Here we were driving in the dark down this no name road with pines like the ocean around us. Cory and me finally alone. It was incredible. I could feel my breathing get deeper and some part of me take on an out of body experience. It was crazy. I’ll admit it. That driving in the silent dark of his car was romance. That was romance.

Run. Pant. Sweat. Saul Freeman’s life is built on routine. This is one of his latest.
     Jogging early in the morning, to catch the superb sunrise views over the city. Perth is small enough that the footpaths are never crowded before 7am. He likes to be left alone. Especially when he’s wearing shorts and smelling of body odor. Of course, when he’s dressed in his workman-like finest, he adores the gaze of onlookers. Everything about him is engineered to attract others. A way of making up for low self-esteem and loss of childhood affection. Not that he’ll ever admit that.

“What if no one likes me?”
     Smiling around the hair tie clamped between his teeth, pulling several stubborn hairs into place, Chris smiled. “That’s ridiculous, sweetie. You’re the world’s best friend.”
     Seven year old Madison frowned, chewing her bottom lip as she watched her favorite show; the one about the lions who owned a whole library. “Everybody at St. John’s is so different. What if I don’t...”

I hate showers. Oh, not the kind of showers that involve water and shampoo, but the kind of showers you receive an invitation to attend, baby showers, bridal showers, etc.

Through the peephole I saw the exchange.

Her red raincoat steamed as blond curls clung to the creases at her eyes and pursed mouth. Beautiful manicured hands gripped a ‘tall-to-go’. Such fleeting glimpses of her outside my door and the occasional vision through the crack of the closing elevator were as close to her as I ever got.  The physical distance did not deter me. Standing half-naked in my cracked bathroom mirror I’d asked her out hundreds of times. The fractures cut across my face, splicing my right nostril and left eye together and so forced my right eye to hang suspended above my hairline. There, surrounded by a comforting sea of green tile and mildew, I would speak with her.

“Jen! Hi!”

“Who are you?” I mouth her parts with an eyebrow cocked.

“We’re neighbours. I live across from you- suite 513? We met that day when your key got stuck in the mailbox.”

“You offered to call the police.” While this ought to be said as though fact, she sounds accusatory.

“Right…” It degenerates from here as she invariably conjures up the memory of a flustered me asking to borrow a stranger’s cell phone.

a short story by Angie Poole

The right lipstick can make or break a woman. I swirl another chicken nugget in hot mustard and chase it down with a slurp of diet cola then stare through the golden arches, surveying the next cycle of Wal-mart's dairy aisle shoppers for another makeover candidate.

There she is -- mid-thirties, plump, crows' feet. Her thick, brown hair begs for a razor cut and a straightening iron. Maybe she'd let me brighten the color with a little red and a few blonde streaks around her face? She's a cool tone, so we'd have to lose the gold jewelry. Definitely a wax job on the brows. The best part? Berrywine for her lips. Not a color just anyone can pull off, but with that unusual coloring, she could.

Sigh.

So what if I spend my lunch hour, doing imaginary makeovers on unsuspecting victims? Some people want to change the world. I just want to make people beautiful.

A glance at my watch and I panic. Un-friggin' believable -- late again! In my haste to depart I run smack dab into a man, spilling what's left of my drink down the front of his starched shirt and khakis. Our eyes meet and my face flushes white-hot.

Tim McCarthy.

The last time I was this close to him, I was half-naked in the back seat of his new '86 Camaro.

Aunt Myrna has sported this same haircut for at least ten years -- short, over the ears, neck wispies and fullness at the crown to cover her bald spot. Don't ask about the bald spot unless you have the rest of your day free -- trust me on this. She's waxed nostalgic about everything since she lost her leg. Slipping a new blade into the straight razor, I breathe deeply and recite my affirmations. I am a professional. I make people beautiful.

Pinching a section of her bangs between two fingers, I poise the blade.

Deep breath.

Aunt Myrna frowns. "What are you doing?"

"Giving you some texture."

"I don't need texture; I need to look like Joyce Meyer with salt-and-pepper hair."

"Trust me -- you will, but better. Joyce wishes her hair would lay like yours will when I'm finished."

She shrugs, which I'll take for a yes any day of the week. I turn her away from the mirror, both to lessen her anxiety and strengthen my resolve, and begin slicing through her bangs. At the first swish, a big chunk of hair plops to the floor.

Oh crap!

Breathe. Breathe. A paper bag would be cool about now.

I keep going like nothing's wrong, but overcompensate and more and more hair keeps falling to the floor. But I have a plan -- I always have a plan. With a flourish, I reach for a bottle on my cart and turn Aunt Myrna's chair toward her reflection.

"You are going to love this cut." I squeeze pomade into my palm and then rub my hands together.

"Nadine, you scalped me!"

I feign shock. "No, no. This is a very now hairstyle. Look at its versatility." I run my fingers through what's left of her locks. It sticks straight up on her head. "See? This is a good look for you."

Goodness Lord, I've Good Looked Aunt Myrna.

On cue, the other three stylists come over and compliment the hairstyle which, as expected, shuts her up. What a payoff -- she shuts up and I will roast over guilt flames for a good four to six weeks while her hair grows out.

The bell over the front door rings in another customer. I smile toward the new addition and freeze.

Dear God. Troy Smith.

Senior year, Whitlow Park, in his daddy's Crown Victoria.

Aunt Myrna takes forever to get to the car after church, stopping to talk to this person and that. Does she want to get to the cemetery or not?

Just to satisfy my curiosity, I sneak a peek into her picnic basket on the off-chance she's packed a pint jar of pink lemonade. I breathe a sigh of relief -- there's not. I'll tell you right now, if she'd made Mama's favorite lunch I'd have known what she was up to. I'm not about to go to Mama's grave and talk to her about where I'm at on the Jesus scale. Or any scale, for that matter, since I quit smoking.

That said, might as well use the time to freshen up a little. I glance in the rearview mirror expecting to see black trails running down my face but it appears my waterproof mascara has passed the Church Test. As much as I blubbered, you'd think the sermon was about that woman they dragged before Jesus while he finger-painted in the sand, but it was about stewardship. Regardless, all I could think of was how I've wasted every opportunity I've had and how I am completely worthless. Joel Osteen never makes me feel this bad.

Here at my church I always squall my head off, which is why I normally don't come. What is it -- the church building, the pews, the people, the preaching, the music -- maybe all of it together -- that rips my heart? When I was a little girl, I used squeeze in between Mama and Daddy, feeling so safe and pretty in my pink dresses. Nothing could hurt me, not with the two of them and Jesus right there. But I was wrong. If my mama had lived to see me into adulthood, she'd have been so ashamed.

Beside me, Aunt Myrna slides into the T-Bird's passenger seat in mid-conversation. ". . . and do you remember my niece, Nadine, from high school? Two of her four kids are old enough to be in the Youth Group."

