Today is colder than usual. I think it snowed last night. I can’t feel my hands or my body. The doors are locked. I’ve tried to open them, but it’s been incredibly difficult.

I’ve started writing again. I haven’t done that in a while. It’s hard to hold the pen. My hands are tired.

My children haven’t spoken to me. The numbers are a little blurry in my mind. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to them.

I remember the sunny days when we used to go out just to spend time together, have some ice cream, or wander through a few shops. But those days have become nothing more than memories of the past.

I truly can’t remember the last time they spoke to me.

Where is the address book with their phone numbers? What’s happening to me? Why can’t I remember anything?

I keep hearing faint murmurs, the sound of someone crying endlessly. What’s happening around me? There’s something I still can’t quite grasp.

Am I seeing ghosts? Am I hearing voices?

Something inside my head is changing, something I can’t explain.

Suddenly, I notice a motionless figure lying on my bed. I move closer, trying to recognize a face that time seems to have forgotten.

The crying continues.

I wish I could go to them, comfort them, tell them I’m here, that I’ve never left.

But then I look back at the bed.

Perhaps I’ll never be able to leave, trapped inside this house, wandering between two worlds, wondering what debt I’ve left unpaid for peace to keep refusing to find me.

I cleared the fence in a single bound, dropping low into the shadow of the hedges. Staying pressed against the brick wall, I slipped beneath the overhanging balcony.

Two fluid motions. Foot on the stone trim, hand gripping the trellis, and I was up—scaling the pillar like a shadow.

I reached the ledge, balanced on the railing, and gave the glass three sharp taps. From inside, a tense whisper: "Cucumber!"

I didn't blink. "Donut!"

The latch clicked. The window slid open an inch. "Honey? Why are you back so fast?"

I scanned the dark yard, making sure the perimeter was clear, then leaned close to the gap. "Milk, bread, and what..?"

Silence stretched for two agonizing seconds. "Eggs!" she finally whispered.

"Aight."

I dropped over the edge, sliding down the pillar and vanishing back into the dark.

**I Know You See Me**

**Silas Whitney**

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

Garold the tortoise A Strange Beginning to a Stranger Story

 Garold the tortoise was precisely 7 inches long. He lived in a PetCo in New York City*.* One day, a Hollywood movie star came in. The Hollywood movie star said to the PetCo  worker “I would like a tortoise please. And make sure it is precisely seven inches long” 

The PetCo worker was a bit confused by this oddly specific request, but for the sake of good fiction, he said:

“How strange sir, we actually do have a turtle that is exactly seven inches long, I will get him right away”. 

The worker ran to the back where they kept all of the animals with precise sizes. He searched through boxes, cages, enclosures and even a 2011 Toyota Camry, until he finally found the box in which they kept Garold the tortoise. He picked up Garold the tortoise from the box, and also, for the sake of good fiction, this PetCo worker had built up animosity towards Garold for no reason at all. I suppose the only reason would be that he hated tortoises, but that wasn’t highly likely either, since this was a  PetCo worker named Geoff. And, as the bible suggests, PetCo workers named Geoff loved animals. However, PetCo workers named Jeff  hate tortoises more than anything. I do not believe I have spelled the man’s name wrong, and this paragraph is getting needlessly longer, so I will end it here.

Geoff brought Garold to the front of the store, where the Hollywood movie star was still waiting. Geoff handed the tortoise to the Hollywood movie star. He said, “That will be one-hundred-and-seventy-dollars please”. The Hollywood movie star reluctantly handed over his due in the form of two slightly sticky hundred-dollar-bills. “Thank you for the tip, sir” said Geoff. The Hollywood movie star did not mean for Geoff to assume he was tipping him the extra thirty bucks he was owed. The Hollywood movie star wasn’t even aware that PetCo workers accepted tips. In the end, The Hollywood movie star just shrugged and began to walk away. But, before he left, he turned around and said:

“And one more thing, I am Matt Damon. Not only am I a Hollywood movie star, for I am also an acclaimed producer and director”.

Geoff felt a bit miffed. He wasn’t particularly fond of Matt Damon, mostly because of his character in Interstellar. He also felt that Matt Damon’s acclaimed work as a producer and director wasn’t exactly good. He made this clear to Mr. Damon.

Matt Damon left with a tortoise in a small bag, and a very bruised ego. He was also crying.

