will fix that. And so we (one of us, many?) race back and forth across time trying to make all things new while we just wear thin the fabric in which we all live.

The arc of history does not bend toward justice, but toward ourselves.

andreas160578 / Pixabay

Paul pulled up to the window and opened his wallet. The cashier leaned out. “Sir, the car in front of you paid for you.”

He gripped the cash in his hand. “We had $30 worth of food.”

The cashier smiled. “They said, pay it forward. Here are your drinks.”

Paul took his order absently. The car that had been in front of him was turning, a white Toyota. He tried to catch the license plate number but couldn’t. It looked like a young man driving.

“That’s everything, sir,” the cashier said. “You want any extra sauces?”

Paul rolled up the window and sped forward, the kids screaming in the back that they wanted their food. “Just a second,” he snapped. The main road was a solid stream of cars. He couldn’t get out. He’d lost the Toyota.

He returned to McDonald’s the next morning.

“How can I help you?” the young man asked, obviously not interested in the answer.

“Who was working the drive-thru last night between six and seven?”

“Um…I don’t know. I only work weekend mornings.”

“Can you find out for me?”

The young man stared at him, and Paul met his stare. “I’ll go ask,” he finally said.

Paul couldn’t get a phone number from the manager, but he got a name, Maggie Slotter, and an assurance that she was scheduled for tomorrow evening.

Paul’s wife did not understand his obsession. “What’s the big deal? Some stranger was nice. Be grateful and move on.”

“I can’t move on. Not yet.”

“What are you going to do, pay him back?”

Paul scoffed. “I don’t want to insult him.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Next evening, he returned again to McDonald’s and managed to get a few minutes conversation with Maggie despite the busy hour. She was exceptionally good at multitasking. She took and filled orders, prepared a half dozen fries and four drinks, and made change while he questioned her.

“He comes most days,” she said. “Usually after the evening rush and gets a Diet Coke and an apple pie. That’s $2.13, if you want to pay for him.”

“I don’t.” He walked to his car and pulled it to the other side of the building to watch the drive-thru line. The white Toyota did not appear. Paul decided he would return tomorrow.

The next evening he waited again, on edge. The kindness had been unexpected. It had been inflicted on him without warning, and Paul had borne the weight of it for three days. To return payment was a sign of weakness, a sign that one could not bear the gift, but to do nothing was to admit one was weak as well. The situation enraged Paul. “How dare he,” he thought bitterly. “Without warning!”

Finally, the Toyota appeared. Paul observed closely to ensure this was the man. The profile was the same. As the Toyota pulled up to the last window, Paul got out of his car and tapped on the passenger side glass. The young man, just a teenager, turned, startled. Paul motioned for him to roll down the window.

“What is it?” the boy asked.

“Did you pay for a person’s meal three days ago?”

“Was that Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. I do it sometimes.”

“I would like to thank you.”

“Um…you’re welcome.”

“It was very generous of you to give your money freely to a stranger like that.”

The boy, nervous or embarrassed, kept looking away. “Someone did it for me once. I thought it was neat. I like doing it.”

Paul nodded understandingly. “Well, the pleasure is all mine. I am quite grateful for what you did. I wanted you to know that. Good night.”

Paul walked away, got in his car, and drove away, satisfied. Now, they were even.

RJPP / Pixabay

Her father sat enveloped in the La-Z-Boy recliner, staring sadly at the blank TV. Sometimes Sarah could forget how old he was, but it struck her all at once now. She saw him clearly for a moment–sunken cheeks, wisping hair, worn, perpetually smudge clothes, an old man who could hardly remember how to live–and not through the veil of her memories and love.

“Dad, it’s about time to go.”

He roused himself from his thoughts and looked at her. “I’m not leaving.”

“Dad, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here any–”

“Yes, yes,” he said sharply. “Fine. But the rocks come.”

“We can take some of–”

“All of them.”