I look up at what I take is the Youth Director.

Great -- just great. Yes, him too.

Marty Dillard. Homecoming. Hotel Galvez. Jack Daniels.

Don't ask.

Burt called me Mandi last night. We were washing the van when Bryan Adams wailed about heaven and my husband asked me to please hand him the Armour-All, Mandi. He tried to smooth it over by saying he'd ran into my old best friend up at the store but I wasn't fooled.

How often does Burt think about her? Does he wish he could go back in time and choose her over me? Well he's not the only one who wishes things were different. I never made a conscious decision to become the class tramp, making short and long-term task lists or creating any kind of mission statement. If anyone else has, I'd love to read theirs just to see how I rank against some definite and measurable goals. It'd be nice to know that I excelled at something besides stealing Burt from Mandi Reed, getting knocked-up at seventeen, thus cheating Burt out of a college education, then bearing him four children and forcing him to stay married to me for what will be twenty years next weekend.

Speaking of Burt, beside me he emits a snore as if his sole passion in life is removing a popcorn kernel from the back of his throat. I jiggle my big toe against the arch of his foot and he snort-snort-snorts and rolls over, pulling all the covers to his side of our bed.

For once why couldn't he have woken up so I could tell him how sorry I am that I ruined all the plans he had made for himself? I'd let him know that I appreciate how hard he works down at the Sheriff's department -- at a job he hates -- to provide for our family and I'd tell him how sorry I am that I didn't save myself for him -- how I wish I could do it all over and, um, not do it, except with him. Then again, would he have even given me the time of day if I hadn't been the easy girl?

Nope.

He'd be having a life people dream of -- working at some high-paying job, living somewhere trendy and Bohemian, like Austin, and married to pretty, petite, perfect Mandi Reed. What's gonna happen when the kids are grown and he realizes we no longer have anything holding us together?

I fight the urge to pull Burt's t-shirt up and press a wet plum kiss right between his shoulder blades, which happens to be my favorite place to be kissed. I kiss him there quite often, hoping he'll get the hint -- a trick I heard from Dr. Phil.

Bet that shrink would have loads to say about me. I should seek professional help since I don't have anyone to talk to. No one at all, because tramps don't have many girlfriends. What I'd give to have someone up this late to tell all this stuff to who wouldn't blab about me over fifth Sunday casseroles.

Oh yeah. If the magnet on Aunt Myrna's icebox is to be believed, there is someone who stays up all night. That in mind, I gather the things I want to talk about, but the list grows and grows as if I were on a Sears Wish Book bender. By the time I finally look ceilingward, all I can manage is an imagined "Lord?" before I start bawling my head off.

Burt jerks awake. "Are you crying again?"

"Um...yeah." I brush the sheet's corner across my cheeks.

"Are you about to start?"

No, but I'm about to take a power tool to someone's skull. Men! On second thought, has it been that long already? Last time I had to make a Wal-mart run in the middle of the night. The receipt's still in my purse. "Wasn't that the week before last?"

Burt grunts in agreement. "Then what is going on with you?"

"I don't know."

He sits up and leans against the headboard. "Maybe you've got one of those chemical imbalances like on TV and need to see a doctor. Pat -- up at work -- his wife has that and she to take these pills or she freaks. Pulls out her own eyelashes and everything."

No, my husband did not just compare my mental state to loony Lena Howell's. Remember that shoulder blade thing earlier? Yeah, just do a search for lips and replace it with Buck knife.

Once again the Palmer family will be eating grilled cheese and tomato soup because I've burned the pork chops. The phone rings in harmony with the smoke detector as I throw supper, skillet and all, out the back door.

Aunt Myrna doesn't give me a chance to say hello. "Guess who's moving back to town."

"Emeril and he's coming to cook supper for the kids so I can go have that nervous breakdown I've been wanting?"

"No, Mandi Reed -- I mean Mandi Flowers but from what I hear she's not going to be married much longer. Her man's done up and left her. Opal just rattled the prayer chain."

All the air whooshes from my lungs and my feet slip out from under me. Suddenly the worn linoleum smacks my backside and I'm sitting on my kitchen floor. "Mandi's back to stay?"

"Yes, she and the kids are staying at her mama's old place, God rest her soul. That jerk of a husband must still be in Pennsylvania because Mandi and the kids came here alone. I tried to get her Aunt Opal to spill but you know how those Reeds have been all hush-hush ever since -- "

I cut Aunt Myrna off. "Gotta run. I'm busy burning supper."

What on earth am I supposed to do if Burt wants to pick up where they left off?

Maybe they already have, Mandi hand me the Armour-All.

I feel old.

Not bad enough to slap on some kind of hormone patch, which according to Aunt Myrna I need -- never mind that my doctor has run all kinds of tests and hasn't found anything wrong -- but definitely old enough for Botox. Unfortunately our checking account has line-item-vetoed beautification of that magnitude so instead I'm stuck with becoming a blonde. This change is long overdue because Larry burned the before Polaroid with his cigarette lighter instead of hanging it up on our bulletin board like he does all the other clients. I wanted to inhale the smoke.

Larry swirls the bleach in a plastic bowl, then slathers my hair with purple goo while I daydream of Burt pulling me into his arms after a romantic anniversary dinner . . .

Dad could hire a maid to keep house while he's on the road, but if he did I wouldn't be able to pay the electric bill this month. He always pays me to do his housework when he knows when I'm running short, probably because he's dating my favorite bank teller.

"Don't worry about the laundry," he calls from the sofa in the living room.

Like I even have time for that. It'll take all night just to do the basics. Why didn't I bring one of the kids to help? Just as I reach the far side of his room, the vacuum cleaner comes unplugged. Rounding the corner to push it back in, Mama's hope chest wishbones my big toe.

Yowsa!

I fall to the floor gripping the throbbing digit into submission and my mouth smacks the corner of the hope chest. Blood pours from a gouge in my lip.

Before I realize what's happening Dad's beside me pressing a cool washrag over against my face. "Why do you think I told you to take this thing to your house? It tangoes with me at least once ever two months."

"I don't want it," I say, but I do. I just want it to stay here. Inside are all the things Mama packed away for me when the doctors told her how much time she had left: her wedding dress, the china we picked out together, some crocheted baby outfits, a Bible, and a birthday card for every year until I'm a hundred -- all but the first still sealed. If I'd taken those things home with me they'd be broken or dirty or ruined.

Like me.

"You should've worn the dress, Nadine."

"At the VFW hall?"

"It was your decision not to get married in the church."

Like I wanted to drag God into my mess.

"Better get your shoes on. Looks like I need to take you to the emergency room."

Six stitches later, Burt doesn't even notice my hair.