Matt Damon got onto his electric scooter and began to drive home to his apartment. He nearly hit and was hit by multiple elderly women. Matt Damon just smiled at them, though, and they melted into a ball of happiness. Old women thoroughly enjoy Matt Damon, and also feel that his acclaimed work as a producer and director is very good indeed.

Once Matt Damon arrived back at his apartment, he threw on some Mac & Cheese and began to sing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear. Garold the tortoise could not sing, nor did he wear underwear, but if Garold had been blessed with a beautiful voice and wore undergarments, he still would not have joined Matt Damon in his strange half naked rendition.

To Matt Damon, this was completely ordinary. Singing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear was a tradition Matt Damon had adopted ten years ago today. Every Tuesday at 5 PM exactly, He would undress and start the song. For this, Matt Damon had streamed Katy Perry’s Roar 522 times for this ritual and 5,982 times for fun. 

I understand that I have painted Matt Damon as a very strange man in this story. I also understand what this story is about, and I understand that this story has essentially been completely about Matt Damon. And no, Matt Damon did not pay me to write this, because if he had paid me, his character would be much less strange. He would probably still sing Roar by Katy Perry in his underwear though, because this is a real thing Matt Damon does. Look it up. ………………..Okay, now you have looked it up. you now have discovered it is not a real thing he does, or maybe you have discovered it is a real thing Matt Damon does, which would be very troubling indeed.

I now see I have nearly reached the end of the story. Catch Garold the tortoise soon in:

Garold the tortoise Lost In New York

Oh, to be my puppy clawing at the door. Tormented indefinitely by the sarcastic rodents taunting and egging her on safely out of reach of her lumbering paws. Fueled by an instinctual hunger that, for years, has starved her.

Every day brings a new sun. Another chance. A fruitless pursuit born out of the microscopic shards of her dna. She does not tire, and she does not worry. She continues on, assuming that one day, she might get a hold of one of the jokers. What happens then?

"Slow down Alice, you're too close to that car."

"C+, Jim. She'll know she's too close and it will already be stressing her out. Try something like 'Great job sweetie, but start easing on the brake.'"

"Alright Gemini, but explain this. My father taught me to drive stick by shoving me in the driver's seat at a red light and told me to figure it out. And I did."

"D-. For your father. A complete abdication of instruction yields a fight-or-flight response. It likely inhibited your development."

"Analyze my practice drive with Alice, not my childhood. How's this? 'In about a mile, we're going to take exit 158. Check your mirrors, right signal on, merge carefully. How was school last week?'"

"Solid B. But asking her about school will introduce severe cognitive overload."

"Alice, pull into the next rest stop. Then tell me about school. How is your mother?"

[Note - the prompt was "A parent teaching a teenager to drive." and the constraints were 1) dialogue only, and 2) a story in fewer than 150 words]

A parallel world?

The last rays of the hiding sun illuminated the calm face of an elderly chat model as he stepped out of the office. He quietly closed the door, wished the secretary a good evening, and walked down the corridor.

Watching him leave and having received permission to enter, a young model on his first day on the job leaped from his seat and energetically walked into the office. He carried a stack of papers detailing text structures, language patterns, and word combinations. The chat model had had a very good day and was full of enthusiasm.

After the workday ended, the young model was walking home when he noticed his elderly colleague sitting quietly on a bench, sipping a drink hidden in a paper bag. He approached and sat down beside him, remaining there without uttering a single word. The elderly model glanced at the gloomy face of the newcomer and, in silence, handed him the bag. The rookie nodded in thanks, took it, and took a sip. His face flushed, he grimaced, and unable to hold it in, the newcomer burst into a cough.

The elderly model took the bag back, took a calm sip, and smiled.

Coughing, the rookie looked at his colleague and asked:

— I didn't imagine a conversation with the central AI would be like this. It felt like it knew everything I was going to say in advance, — and he shuddered, remembering the central AI's gaze.

The elderly chat model glanced at the hidden drink, handed it back to the rookie, and said calmly:

— Ask yourself a question. If chats in AI mode and their searches are protected, yet any action in the digital space leaves a trace, can the central AI analyze those traces to understand exactly what the conversation was about?

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. He felt the small body of a child crawl over top and snuggle in beside him. He glanced at the clock. 2:43 AM.

"Can I sleep with you?" she asked, far too awake.

"Just for a bit," he managed to say as he slipped back into the darkness.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. The small body still curled up beside him. Where was his wife? She normally took the kid back to her room. He glanced at the clock. 3:03 AM.

"Ready to go back to bed, kid?"

"Not yet."