The house was filled with jars of rocks. For as long as she could remember, her dad collected rocks. She used to play with them as a child, and he would hand her one then another so she could feel them, squeeze them in her little fists, and line them up for her dolls to inspect. But as she grew older, she realized that the rocks were unimpressive. Most were just pebbles, gravel, or even shards of blacktop or cement. But he kept picking them up, not only on vacations and outings, but in the strangest places, like in the school parking lot and the landscaping outside the dentist office. As a teenager, her friends had asked about the jars when they came over. Embarrassed, she asked her dad why he kept all those stupid rocks.

“They’re important to me,” he said. “Like your stuffed animals.”

“I’m not a kid, Dad.”

“Your clothes then. Everyone collects something.”

“But they’re not even cool. Collect geodes or gems, something colorful.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll explain it later.”

He never really had. She hadn’t really asked, either. She’d learned that people had all sorts of idiosyncrasies. Her dad’s was a sort of obsession with picking up bits of rock, like other people kept giant containers of pennies or spent hours gathering coupons for grocery shopping.

But it was more than an affable personality tic now. There were probably a literal ton of rock secreted here and there in the house that had once sheltered a family of six and which he now dwelt in alone. It could not all go to the assisted living apartment. And she told him so.

“I’m not leaving them,” he said.

“Dad, be reasonable.”

“I’m old enough I don’t have to be reasonable.”

“This is ridiculous. Even if I could take them, there would be no room.”

Her dad stared at her with those eyes that had so frightened her when she had done something wrong. “Hand me that jar, the one on the TV.”

It was a canning jar, and he twisted off the lid as he took it. He picked out a small, jagged pebble, feeling it. “I picked this one up while walking in the park. I saw a cardinal, and I remembered how I dreamed of flying when I was young.” He set it on the table and retrieved another, a round brown stone. “This one came from the porch. I was sitting there and suddenly realized I was no longer afraid of death.” He set that one down too and chose another. “This one came on a winter thaw when I first sensed the coming spring.” He held the jar in his lap. “I have ones for when each of you first learned to ride a bike and when you got married and when your Mom died. They’re mixed in with the rest. But there are so many other moments, times of insight and clarity and the gentle turning of real life. And so I marked them. Thousands of moments anchored forever in a little chunk of earth. I know it’s ridiculous, but I look at them, and without even thinking of each, I am surrounded by a mountain of experiences. I will not leave them.”

She looked around, understanding what he said and a little overwhelmed. “But, Dad, they’re still rocks.”

“Nothing’s just what it is, Sarah, not once someone’s touched it. Go to a garage sale. Aren’t there memories there? It’s a veritable family history. Walk in an old house, in an abandoned building, in a ruins. We pick up stones shaped by cavemen and put them in museums. What we touch remains alive forever.”

She realized her father was near tears. She was not sure she had seen him cry before. “Dad, it isn’t possible.”

“It’s everything I have,” he said. “I’m afraid of losing it.”

She knelt beside his chair and put her hands around the jar he held. “Take this one. I’ll put the others in storage, and I’ll exchange them whenever I visit.”

“You better,” he said gruffly.

“I will, Dad.” She closed her eyes, pierced by an emotion, and opened them again. “And I want you to tell me what they are. Okay?”

He eyed her warily. “It’s hard. They’ve been mine for so long.”

“Please?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

As she left the house she stopped. She bent down and picked up a small rock. It was to remind her of the moment when she realized that someday she would no longer have a father.

geralt / Pixabay

I knew it was her because she had just Instagrammed me a selfie of herself at the table next to mine. I stood and took my seat across from her. Her mask was anime-inspired, with large eyes and a cute expression. Her clothes were tight-fitting and revealing.

My mask was much less impressive. I preferred the abstract. It implied less and projected more.

“Ordered yet?” I asked.

“No.”

I held up my coffee. “It’s good stuff. Go ahead and get some.”

This sort of blunt chit-chat had always served me well on dates. It told the woman I wasn’t needy, that this was just two people getting together. Nothing serious.

She went to the counter to order and I looked around. About half the crowd was masked, but that was to be expected. This was a prime hook-up location, semi-public, with access to food, but nothing heavy. It had atmosphere, too, with the old wood floors and the techno-attic-grunge decor.

