“You got the chicken?” Tommy asked, strutting across the outfield grass wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“Gosh sakes, Spitfield,” I whispered. “Keep it down, will ya?”
“You found one, though?”
“Deli’s closed.”
Tommy raised upturned palms toward the moon. “You had one job, Luis. You buy rotisserie chicken. I bring the jam and jellies. And Roger…”
“Can I help you, young man?”
Her calm voice surprised me. I’d expected her to scream.
Inhaling sharply, I waved my revolver to the right. “Hands on your head. Move in front of the counter. Now!”
The middle-aged cashier ducked to the side, her hands behind her head.
“Another raid has been reported, Your Majesty. We lost the Orion.”
I nodded, narrowing my eyes and bracing my feet against the floor’s slight rocking motion. Hopefully I looked as calm as I needed to.
“Sunken or captured?”
“Captured, sire.”
“Thank you, general. Dismissed.”
Through the mist, a faint glow hung over the water. I shifted my hydro-scooter into neutral and flicked the light off. The glow wasn’t Samuel’s spotlight. Besides, hadn’t he mentioned that the constables’ fuel allowance had been cut?
My scooter bobbed in the waves, a bit of salt spray dampening my boots.
Crossing my arms, I scowl at his gravestone. It’s a struggle to keep this aria of screams and sobs inside the icy wind of my mind instead of releasing it into the icy wind around me. He’d only seen me cry once; I’m not going to cry now.
Read it now
March 1st
Dear Jenna,
I’m deeply saddened that you’ve blocked me on every messaging app, so I’m writing you an old-fashioned letter. Speaking of which, I think old-fashioned is a good thing. It carries traditional values and all that stuff. Don’t be upset because I called you old-fashioned. Let’s go on a second date.
Eddie fidgeted in his chair, pen poised over the dotted line. Once he signed the paperwork, he’d have nothing left to distract him from the young woman on the other side of the desk.
Which meant a conversation would happen.
Why oh why had he let their mutual friend talk him into testing this new love potion?
Monday morning, four elderly but spry women sat in a corner booth at the local café, their hands cupped around steaming mugs of aromatic coffee. Tracksuits and Nikes identified them as aiming for quality of life. Mobile phones, lined up on the table, identified them as connected to the pulse of the world.
Read it now
The shock of cold water splashing all over my body startled me awake. My eyes frantically scanned the room as I tried to remember what had happened.
I am definitely not in my room.
The black walls were splattered with blood stains. A dingy toilet squatted in the corner, and iron bars blocked the doorway. I shivered as another round of cold water hit me from the other side of the bars.
Friends and fans knew him as Nole the Mole. The internet knew him as a viral failure.
Last year, he dueled Herbert the Hammer at the Twenty-Second Whack-a-Mole International Championship for the title of Mallet Master. Herbert’s score reached previously unseen levels, but Nole knew he could’ve beaten him— had he not ignored a “wet floor” sign, slipped, and sprained his mallet hand catching his fall.
They are coming.
I process the screech of my alarm, my thoughts already running a thousand miles an hour.
My children are coming. The house is a mess. Sister-In-Law Who Can Do No Wrong Ever will be here with Perfect Daughter. If she sees the mess in this house, our next holiday together will be a bloodbath.
Though I was eager to rush into a burning building once, now I sit on the sidelines, watching friends risk their lives to quench the flames, knowing they will hate me if they discover the real reason I’m in this wheelchair.
Bill stumbles out of the building with a pale-faced boy in his arms.
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