For once Larry's chronic absenteeism is a blessing. I've been so busy handling both of our appointments for the past three days that I haven't had time to think about my ugly lip or how Burt didn't say anything about our anniversary this morning. Eighties music blares from my vintage boom box as I sweep bits of hair from our stations.

Behind me, the bell rings over the shop door. I don't look up from the dust pan. "We're closed."

"But I have a pedicure appointment," a woman says.

"If you did, I'd have known about it. And I don't, so you don't." Did I mean to sound that catty?

"My appointment was with Larry."

"Larry's not here."

"I can see that, Nadine Sue."

Nadine Sue. Mandi's nickname for me. I look up at her -- a little thin and pale but her cut and color is absolutely fabulous. "Oh gosh, your hair!"

Panic flits across her face. Her fingertips flutter along her hairline.

"I mean -- It's beautiful."

She blushes. Her shoulders relax and her lips turn upward. "Tell Larry I'll call him in a couple of days to reschedule."

"N-no, I've got time now. Give me just a second and I'll get everything set up."

How awkward! I twist the knobs and warm water pours into the basin, then I slap the chair, indicating for her to take a seat. Hummingbirds zoom between my ribs so I take slow breaths and comfort myself with the pedicure routine, putting fragrant crystals into the bubbling water and setting out my tray of tools.

Her feet slip into the suds while I wonder exactly which role I'm supposed to play. Am I Jesus washing Peter's feet? Am I the sinful woman with the perfume? Neither. Maybe I'm asleep, a stone's throw away from the only one who can save me.

That's it -- I'm not spending any more Sundays with Aunt Myrna and all her dead relatives.

I reach for the nail clippers. Above me, Mandi sniffles. My gaze travels up to her face. She's crying? What do I say? Where do I start?

"Look, Mandi, I'm so sor -- "

She holds up her palm. "Nadine, don't. I should have been a better friend to you when your mom got sick. It's all I can think about watching what my children are going through."

"What are you talking about?"

She smiles bittersweet and her hand moves to her hair which she pulls from her head.

I gasp. Mandi's baldheaded?

She sets the wig in her lap. "I thought you knew when I walked through the door and you said 'your hair' -- I thought it was on crooked or something." She laughs, high-pitched, brittle, hopeless. Her lip quivers and she looks upward, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I'm not getting better, my husband's long gone, and I don't know what's going to happen to my kids."

Oh Lord.

"I wanted to be here in Braxton because I need you to be my friend again, Nadine."

When I get back to the house Burt's sitting in his recliner and wearing a suit. Oh yeah, our anniversary.

"Give me an hour to change and freshen up." Can I get to the bathroom any faster?

"Nadine, you been crying?"

"Hard day, is all." I dump my purse, keys, and lunch box into the other recliner and head toward the bathroom, removing clothes en route. "Where are the kids?"

The recliner squeaks then slams shut. Burt's voice trails behind me. "At your Aunt Myrna's. She said she'd help Luke and Josh with their algebra and then she and Emmy are gonna have a tea party. Erica's at the library with the chemistry stud."

I turn on the shower, letting the water warm and then reach for a daily facial sheet to scrub away my ruined eye make-up.

Behind me, Burt turns off the shower then kisses my neck and places his arm around my waist. "Why don't you get in the tub instead? We're not meeting everyone until eight."

"Everyone?"

He releases me and reaches for the faucets on the garden tub. "A few of the guys from work and their wives: Roy Bailey, Dave Puckett, and Jimmy Tyler."

Jimmy Tyler? No, no, no. Please Lord, not tonight. Not on mine and Burt's anniversary. I can't.

The tears burn like acid as I slip into the sudsy water. Where's my eye mask? I dig through my beauty basket and place it over my eyes, thankful I can't see my face in the mirror.

"Babe, just relax. I'll be back in a second."

He leaves and rattles around the kitchen. Drawers and cabinets open and slam shut. Still blinded by the eye mask, I grab the loofah and begin scrubbing the filth from my skin.

Poor Mandi. If it were me, would Burt stick around?

Burt's footsteps approach and stop at the side of the tub. Glasses clink.

I pull the eye mask from my head and the elastic band catches in my hair.

"Let me," he says, gently untangling it from my ponytail. "You are a beautiful blonde."

He did notice.

"Here." He hands me a long-stemmed glass of pink bubbles.

Boone's Farm. They used to call it Tickled Pink. Cheap stuff. My heart sinks and bounces along the bottom of the tub with the grainy bath salts.

"Burt, I want to tell you something -- "

"Shhhh.." He places his index finger on my lips. "Nadine, I've loved you since kindergarten when you fell off the monkey bars and knocked yourself out cold. Thank you for the best twenty years of my life, for giving me four beautiful children, for everything."

You can blame it on the Boone's Farm if you want, but tonight Burt's getting lucky.

First Tickled Pink, now pink lemonade. Aunt Myrna never has been able to leave well enough alone. She's all nonchalant as she limps over to her high school French teacher's grave just a few rows away from Mama.

Linda Tate. 1949-1985.

The gold lettering is smooth under my fingertips. Sweet Jesus. My heart curls inward like a Venus Flytrap. Mama used to rake her brush through my hair; tangles snarling, tears burning. She'd pull and pinch and plait my hair into submission while I tried to stifle my sobs.

Shut up that whining, Nadine. You have to suffer to be beautiful.

I find myself saying it to my clients all the time as I rip wax from brows, grind calluses from heels, or hook hair through caps. Beauty always comes with a price, way more than my measly fees.

"Mama, you were right." I pull a few stray clumps of nut grass from around the marble stone. My heart is a chipped cinderblock, just like it is when I'm bawling in the pew.

Maybe God is making me beautiful.

Copyright © 2007 Angie Poole

Visit Angie Poole's blog at angiepoole.blogspot.com.

a short story by Bethany Burmaster

Cora got through airport security, threw her shoes back on her feet and juggled her carry-on, coat, laptop bag, and the purse she'd need to shove into one of the other bags before boarding the plane. She looked at the time on her cell phone.

"Twenty minutes to spare," she mumbled under her breath.

She looked at the departing flight list on the board. Her flight was delayed an hour. Cora was finally starting to get used to this. Traveling twice a month for the past three years for work hardened her to the annoyances of air travel. She went up to the newsstand and picked up a couple of magazines. Newsweek for when she wanted to look smart, and People for when she had a craving for a little celeb gossip.

She walked toward her gate and took a seat on one of the black vinyl-covered chairs. She had just opened up her People when her cell rang; she looked down and saw it was her boss.

"Hi Paige." she said. "Yep...uh huh...just waiting for my flight...the board says it's gonna be delayed an hour. Wait....it just changed, ah two hours...Yeah...I can work on it here in the airport a bit...No, no, the meeting was fine...Yeah...I'll be back in the office this afternoon -- I can stay late again...Ok, sure...yes, I can work on it here...no, no problem...I'll have it to you by eight am...Yeah...Got it...Uh-huh...Ok...Sure, Paige... Thanks...Bye."