When she returned, I read “Rei” scrawled on the cup. That’s what she told me her first name was, so either she was keeping up the act or it really was. It didn’t matter, not really, but I liked to know if my date was playing straight with me.

“You do this often?” she asked, sipping her iced coffee through a straw.

“Sure. I like to get to know people.”

She laughed nervously. “My grandma says we’re all idiots.”

“That was before the Internet. Things were different then.”

“I like your music. I listened to a lot of it yesterday.”

She was fishing to see if I had watched her YouTube videos. I had, of course, even before Snapping her. She played the violin and other instruments in covers of popular anime soundtracks. She was cute, with a wide-eyed innocence almost as exaggerated as her mask. Those who didn’t understand, those like her grandma, wouldn’t understand why she wore a mask now when tens of thousands had viewed her videos.

“Which song was your favorite?” I asked.

“Fallout Freakout. It was really catchy.”

I didn’t know if I believed her. Fallout Freakout had the most plays, so she might just remember the name because it was the only one she listened to. But it didn’t matter. Not really.

Eventually, we talked started talking about anime. She became very expressive as she spoke, and I enjoyed that. It made me wish she didn’t have the mask. But it was better not to see, not to connect in that way. We liked many of the same series, and it reminded me that while discussing cool moments in comments and memes and response videos was preferable, there was something visceral about sharing and disagreeing in the moment, face to face.

The conversation wound to one of those lulls that always beset real dialogue. My coffee was gone and I was about to ask if she was ready to go to my place when she said:

“I’ll tell you my last name if you want.”

It was not something you offered, not if you cared about your privacy. “I don’t want to know.”

“I bet you do,” she teased. “Stalk me on social media. Maybe even do some research. Find a baby picture.”

“No. This isn’t a joke. Don’t ever tell anyone your last name.”

“Come on. It’s not that important.”

I was unnerved by her. With a last name, you could find out everything about a person. Everything. Face recognition software helped with that if masks weren’t involved. Didn’t she care about her privacy? “You are Rei, the anime cover girl. I am Jordan, EDM musician. Here, right now, that is who we are. We are our Internet selves. I don’t want to know who you really are. That’s not what this is about. Real people get hurt. Real people have expectations. This is just Rei and Jordan, perfect, happy, talented artists. Now, do you want to come to my place or not?”

She looked at me, her too-large fake eyes staring at me, asking nothing, just portraying kawaii cuteness. Then her voice emerged.

“My name is Ashley Trumbull.”

I stood. “You broke the rules. This isn’t how this works.”

She lifted off her mask. Beneath was the same face I’d seen on the videos, but closer, more regular, not staged or made-up or projecting a calculated emotion. Just an ugly sort of sadness and anger and defiance mixed into one. I couldn’t look away.

“Your turn,” she said. When I didn’t move, she said, “It’s your turn to take off the mask.”

I walked away and didn’t remove my mask until I was in my bedroom, sitting in front of the computer and writing nasty comments on her latest video.

insspirito / Pixabay

I am Avani. I was born of the sun’s flame and a child’s innocence, of the dew upon the flower and the first fall of snow. My hand has guided the rivers and the seas, tilled the soil and smelted ores. I am the mother of a noble race, the Queen of a people proud and fair, the founder of a nation expanding its dominion into unknown lands.

He is nameless, the shadow of creation’s first light, a darkness and void upon the horizon, a twisting, contorting mass hanging in space, hungry, implacable, and cold. He came from outer reaches, seeking life. His presence blotted out the stars as he descended slowly, slowly, to engulf us.

I approached him. Upon the tallest mountain I met him, my slender fingers reaching through the swirling winds upon the peak to touch the oily membrane of his being. Up he drew me, thin tendrils wrapping around my wrist, my arm, until I was enveloped.

Within were narrow corridors that shifted as I walked, coiling about each other and writhing with slow, sinuous motion. No light except my own pierced the black fog. The corridors opened into caverns, empty expanses devoid of sound and movement, where my feet made no noise and my voice shriveled into silence.