Paige was a nice-enough boss, but she never really seemed to understand the entire world did not revolve around Enermatic Enterprises. Enermatic was the company Cora had worked for the past 4 years. They manufactured electronic furniture -- things like massaging chairs, and adjustable beds -- but not the grandmotherly kind. These things were high fashion, high function, and high finance versions. Cora's job was to travel around the country, trying to sell the products to high-end stores and specialty catalogs. She was also responsible for feeling out customer opinions of the products, and gathering information to be used for product development.

Paige wanted Cora to write up a "brief synopsis" of customer feedback from each of their top ten markets for an 8:00 am meeting the following day. Cora knew "brief synopsis" was an understatement; Paige would expect charts, graphs, and detailed analysis. This was no small task.

Cora rolled up her People and stuffed it into a side pocket of her carry-on. She yawned, decided she was in need of a nonfat latte, bought one, and returned to her seat. She pulled out her laptop and began to type. At first, when she realized she wouldn't be able to relax in the airport, she had felt a bit annoyed. But after five years of working for Paige, she realized she should have known better than to think she might have a nice quiet afternoon with her own thoughts in the airport.

Cora continued to type. She had just finished the first page when a guy in a hooded sweatshirt, probably about 22, sat next to her.

"You're working awfully hard for 7:30 in the morning," he said.

"Yeah -- need to get this done for my boss for a meeting tomorrow morning," Cora replied without lifting her head.

"Tomorrow morning? As in like 24 hours from now?"

Cora glanced at the time on her cell phone. "Well -- 24 and a half actually," she said.

"I'm Ian." Cora saw his hand stuck out from the corner of her eye. She shook it reluctantly.

"Cora" she said.

"Nice to meet you Cora."

Cora decided she didn't have time for flirting with some 22-year-old kid. She turned her eyes back to the computer screen.

"Oh come on," he said. "I may not be the most interesting guy in the world, but I have to be more interesting than that."

"You may be," Cora said, looking up at him for a brief moment. "But the truth is I have to get this done before eight a.m. tomorrow -- its my job." She could sense he was about to protest something she said. "But, I guess you wouldn't understand about that yet. You'll know once your done with school." She thought that would shut him up. Give him a little reality check. He looked like some college kid, while she was a smart, sophisticated 28-year-old woman.

"Me? I'm out of college, and out of grad school too. And I do know all about having a job -- I have one of those. A pretty good one."

"I suppose you're going to tell me about it," Cora mumbled. She couldn't believe this kid was out of grad school. When she looked at his face a little closer, she could see he was a little older than she'd originally thought. But those clothes made him look like a teenager.

"Well, since you ask..." he began. "I write novels. I'm not saying I've ever written a best seller or anything, but I have two published books under my belt, and a slew of short stories. And I figure that isn't bad for 29."

Cora couldn't believe he was older than her. And probably more successful too. Thoughts of how unjust the world was came rushing through her head.

"And before you start thinking about how unjust the world is," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "I work quite hard at it. But not before 8:30 a.m., and certainly not before I've had breakfast. Which I'm guessing you haven't..." He said the last part like a question.

"Right here..." she said, holding up her latte.

"What time does your flight take off?" he asked.

Cora squinted up at the board. "Looks like it's delayed again" she said. "10:30 now."

"Well," said Ian, "mine leaves at 8:30. But that still leaves plenty of time for breakfast. Care to join me?"

"Thanks, Ian. But I really don't have time. It was nice to meet you."

"Then I guess I'll be forced to go and get something and bring it back to you," he said as he stood.

Cora wanted to tell him that he needn't bother, that she wasn't really hungry anyway, that breakfast wasn't really her thing -- but somehow the words didn't get out in time. And, she had to admit she was a bit hungry. She doubted he'd be back anyway.

Cora went back to her typing, and started working on a couple of charts to supplement her information. Ten minutes later, Ian was back.

"I guessed whole wheat with lowfat cream cheese," he said, holding a bagel in front of her face. She had never taken food from a stranger like that before, but she made an exception this time.

"Geez," Ian said. "Looks like you got a lot done in the ten minutes I was away. I don't know why you thought you needed 24 and a half hours to work on that."

Cora giggled. "Well," she said, "maybe not 24 and a half. But, I do need a few hours in there to sleep."

"I'm guessing three to four hours?" he said. "You don't exactly strike me as the type who would strive for eight hours of solid rest."

"You would be correct," Cora said.

"Can't waste precious minutes sleeping, huh? You're probably the type who feels guilty taking a nap or relaxing in the evening, aren't you?"

"I guess you've got me pegged." Cora said.

"I'll bet you're also the type who will do something just to prove someone wrong..." Ian said, with a bit of a glimmer in his eye.

"Probably...I guess."

"Ok, then...I'll bet you can't close that computer, and get through the rest of your time here at the airport, just relaxing and noticing the people around you."

"Of course I can," Cora said. "I just don't want to."

"I don't think that's it...I think you can't stand the thought of enjoying yourself. I think you don't even take notice of the people around you. And that isn't only doing you a disservice, it can't be helping your career either. Take a breather, I'll bet you'll find your work will improve. I never sold a book until I finally learned to chill out and enjoy the world around me."

"Take time to smell the roses?" Cora asked.

"Well. If you must use a cliche," Ian snorted. "Here's my phone number. Do what I said for the day, and then give me a call." He paused. "I think I have an idea for a new book." Another pause. "Well, I have to go get on my plane. Good luck to you." He handed her the slip of paper with his phone number.

It had been months since Cora had gotten a guy's phone number. She could feel herself blushing as he walked away to board his plane. As he was leaving, Cora developed two goals for the day: she wanted to prove Ian wrong, and she wanted the chance to talk to him again. And the only way she could do either of those things was by abandoning her job for a while. She thought it through. She had a good start on her project already. She checked the board again to see what her departure time was; the board now said 11:30. She got up and asked the clerk at the counter if there was any chance of getting an earlier flight.

"Sorry." The clerk said. "All of our flights are booked."

Cora sat down again. She sighed to herself as she thought about the situation. Okay, she thought. Flight is at 11:30 -- that means I get into the airport around 2:00. I'll be at the office by 3:00, and then I can work on the project all night. I can do this. I don't need to work the whole time I'm here at the airport. At this point, Cora realized her lips were moving as she thought out her game plan. The people around her thought she was just another crazy talking to herself in public. Embarrassed, she got up and moved to another seat at the other side of the gate.

Okay. Observe the people around me, she thought to herself (this time without the embarrassing lip movement).

To avoid blatantly staring at the people around her, she took out her People magazine and pretended to read while she was observing. Across from her, she saw a group of four women, probably all in their mid-forties, talking and laughing.