Caverns led finally to the well from which deep tremors emanated, the breathing of the great beast, and into which all light and matter made its way.

I descended into this pit. There he waited, the true form of this monster. He was a gray, shriveled creature. He had no eyes and upon his long limbs were claws and his mouth was always open.

I stood before him, and he gazed at me with his mouth. We did not speak, but I understood. He would not be appeased. My world would be his. He had sought it, claimed it, hungered for it. What was green must fade; what flowed must be dried up; what was sung must be silenced.

But I am of the stars and of the earth, of the seed and the storm. In me is beauty and life. And so I began to give of myself in that dance that embodied all that I am.

He devoured the motions; he gnawed upon the grace; he sucked the marrow from the rhythm and licked the hesitations with relish. Below, among my people, time passed. As I poured out my being, the harvest came and was gathered in, the snows fell and melted, the rivers swelled and the grass grew green. I circled around the deep well, which led to the open maw, a silent song in the dark, and below, among my people, there arose a lamentation. The words rose up, a song of loss, and it spoke my name. It was my memorial, the remembrance of Queen Avani who ascended the mountains and entered the void. I heard them sing and I joined my dance to their words. And time passed into the open mouth and below, my people, my children, grew and the cities grew and the borders marched forward until one touched the next and all was peace. Generations passed without me, births and celebrations and new years, and beneath it all was the punctuated sorrow, the annual remembrance of the Queen who entered the Darkness that brooded over the world like a bird hovering over its nest. The dirge beneath the prosperity of my people became the melody of my dance, and its beauty renewed what had been consumed. And below, among my people, rockets were built and launched and the green wake of our expansion continued into the space between stars and upon planets wild and wonderful. And from everywhere, from every corner, came again and again the deep, lonely words to me, the lamentation sung across space and filling it with tears.

And I remain alone in the belly of the first and final evil, seducing the insatiable until light goes out or Death dies, the song of sorrow throughout Creation straining forward toward that final chord that will bring all sorrow to its end.

StockSnap / Pixabay

The woman knew her husband was in a mood by the way he avoided her. It hadn’t been like that in the beginning. He had never prowled around in that sullen silence either. No, he had been effusively talkative, grabbing her hand and showing her a snail upon the melon leaves or flinging himself onto the grass to gaze upon the blue sky, his hand in hers. She hadn’t known how wild and free and daring he had been in those days, not until he changed.

She conceded she had changed as well.

Dinner was sparse–that was his fault; he hadn’t found anything better–and he chewed the tough roots with such an air of disgust, she forgot she had planned to stay silent and not play into his self-pity.

“Stop making faces. You think I like this?” she demanded. “I hate it.”

He looked defiantly at her. “And me?”

“Maybe I hate you too.”

“You should. I hate you enough most days.”

The words hurt. She was not used to such pain, and she wanted to lash out, to inflict pain in kind. She took a long breath, trying to calm herself. “So what happened, dear Husband, to put you in such a foul mood?”

He looked away. “I need a reason? Isn’t this enough?” He motioned to the tent behind them, to the fire and the hard ground where they sat. “This whole cursed world!” He stood and paced and let out a sudden sort of roar.

“Something did happen,” he said, sitting down again but shaking now with bottled energy. “I might as well tell you. Remind you. I went there today.”

“You said you were–”

“I lied. I meant to. But I went there. I had to see him again.”

The woman shook her head. “What’s the point?”

“He stood there, tall, much taller than you or me. I noticed that more this time, how large he is. How much more powerful. And he has that sword. It blazes, an edge of fire ready to consume us. I watched him, hidden, to see what he did. He did nothing but stand there, waiting. What is he waiting for? For us attack him? He would strike us down with a single blow. And so I stood and approached. I wanted to see what would happen. He watched me. His face was stern, and when I looked into those eyes, I saw how small and ugly and wretched I am. I turned and ran away.”

After a moment, he continued. “When I’m away from him, I think we can take it back, that we can reach out our hands and grab it, make things like they were before. But as soon as I look into that face….”

The woman’s initial thought was to berate her husband for his stupidity, but she knew that she felt the same, that she dreamed of going back, that she would do almost anything to reverse what had happened, and so she said nothing.

Evening came and darkness grew and they sat by their pitiful little fire, silent.

He spoke again, “This…death, everyday this dying, bit by bit. What hope have we?”

She answered. “Adam, you know.”

“When I look at His guard, I doubt He will restore us. He is so silent now.”

Eve looked at the sad form of her husband. “Do you really hate me?”

Adam looked up. “Sometimes. No, not often. Just when I hate myself.”

“Come here.”

He stood and walked slowly toward her.

“Something happened to me today,” she said. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I was going to keep it to myself.” She looked away from him, to the ground. “We’ve changed so much. We had everything, we had Him, and now all I want is mine, mine.” She looked up at her husband, saw his face illuminated in the fire light. She took his hand and pulled him down beside her. Then she placed the hand upon her round belly. “Do you feel it?”

A smile, slow and true, blossomed, an echo of his old joy. “It’s moving.”

“Father will bring us back,” she said. “He has promised us a child will bring us back. And He will forgive us.”

Adam kissed her gently on the cheek and wrapped his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder.

The darkness deepened and the fire burned and they sat in silence, listening for the voice they once heard.

U30SFTI / Pixabay

Linda pressed the door carefully closed, listening for and hearing the soft metallic click of the latch sliding into its place. The sound was a comforting one, far more satisfying than the dull pneumatic sigh of a glass door swinging back into place or the slight bang of a sliding door, not to mention the infuriating futility of a revolving door. No, the quiet little click whispered comfortingly to her. Everything done and in its place. It is finished.

It had taken long to learn such pleasures. Her parents had screamed at her–CLOSE THE DOOR! As a child just beginning to push her way through these wonderful portals–CLOSE THE DOOR! If she stepped out of her room to check on something–CLOSE THE DOOR! She’d been threatened and punished and smacked and begged with tears–CLOSE THE DOOR!

And now she did. Involuntarily, she even pulled shut doors in hallways as she walked. She eyed car doors hanging open too long in the parking lot with trepidation. Four months ago, she had visited a local college campus, thinking she might pursue further education, but ten minutes in the dorms, with doors flung back perpetually, young women like her moving in and out like worms in a rotten apple, she had decided against it.

She changed into pajamas, closing the dresser drawers firmly. Drawers did not count, there was no requirement to close them, but she did so anyway, out of a sort of affinity. She was still adjusting to her new apartment. She had moved out only a month before into this tidy little place. It had two doors, one that led outside to the loft stairs and another guarding the bedroom. This she had closed with such gentle pressure.

She read awhile in bed, a manual on minimalist living, then shut off the lamp and fell asleep.

She awoke. It was still dark. And the question that sometimes came to her, only in the dark hours of the night, confronted her once again.

What if she did not close the door?

What if she left it open just a sliver?

Heart beating fast, she rose and hurried to the door. She touched the knob lightly with her fingers. She felt along the edge to feel it flush against the frame.

What if she opened it, just a little, and left it? What was the harm?

She pressed herself against the plywood, breathing hard.

“Are you there?” she whispered.

Silence. Then, softly, so softly: “Yes.”

Her hand gripped the knob. “Do you want in?”

A tremor of the air: “Yes.” Then, another exhalation: “Finally, yes.”

She turned the knob slowly. She heard the rub of metal as the latch moved.

CLOSE THE DOOR! Her parents spoke as clearly, more clearly than the thing waiting for her.

She tentatively turned the knob further, trembling, the sensation that pulled her from bed now coursing through her. She did not know if it was fear or hope or the nauseating pleasure of rebellion.

The knob stopped. It would turn no further.

“Are you safe?” she asked.

There was no answer, no sound. She stifled her breathing to listen and heard nothing.

“Are–?” Her voice broke. “Are you there?”