"And then, when we were running to catch the bus, and you thought you'd lost your sunglasses..." one of them said through the thunderous laughter.

"And they ended up being on your head," another woman howled. This sort of reminiscing chitchat, mixed with bouts of laughter, continued for several minutes. Cora normally would have been annoyed by this kind loud behavior in a public space. But, today, she was feeling particularly sentimental, and couldn't help but think about her own girlfriends. The truth was, she hadn't sat around and giggled with her girlfriends like that since college. Somehow, she had come to regard it as a childish thing to do. But seeing this group of forty-something women, all of whom seemed successful and well-adjusted, laughing away in an crowded airport (and apparently setting off for some sort of trip together no less) made her think of the whole girlfriends concept a bit differently.

As Cora pondered this, the mood of the group changed. She heard one of the women ask the other: "So how's your brother doing?" Cora noticed it was asked not just out of a sense of politeness, but with genuine care and concern for her friend and her friend's loved ones.

Out of respect for the women's privacy, Cora decided to devote her attention to her magazine. While attempting to catch up on who broke up with whom in Hollywood and why, Cora thought about her own girlfriends. Most of her friends were either from work (people she knew casually, maybe went with to the occasional after-work happy hour, but that was all), or old college pals who lived scattered across the country -- and who, for the most part were just as busy working and trying to succeed as Cora was. Sure, she got the occasional emails from them, and they'd usually plan to get together sometime, but the plans never materialized. There was never a night when everyone as available, or someone always backed out at the last minute.

The hard truth was, Cora didn't expect to have a group of friends to laugh with and cry with when she was forty-something. She didn't even have one now, and she figured keeping girlfriends would only get tougher as the years went on.

An announcement came over the loudspeaker announcing a gate change. The four women heard the announcement, got up, and left. Cora continued to think about her own friends, and vowed to herself to call Jane once she got home and finished up her work.

She got up to check her departure time on the board. Delayed again. Cora decided to shrug it off; after all, 15 fewer minutes of work time weren't going to change much. She sat back down, this time pulling out her copy of Newsweek instead of People. She'd decided it was time to look smart.

She glanced around as she looked at the pictures in Newsweek. (How can you really read anything when you've made a promise to notice the people around you anyway?) A pair of women caught her eye: one a woman with short brown hair, about fifty-ish; the other younger, probably in her early 20s, with longish hair of the same dark brown. She assumed this was a mother-daughter duo off for some sort of weekend trip.

"So where are we staying again?" she heard the younger woman ask.

Cora couldn't really hear the mother's response, but something struck her. It seemed that these two women, mother and daughter were going on a trip, spending time together because they apparently enjoyed each other's company. Cora thought back to shopping trips and little Saturday outings with her mother -- she remembered them being fun when she was very young, an annoyance when she was a teenager, and pretty much nonexistent since college.

As she peered over her magazine at the mother and daughter, she noticed they were laughing and joking with each other. They were smiling. The daughter didn't seem constantly annoyed by her mother, and the mother didn't seem to be in constant disapproval of the daughter -- so completely unlike Cora and her own mother.

After her semi-rebellious teen years (Cora had never been all that rebellious, just a typical teenager trying to cut the cord kind of stuff), Cora and her mother had never really spent time together. Sure, they talked on the phone about once a week. Cora's mother would ask her how work was, and nag her about calling her Grandmother; Cora would ask her parents how they were doing, and if they'd done anything fun over the last week. And she'd go to her parents' house for holidays. But they never got together for no reason, just to laugh and share. And Cora suddenly realized it was mostly her fault.

Cora was the one who was always busy, and the one who had never really shown her mother she wasn't the same little semi-rebellious teenager she'd been when she moved out of the house after high school. Okay, so maybe the mother and daughter sitting across from her now had a really special relationship, a bond that went beyond just a sharing of DNA to a sharing of interests and personalities. They seemed to be friends, rather than just mother and daughter.The truth was, she wasn't sure if she and her mother could ever be quite like the two women sitting across from her. But she wanted to at least give it a try. So, she vowed that right after she got home and finished her work, and right after she called Jane, she would call her mother and ask her to lunch.

She felt tears coming to her eyes, so she got up and went to the bathroom to make sure her tears hadn't messed up her makeup. She made herself snap out of her sentimental moment, then looked at the board to double check she'd be boarding within an hour. She wasn't shocked to see that, once again, her flight had been pushed back another half hour to 12:15. She was slightly annoyed, part of her was enjoying the quiet reflection she was finding in the loud, crowded airport.

As she was walking back to her seat, her phone rang again. She saw it was Paige and answered.

"Hi Cora. How's the synopsis coming?"

"It's fine, Paige. I've got a good start. I'll have it ready by morning. But my flight has been delayed again, so I may not be into the office until late this afternoon."

"Ok. I just wanted to check in and remind you to include a few personal testimonials from your clients. I'll see you soon." Paige hung up.

Cora decided she'd had enough of Ian's scheme, and that it was time to get back to work. Especially now that she needed to include some customer testimonials. She opened her laptop and began to type, but found that it was hard to block out the people around her now.

While working on her synopsis she noticed: a father reading to his two small children (Cora remembered her father reading her bedtime stories, and decided she should maybe set aside some quality time for her father as well), two business colleagues who seemed to be talking to each other about their families (Cora couldn't remember the last time she talked to one of her coworkers about something non-work related), a mother holding a baby (Cora used to think she wanted children, but had started to forget about the idea in recent years), a young cuddling couple (who she would have normally thought should "get a room", but today found cute), an older couple (probably in their 70s) who were drinking coffee and splitting a doughnut and chatting, a large family all dressed in green "Brown Family Reunion" tee-shirts (this struck Cora as a little odd and corny, but she appreciated that they seemed to be enjoying each-other's company), another group friends--this time college aged men and women who appeared to be heading to some sort of tropical destination, laughing and yelling (okay...a bit obnoxiously, but for some reason it didn't bother her too much).

She was shocked by all the people she saw. And she realized Ian was right: she was missing out on life by not noticing people around her. She continued watching until it was finally time to board the plane.

When she got back to her office, she threw together her synopsis. She almost felt embarrassed giving her work to Paige, but then decided it was "good enough." She was shocked when her boss didn't even comment on the work. No positive feedback, no negative feedback. Perhaps "good enough" really was "good enough." Cora had never come to that realization before.

She suddenly felt she had time to do all those things she never had time for before. She picked up her phone planning to call her friend Jane. Then, instead, she took a small, crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and dialed the number.

"Hello," said a voice.

"I just wanted to say thank you."

"Cora," Ian answered. "I knew you'd call."