There was nothing behind the door. She knew it. Deep down she knew that there had never been anything, that her parents had been cruel, abusive, that she needed the certainty of a closed door, to be trapped in a small little room. If she opened the door, she would find nothing.

She released the knob and heard the click. She pressed the surface of the door to ensure its fastness. She returned to bed and tried to sleep.

She had never opened the door. She thought she would, finally, in her own apartment. To prove to herself that nothing was there. That there had never been anything.

Because there was nothing.

Nothing behind the door.

If she opened it only a sliver, and let it be, she would see that.

Tomorrow she would leave it open.

Tomorrow.

But tonight it was closed, and she was safe.

1980supra / Pixabay

The castle, begrimed by salt and seagulls and empty years, rose from a promontory that overlooked a violent sea. A narrow isthmus connected the castle to land, worn away by waves and no wider than two, maybe three, men walking comfortably abreast. The water churned far below among jagged rocks.

A simple guardhouse of moss-covered stone stood at the head of this natural bridge. In its dark doorway stood the sentinel, an old man named Gregori. He wore baggy pants, ill-fitted chainmail, and a white skullcap that covered his bald head. His hut lay not far off, and here he stood day by day on the remote edge of a wild land.

This day came another man, cloaked and wearing a sword over his shoulder. His deep blue eyes peered out from a sun-darkened face. He came with purpose to the sentinel at the guardhouse and asked, “Is this the Castle Margoron?”

“It is,” answered the other.

“Has it remained abandoned?”

“For forty-eight years no man has entered its gates.”

“And still you stand guard?”

Gregori removed his cap to scratch his head. “You have not come this way by accident. Few do. You know what occurred in this place?”

“I’ve heard what others tell. What say you?”

“Evil. Formless, sightless, heartless evil.” He spoke low, as if another might hear. “Murder. Betrayal. Treachery. Blood stained the floor and walls, men slaughtered dear friends, parents slit their children’s throats. I was not there, or I would not stand here today. The thing that came out of the sea, that crept up from its depths, that the men and servants and livestock imbibed in their feasts and fed upon, it lingers there, brooding, cunning, patient.”

The traveler, pulling back his hood to reveal blond hair, apprised the castle across the narrow bridge. “I have come to defeat this evil. It is time Margoron is restored.”

“You cannot slay this evil with a sword.”

“I am well-prepared for the task.”

Gregori sat upon a rock at the gatehouse door, obviously placed there for that purpose. “An army cannot defeat it. The world cannot. It is not that sort of thing. It is malevolence, envy, murder, lawlessness. A sword will only give it strength.”

“If it is so omnipotent,” the traveler asked, “then why has it not engulfed the world?”

The sentinel, who had been studying his hands, raised his head. “Can you tell me it has not?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have come for this purpose. Will you stop me?”

Gregori reached into a pocket and retrieved two smooth stones. He showed them to the traveler. “What is the difference between these two stones?” he asked.

“May I hold them?”

Gregori gave them to the man, and the traveler handled them inquisitively before returning them. “Except for the ordinary difference between two rocks, I find nothing noticeable.”

The sentinel nodded. “But there is a fundamental distinction. This stone is ordinary, as any you might find on the ground. But this stone, it has killed a man.”

“How can you know that?”

“I have stood here at the edge of Margoron for many years. I know its taste, its aroma. I feel it upon this stone. An evil act changes the object. It is desecrated. If you touch what is unholy, you become unholy. Margoron emanates wickedness. You will not purge it. It will infect you, like a mold, like a rash, like a disease that eats away at your bowels.”

“You have stood here too many years with no one to speak with,” the traveler said kindly. “It has made you imagine things that are not.”

The sentinel bowed his head and said nothing.

“If this evil is as great as you claim, it must be destroyed. I was a priest before I took up the righteous blade. Now I am a paladin, one of the few in the world. As I said, I did not come unprepared.”

“No one does,” Gregori said gloomily.

“You think me so weak?”

“We are of the earth. It is from deeper earth. There is an affinity between us. It is not weakness. It is nature. It will change you, and you will only be more terrible for your supposed strength.”

“Will you stop me?” the Paladin demanded.

Gregori showed open hand, the stones held loosely in one. “I am an old man and have no sword.”

Throwing off his cloak, the Paladin revealed gleaming armor. He strode onto the bridge, sword drawn, and continued forward boldly. Gregori stood to watch him. His hand reached into a pocket. He retrieved a sling. He placed one of the stones in it, whirled it quickly about his head, and released. The stone struck the Paladin in the back of  the head. He stumbled, fell over the edge, and plummeted.

The sentinel returned the sling to his pocket and turned to watch for the next traveler, tears in his eyes and upon his cheeks.

congerdesign / Pixabay

After days of gray clouds and constant snow, the sun shone in a clear, pale sky. The temperature hovered just above freezing. In the sunlight, it seemed positively tropical after weeks of single digits plus wind chill. Towering heaps of smudged snow glistened on the corners and curbs. The streets shimmered springlike, and even the sidewalks no one shoveled were showing patches of concrete.

Jon walked by his window, looking for his measuring tape, and saw Scott taking off his hat and unzipping his coat across the street. His neighbor had been attacking his driveway with his steel shovel for the better part of an hour , breaking up the packed ice and snow and lugging it away. The cement beneath seemed newly poured, bright and wet in the sun.

Digging in the junk drawer, Jon found the tape measure and headed back to the bathroom, glancing again out into the sun-drenched world. Scott had moved to the corner where the water from the street’s melted snow collected. He wore rainboots and waded into the depths of icy water and plunged his shovel into the slush along the curb.

Scott was a good neighbor, meaning he kept his lawn presentable and kept to himself. Vaguely curious and ready for any excuse not to continue with his own project, Jon threw on his shoes and walked across the street.

“Hey!” he called. Scott, slaving away with sloppy shovefuls, did not hear him. Jon stepped into the deep, piled snow of the curb. “Hello, neighbor!”

Scott looked up, red-faced. He waved distractedly, out of breath.

“Enjoying the thaw?” Jon asked.

“It’ll freeze again by Saturday.” He returned to shoveling.

“What are you doing?”

Scott stopped once more. “Trying to find the drain grate. Do you remember where it is exactly?”

“No. I guess I never paid attention.”

“Me neither. I think it’s just about here.” He dug his shovel into the snow and pulled out a heavy, dripping pile.

Jon lingered, thinking of the pristine wall in the bathroom he was suppose to cut a hole in. Katie wanted it done before she returned from her trip tomorrow. “So, how’s the wife?”

“Sick.” Slush and ice landed at his feet.

“Got the flu, huh? I hear it’s nasty stuff.”

The shovel hit the curb. The water did not drain. “Worse.” Scott straightened himself and looked up at the sky, breathing hard.

“How do you mean?”

Scott shrugged. “Cancer. Chemo. She feels so bad some days she wants to die.”

Jon wished he had just returned home. “I’m sorry.”

Scott put his strength into shoveling again.

“Can I do anything to–”

“Nope,” Scott said.

“I can do this if you need to go.”

“I’ve got it.”

Jon stood there, watching his neighbor splash in cold water, shoveling with a frantic rhythm that would make John Henry proud. He didn’t know if he should say something or just walk away quietly.

Suddenly, he noticed the water draining. Scott stepped back and watched with satisfaction.

“You work with the Street Department or something?” Jon asked.

“Just needed done.” Scott continued watching the water, content. Eventually he looked up. “Your driveway need shoveled? I’m in the habit just now.”

“It’s good. Thanks.”

Scott nodded. The water was almost gone, with rivulets still joining from farther down the street.

Jon had an idea. “You any good with home construction?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“How about electrical?”

“Passable.”

“Wife wants a space heater installed in the bathroom wall. I could use some help.”

Scott looked toward his home.

“Unless you’re busy,” Jon said.

“She’s sleeping just now. Nothing I can do.”

“Pretty sure I’ll electrocute myself without a bit of guidance.”

Scott stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Scott nodded. “Just glad to help.”