Copyright © 2007 Bethany Burmaster

a short story by Heather Goodman

It's been a long time. And really, to some extent this is my first date. Ever, almost. I met Craig in high school. No, junior high. Oaklyn Junior High, 1991. I don't even remember when or how, but we were just together. "Going out," we called it. We married two weeks after high school graduation, and I got pregnant almost immediately. So a first date? Well, I guess this is my first.

Part of me has no idea why I'm going out tonight with Matt in the first place. It's not like I've had the hots for him or anything.

But I know why. I know that I've missed having a guy around, and that things are starting to get lonely around here (even with three kids on the loose), and that my biggest fear, when you get right down to it, is being alone forever and always. I've never really been without a guy, and I don't like this feeling at all. And Matt makes me feel good. He flirts with me. After Craig left with her, the last thing I felt like was a woman, at least an attractive woman. Matt, with his teasing and little comments, makes me feel curvy.

I open the abyss of my closet. Well, size-wise, I guess it's not an abyss, but when you have to decide what to wear, and it feels like you have nothing, it's like this dark chasm of nothingness. Half my clothes rest on the floor slaughtered. What to wear, what to wear. I hate these decisions.

First I pick out a scarf. The outfit will have to go with the scarf I choose.

At some point in my life, I decided to become the scarf lady. At some point, meaning after Craig left. Everyone needs a crazy fetish, right? Especially when you need something that makes you feel like someone else. I wrap one around my neck, and voila! I'm Grace Kelly. A princess swooped off her feet. Or, if I wear that saucy one Beth gave me last Christmas, Sophia Lauren. It will take a while before I can work up to wearing that scarf out. But a woman can dream.

I admit it; I hate to shop. At least non-virtual shopping. I walk into a mall, and my body wants to instantly fold in fatigue. About as close as I can get anymore is driving up at the entrance to drop off Beth where she joins a herd of girls and a few straggling boys. Then I speed away before the mall vampire can suck the life out of me.

So I shop online. Point and click. Not that I have much money for that. Virtual shopping for clothes online presents its own difficulties. It's sort of the Forrest Gump approach to life: you never know what you're gonna get. For example, one time I ordered a sweater, size small. What came to me was too small for Beth, who looks like one of the Twiggy malnourished kids. I gave it to my five year old niece for Christmas. Perfect fit.

That brings me to scarves. Shoes are too expensive, but it's amazing the slashed prices you can find for scarves. And they add splash to any everyday outfit. You see, my outfits scream for help everyday. Maybe that's the wrong word. They would scream if they had any energy left. It takes all their energy just to keep all their threads together, which makes it hard to feel like Grace Kelly and Sophia Lauren and curvy.

Bert bursts in the room. The door bangs against the wall. How many times do I have to tell the kid to stop doing that? I mean, there's already a nice pockmark in the sheet rock. He bent the doorstop to impotence a year ago.

"Mommy and Matt, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"Thank you," I tell him and nudge the door shut. Well, at least he's learning to spell.

Where was I? Oh, yes, my scarves. I love my scarves, my warm woolly scarves, my flashy sparkly scarves, my scarves splashed with velvet geometries. I feel debonair and sophisticated with them, like I belong in an Audrey Hepburn movie. Sometimes I wear them as a sash in place of a boring old belt. Sometimes I throw them around my neck, especially mid-winter when my summer freckles stand out from my ever pastying skin. But I digress, which is okay because as long as I'm thinking about the scarves, I don't have to think about why I'm wearing the scarf this evening.

Tonight I find a glittery blue and silver scarf, one with lots of flair. I have a love-hate relationship with this scarf, really. If you touch it the wrong way, the oh-so-delicate threads pull and get all out of shape. But it makes me feel like I belong with the night-on-the-town scene.

The door bell rings, and I hear Beth let in Matt. She asks him to take a seat and even offers him a drink. Such manners. I don't remember teaching that to her, but I'm thankful all the same.

Enough of this dilly-dallying. A nice blue sweater with a fitted skirt, and I'm ready. Sort of. It's time. Deep breath. One last look in the mirror. I look. On second thought, I'd better turn away.

Matt stands up from the couch like a gentleman when I walk down the stairs. He looks younger when he's nervous. Even with my flashy scarf, I feel so much older than he looks with my three kids watching the two of us.

"You look great, Marnie."

"Thanks." My voice jiggles a bit. First date since Craig, and man, this isn't easy. I can do this. I want this. I want to feel pretty, oh, so, pretty.

I give all the last minute instructions to the kids. It's a first for them, too. Beth is watching them all by herself.

"I'm almost twelve!" she had insisted. Really, my comfort lies in the fact that our townhouse walls are thinner than the pages of my Bible, and Mrs. Thompson next door will be listening in. She's good at that.

"Make sure Bert gets in bed by eight." I tell her this hoping he'll at least be in bed by nine or nine-thirty.

"I know, Mom."

"And the pizza will be done --" I check my watch "-- in about two minutes. Make sure you use pot holders and don't burn yourself."

Beth sticks one hand on a bony hip. The other jabs toward me in frustration, like an angry teapot with a twisted spout protesting with a steamy scream. I better get used to this stance. Not too long until she's a full-blown teenager.

"And don't forget to turn off the oven."

"We'll be fine, Mom. Go. Have fun." She scoots us toward the door.

I give all three of them hugs, taking a deep breath of each of them. Beth smells like a fruit basket. Bailey smells like grass, even though it's in the middle of winter, and Bert smells like our chocolate lab, Tiff-tiff.

"Knock, knock." Bert never grew out of the knock-knock joke stage like his older brother and sister, but at least he's learned to give a punch line.

"Who's there?" I ask.

"Orange."

"Orange who?"

"Orange you gonna miss me?"

See what I mean? The perfect punch line. It about does me in, in fact.

"Bailey, what does the magic eight ball say? Should I go out?" I ask right in front of Matt and all. I'm ready to do whatever Magic Eight tells me to. I'll just tell Matt, "See, Magic Eight Ball says I should stay home. Sorry."

"Magic Eight Ball, should Mommy go out?" He closes his eyes while he asks then flips the ball. Apparently, he doesn't like the answer because he flips it again. He covers the answer so that no one else can see but him and me.

"Maybe," Magic Eight Ball tells me.

I have no idea if the previous undesired answer was yes or no. Bailey is getting harder and harder to read.

Maybe I should stay, though. Maybe Bailey with his "Maybe" is begging me to stay.

Beth sees that look in my eye and practically slams the door in my face. No turning back now.

Matt grins all the way to the car. I think dating is like HTML code. <SAY voice = "sexy morning" bodymovement = "salsa hips">I had a great time.</SAY><!--and back here I bury what I really want to say in a hidden comment. Things like, Will you ask me out again? or I would like you to kiss me, or don't even think about coming an inch closer, mister. That last one with a different voice and body movement, of course.--> At least, that's what I gather from the movies. But what do I know?