The children stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

“Did I stutter?”

The littlest, Kandace, smiled brightly, thinking it was some sort of joke.

“It’s time to take down the tree,” she repeated.

“Why?” Kayley, the middle child, asked.

“Because it’s the middle of January.”

“I don’t want to take it down,” said Kaiden, the oldest.

“Well, we’re taking it down anyway. And all the rest of the Christmas decorations.”

“What decorations?” Kayley asked. Kandace repeated “What derasion?” and wiggled.

“The paper snowflakes and the popcorn strands and–”

“Can I eat the popcorn?”

“No, Kaiden. It’s stale. It’ll taste like cardboard.”

“I like cardboard.”

“No. Okay? And all the lights need to come down out of your rooms, and–”

“Not the lights!” Kayley shouted. “I love the lights. It makes my room pretty.”

“Pretty lights! Pretty lights!” Kandace danced and looked to Kayley for approval.

“The lights are coming down, and that big candy cane you guys made out of the paper towel rolls, and the Nativity–Kaiden, did you ever find Baby Jesus?”

“He’s in my Ninjago lego, I think.”

“Why is he there?”

“I needed him for my movie.”

“Of course you did.”

“Baby Jesus!” Kandace screamed. “Baby Jesus coming!”

“Yes, Kandace, Christmas is about Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus came. Time to move on.”

Kandace frowned. “Baby Jesus?”

Kayley patted her sister on the head. “Don’t worry. He’s not a baby now. He’s two, just like you.” Then she looked seriously at her mother. “I don’t want Christmas to be over.”

“It was over like two weeks ago,” Kaiden lectured. “I’ll show you on the calendar.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Kayley pushed him.

“Don’t push your brother, Kayley. Kaiden, stop being a smart aleck.”

“Kandy smart, Kandy smart, Kandy smart,” Kandace repeated until mother acknowledged that she was.

“I love Christmas,” Kayley whined. “I don’t want to clean up.”

“Yeah, why can’t we keep the tree?” Kaiden said.

“All the needles are falling off.”

“I’ll clean it up. I’ll even water it.”

“You were supposed to be doing that anyway.”

“I forgot, okay? I’m not perfect.”

Kayley was close to crying. “I don’t want to put everything away. It’ll look ugly.”

“It’ll have to look ugly then.”

“Can’t we just keep it up till next Christmas,” Kayley asked. “Please?”

“Kayley, Christmas isn’t till next year,” Kaiden said.

“What? How long is that? How many days?”

“Like 600,” Kaiden said.

“One, two, twee, four…” Kandace started counting. Then she threw up her hands. “Hide-n-seek! Hide-n-seek!”

“Not right now, Kandy,” Mother said.

“You want to keep the tree up, don’t you, Kandy?” Kaiden said sweetly. “Tell Mommy you want to keep the tree up.”

“Tree up!” Kandace said.

“Enough! We’re taking down the tree and the lights and the decorations. Everything is coming down! Do you understand? It’s time to make the house clean.”

Kayley burst out crying. Kandace looked up at her sister and then hugged her leg. “Kaey sad.”

“Do we have to?” Kaiden said sullenly.

“Yes! Now!” As they moved off slowly, whining, she added, “Don’t look so excited.”

“What did you say?” Kaiden said.

“Never mind.”

As Kayley removed each ornament, she stared at it longingly. She held a heart ornament that held her name and the year of her birth for a long time. “Mommy, when’s Valentine’s Day?”

“Next month.”

“When we’re done, I’m going to cut out some hearts. I love hearts.”

“I’ll draw some pictures,” Kaiden said. “We can use them for Valentine’s.”

“I’ll put pink all over my room, ‘cause pink means love.”

“I’ll take the leftover candy from my stocking and make a candy store.”

“Me Kandy, Me Kandy!”

“Mom, can I have that candy cane we made?” Kaiden asked. “I need it for my candy store.”

“I need pink paper, Mommy. Where’s my pink paper?”

Mother sat on the couch with a sigh. “Mommy’s going to have her coffee. Then we’ll talk.”