"I made a reservation at an Italian place. Do you like Italian?"

Wow. Reservation. That sure is different from high school. "I have two Italian aunts," I tell him. I could get used to this. Maybe this won't be so hard. What girl doesn't like to be spoiled with plans and reservations? This is exactly why I need to be doing this.

"Well, I hope this restaurant can compare to their cooking, then."

I smile. To be honest, I stink at this chit-chat stuff. I never know what to say, so we mostly drive in silence. I make a few astute comments about his car, like, "So you drive a Toyota," which then infers the follow-up question, "Do you like it?" Astounding conversation, really. Should have been recorded for posterity's sake. The whole "what do you do?" line of questioning is out. We work together. That's how we met. I'm a web designer and he's my liaison for the first company that hired my services. We always had work stuff to talk about before, like anything the office wants to highlight that week, to which Matt would wink at me as an answer, meaning me, of course, the company wants to highlight me. You see how I could fall for that. But who wants to talk about work stuff on a Friday night? I guess this is what dating is about, making your own conversation when you left work at work and there are no friends to buffer. Maybe I don't like the dating thing as much as I thought I would. Sheesh, girl, make up your mind. I remind myself of the alternative and try another line.

The restaurant is terribly romantic. You know the spiel, dim lights with candles at each table, violin music in the background, probably Paganini, of course. Thankfully, the music plays just a little too loudly, a blessing for our conversation, or non-conversation.

The waiter brings a wine list. Matt ponders this list long enough for Rome to fall. And he tells me a tidbit of information about each wine on the list. Show off. I don't know how the waiter keeps such a stoic face. The waiter comes back with a bottle. He holds it against a white towel and everything. He pours just a taste for Matt, who swishes, sips, assumes a pained face, and nods. The waiter pours two full glasses. Finally.

"Would you like me to leave the bottle?"

"Please," I pipe in. I'm not that much of a drinker, but who knows how long it would take Matt to make this decision. After all, we're talking about the man who flirted with me for two years before asking me out. Of course, one of those years I was still technically married, but Matt didn't know that.

Matt lifts his glass. "To tonight."

"To world peace," I say, just to throw him. That and I don't know what else to say. All I can think of is Groundhog Day. I guess I could have said nothing. We clink glasses and sip.

The night continues pretty much like this. We talk about work for a couple of minutes. He asks me about my kids. I talk about my kids, although not too much. I promised myself years ago that I wouldn't be one of those moms who goes on and on about every spelling grade, even though it's tempting at times. I mean, you should see how smart my kids are. Then he tells me about his neighbor's dog, or something to that effect.

And the whole time I'm thinking, is this what it's like? Really? This or all the cats? I mean, my kids will grow up. Things are fine now, and all, but what happens when they grow up? That's what I'm thinking while Matt drones on about his neighbor's dog.

I wonder how rude it would be to fake some sort of an illness to end dinner early. Probably a little over the top, but I have this sudden need to see my kids. Right now. Right this second.

"Excuse me." I push out my chair, probably right smack in the middle of a story he's telling. "I need to use the ladies' room."

"Beth?"

"Mom!" she says in that way that only adolescent girls can. The "o" takes on three or four syllables, in other words. "You're supposed to be having fun."

"I am." Liar, liar, pants on fire. "I just wanted to check on you. Make sure everyone's okay."

"We're fine, Mom."

"Have you put Bert to bed?" I don't really care if she put Bert to bed or not, but I want to hear her voice for a little longer.

"Not yet, but I will."

"And you turned off the oven?"

"No. The house has burned down. I'm at the fire station now."

I think Beth gets that sarcasm from me, I have to admit.

"Don't be a smart aleck. I love you. Tell Bailey and Bert I love them."

"Okay, Mom." Each "Mom" sounds a little more impatient. "Goodbye."

"Bye, sweetie."

I look at myself in the mirror. I don't think I look so bad considering the fact that I have three kids.

Three kids. What on earth? Sometimes I think I'm living someone else's life. Twenty-nine with three kids. Okay, well, almost thirty, but let's not go there. I mean, who is this? I don't know what I was thinking.

But I wouldn't trade in any of them. We'll figure it out.

I go back to Matt and the candlelight and the Paganini. Dinner speeds up, thankfully, but all the same, I don't order dessert. I'm ready to go home, even if it means going home. I mean, going back to my empty bed, my queen size, vacant bed. Well, vacant until one kid or another, usually Bert, crawls in sometime between 1:00AM and dawn. That's got to be better than another story about the neighbor's dog, right?

I dig my keys out of my purse, which is this tiny little thing I borrowed from Beth. Why she needs an evening purse, I have no idea. So I get my keys out while we're still in the car on the way home. No dilly-dallying for me. I've seen the movies. I know what message that sends. <SAY lips = "pouty">I had a great time.</SAY><!---Dilly-dally with the keys so that he'll know to kiss you.---> I most definitely do not want a kiss. I just want to get inside.

I practically run out of the car. I don't even wait for him to walk me to the door. He's trailing a good six steps behind me when I have the front door unlocked.

"Thanks, Matt. I had a good time." Relatively speaking. I mean you could consider it a good time compared to, say, working in a sweatshop factory for fourteen hours a day.

"We should do this again sometime."

I just smile. My mother always taught me if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Poor guy. He really is a nice guy.

"I'll see you on Monday," I say.

"Okay."

I walk in and close the door behind me. I have this need to see my kids. The TV blares a Nick-at-Nite rerun. Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, actually. Since when is that Nick-at-Nite material? Maybe I am getting old. I walk over to turn it off on tip-toe so that my heels don't click-clack all over the floor and wake them up. That's when I see them, all three of them curled up under one blanket on the floor, pillows everywhere. Bailey snores. I lie down next to Beth and grab a corner of the blanket.

"Hi, Mom." She has a sleepy voice and even sleepier breath. I love that sleepy breath.

"Hi, Sweetie."

"How was your date?"

"Let's just say that you won't be seeing Matt around."

"Oh, sorry."

"It's okay. Go back to sleep, honey."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

And I know that everything's going to be just fine.

Copyright 2007 Heather Goodman

a short story by Ben Sloan

Nervous, yet full of anticipation, David made his last preparations. He had everything he needed loaded into the truck: his rifle (with the new, expensive scope -- he'd get that buck this year, by God), his twelve-gauge shotgun, four rounds for the rifle, and four slugs for the shotgun. He had considered replacing the latter with blanks, in case the plan should go in some way awry, but had decided against it. Not only would he have to go through the trouble of ordering them through the internet, but the presence of blanks in his "friend's" gun would almost certainly be noticed later -- a detail that could very easily ruin his best efforts at perfection.

The drive over to Kevin's house was about fifteen minutes long, and gave him plenty of time to stew in the emotions he had been stewing in for the past four weeks -- four weeks full of sleepless nights and false smiles, acid indigestion so bad he thought his insides must have been burning away completely. About three days after he had found out about It, he had started developing stomach ulcers. It, the event that had not happened once but thrice, was steadily wearing away inside his brain to the point where he was balancing on the brink of madness.

Not after today, though, he thought as he took one last drag on his cigarette and tossed it out the window. No, after today it'll all be better. He reached to pull another out of the pack in his shirt pocket, but it was empty. No surprise there, he had been smoking eight packs a day since he had found out. Thinking about that, how she had sounded when she told him about It, like It was something small and forgivable, almost insignificant, made him squeeze the steering wheel so hard his nails bit into the leather. The nail on his left ring finger tore completely off, leaving a bloody window into his open flesh. He didn't feel it; the pain he felt in his mind over saturated any he might feel physically.

He coughed hard as he pulled into the driveway and stopped. Leaning over, he spit a mouthful of blood into Kevin's yard. When he looked up, Kevin was coming out of his house. Covered head to foot in newly-bought camouflage, Kevin looked every bit like the yuppie he was at heart.

David smiled his best salesman's smile.

"You ready to kill your first deer, Kevin?"

"You bet I am!"

Kevin jumped into the passenger seat just as happy and naive as a newborn pup. David noted that Kevin was wearing a hunter's orange cap. That was a complication David hadn't counted on, but not one entirely unfixable. He shifted the truck into drive.

"I've been really excited about this whole thing," Kevin said. "How many did you get last year?"

David took out the cigarette he was smoking -- he had opened another pack -- and snubbed it out on the dash.

"Two." He said. But what he thought was two doe. Just like every other year: he shot his limit, but in females. He had never, in all his years of hunting, fulfilled his lifelong dream of getting a buck. There had been a time, when he was seventeen, that he had caught a glimpse of one -- what he thought was one, anyway. Sometimes he dreamed of that buck. Except in his dreams it wasn't anything normal; it was a massive beast of an animal that stood eight feet tall and looked at him with bright red eyes, daring him to try to shoot it. He'd wake from these covered in a cold sweat, gripping his pillow like a life raft. He wanted that buck, all right. Wanted it so bad he could taste it.

"It's the county limit." He added.

Kevin's eyes widened. "Hey, you don't think I'll get two this year, do you?"

David shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess. Odds are you only get one, there aren't many around here any more. One thing I know for sure, though: If you get one, it'll be a doe. You can take that to the bank."

"Why is that?"

After lighting another cigarette, Dave responded. "Don't know exactly. What I do know is you wont see a buck around here. No one has in...oh, about ten years. But, like I said...this afternoon's rife with possibilities." With that last sentence, David's eyes lit up. Kevin didn't notice.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. David noticed his knuckles had turned white from squeezing the steering wheel; he forced himself to let up. He found his mind kept turning toward the guns in the backseat. Finally, just to get away from the steady throbbing inside his own head, he broke the silence.

"What do you say after we get done here, we head back to my place and have Sarah cook us up some dinner?" David eyed Kevin carefully, watching his response.

"Sure, sounds good."

Yeah, I bet it does, David thought. Then, on top of that: You sure are good, aren't you? Yeah...you play it nice and cool. David's knuckles had turned white again. They still were when he pulled into the grass next to the woods. It wasn't a very large piece of land, but it had been in his family for several generations now and David loved it. He couldn't think of a more appropriate place for this afternoon's festivities.

He stepped out of the vehicle and handed Kevin the shotgun. Holding it up to where Kevin could see, he showed him how to load and unload it. Pull the action back, drop the shell in, push the action forward and load the rest. So easy a preschooler could do it.

"Now," he instructed Kevin, "stay in the tree stand until the sun starts to set, then climb down, unload, and make your way over to the far corner, where I'll be in my stand. You got it?"

"Yep." Kevin didn't think to ask why they didn't just meet at the vehicle. How could David have ever befriended such an idiot?

"One more thing." David pulled a camouflage sock hat from his truck and handed it to Dave.

"Put that on instead of the orange hat. It gets cold up there."

Kevin wrinkled his nose. "But aren't I supposed to wear hunter's orange -- I mean, strictly, legally speaking?" Maybe he wasn't as stupid as David thought.

"Well, strictly yes, but no one really does. It's one of these stupid laws no one really cares about or enforces." Of course, this was completely wrong, but Kevin had no way of knowing.

"Oh, ok." He took the sock hat.

As the two men parted ways, David realized something that made him chuckle. I guess he really is an idiot after all, he thought. Didn't even notice I was wearing hunter's orange myself. His chuckle turned to outright laughter, and as he neared his tree stand, that laughter turned to a lunatic's cackle.

At the foot of the ladder, he unloaded his rounds from his weapon. Wouldn't want any accidents, now would we? The irony of the statement lead to another loud cackle, and he continued to laugh as he climbed up the ladder. Once there, he reached into his pocket for the bullets. Only one was there.

His heart stopped. One round? He must have dropped the others. Setting his gun on the seat of the tree stand, he climbed back down and searched the ground for his lost ammunition. He couldn't find anything. Cursing himself, he climbed back up the ladder. Once there, he loaded the one cartridge he had left into the rifle.

Doesn't matter anyway, he thought. I only need one shot to do what I need to do. The thought calmed him down, and he smiled as he lit a cigarette and waited for evening to fall.

The sun had just begun to set, and sure enough he heard footsteps. Peering through the scope, he spotted him. Kevin, looking tired and thoughtful, making his way though the brush. He was only about thirty-five yards away, and easily within shouting distance.

"Stop!" David yelled. Kevin stopped. He looked confused.

"Huh?"

David smiled. Something about the tone of his voice must've finally revealed what he was thinking, because Kevin looked more than confused, he looked downright scared.

"I said stop. Take another step and I blow you away." Kevin swallowed -- David could see it clearly through the scope. That swallow made him feel great.

"Let me tell you a little story, Kevin. It involves two people -- two very bad people. Do you know who those people are?"

Kevin tried to say something, but couldn't.

"I said DO YOU KNOW WHO THOSE PEOPLE ARE!"

Kevin took a step back. "N -- No."

"Speak up Kevin, I can't hardly hear you."

"I said no, I don't!" But the look on his face said he did. "Look David, it seems you're upset but --"

David's laughter cut him off. "Oh, Kevin, upset doesn't even begin to describe it. Do you have any idea what its like to have someone tear your whole world away, and smile in your face as they do it? You were my best friend Kevin. More than that, you were my only friend, aside from Sarah. But with that one act -- well, maybe I shouldn't say one, because who knows how many nights you kept my bed warm? -- you stripped both from me. You left me with no one, Kevin. No one, and no thing. Except for the rage...oh yes, the rage has kept me company quite well. And now, Kevin," David said as he l