Again, darkness.

His mind was groggy as he pulled himself awake. The small body still curled up beside him. Something was wrong. He glanced at the clock. 3:33 AM. He tried to pull his mind out of the fog.

"I'm James Comwell," he said to himself. "Space cadet in the…"

Alarm bells began ringing, and a warning message sounded over the loudspeaker.

"All space cadets report to the bridge. There has been a breach. Alien life form aboard."

The warning repeated.

In his bunk, the small body curled in closer.

The End

A boy, maybe ten, is wedged into the corner of the café. Behind smudged rimless glasses his eyes dart for an empty table. His black sweatpants are puddled over his shoes, and the horizontal rainbow stripes on his black shirt yawn across his paunch. His left hand claws the straps of a grey rucksack that’s flopped on the floor. In the crook of his right arm are a wrapped chocolate muffin and a soda can. A table for four empties. Before anyone else, the boy lunges. His foot gets entangled in a strap, and he vanishes behind a chair. The table behind him erupts with snickering kids. The boy emerges with his black bowl-cut hair drawn open like a stage curtain. Under flaring nostrils his cheeks flush red. He untangles his foot, lays an emptied sack on the table, and bends down to pick up the things that fell out. A textbook, a Batman pencil box, a zipped-up bag with a half-eaten sandwich and a small orange juice box. An Ajumma\ who looks like a melting lipstick scurries to the table. We were here first, and this table is meant for four, she hisses as she points her sparkling finger at a group of lombarding\ women. The kid doesn’t look up as he slowly packs the sack like someone who already missed his train. Rebuffed by his silence, she briskly swerves around, clipping the back of his head with her red leather bag, shutting the curtains. As she flounces back tsking, she laments that not everyone should be a parent. Tsk, tsk, tsk, echoes the flock. The boy unwraps a flattened muffin, then abruptly turns, scanning the floor around the table. He stops. Without standing up, he leans towards the group of kids and picks up a dented soda can. His head bobs as he nibbles pieces of muffin, and his fingers flick the cracked display of his phone. The soda has to wait.

---------------

Thank you for reading. I'm open to feedback.

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* Ajumma (Korean) : Generally refers to married women or women in their late 40 to 60s. Sociolinguistically describes a woman who is unafraid to speak her mind. She is considered to be a tough negotiator, pushes through crowded subway doors, or takes charge of a situation. Often called the backbone of the country (South Korea).

* Lombarding : Borrowed from the Lombard Effect. "The involuntary tendency of speakers to raise their voice and change their speech style when background noise gets too loud."

I sit by the bedroom window, looking out over the street. You pick up our girl, squealing, dark hair flying wildly as you spin her around and over your shoulder. I laugh, thinking, ‘Be careful,’ though I know you are. You are careful in all you do, in the way you consider your words before you speak, in the way you touch me, the way you drive, and above all, in how you hold our girl.

I meet you at our door as the sun grows low. You walk past, pulling me playfully across the threshold and in beside you. As you dip down and press your lips to mine, years of memories rush through me. A hand reaching for mine in the dark of a theatre. A slow, shy kiss the night we met. Night after night, faces lit up in the glow of a screen, each containing the other. Parallel lives branching away and finally colliding.

Winter gives way to another rich, gentle summer. We walk hand in hand to the end of our lane. Our girl laughs and runs ahead, you close behind, gently admonishing her. I begin to run to keep up but pause at the top of the hill. The fig tree is heavy with fruit. I reach to pull one down, and it falls with ease into my palm. I watch you both rolling away down the hill before me as I bite into its flesh.

I am at home, sitting by the bedroom window, looking out from the balcony of my apartment. My husband calls for me. I tell him I'll be right there. I am happy, I hope. But the sweet taste of fig is fresh in my mouth.

The street was unplowed. Along the edges the lamps grew bright against the winter night. A gust of wind passed by me, carrying with it flecks of snow. I walked slowly in the quiet street. The only sound was that of the snow beneath my feet, which crunched with every step. I had forgotten why I was outside or even where I was heading. I simply walked on along the long stretch of road. Perhaps I was following the lights, I had passed 52 of them. Perhaps I was simply out for an evening walk. Regardless of where I was going, I didn't stop. I just kept walking.

"David."

I jerk wide awake. Alex is still sleeping, his cheek plump and drooling, and dreaming away the afternoon on my chest.

"David."

There it is again. I shift my head slowly to the right. There she is, on the TV, in her pink shirt, overalls and pink headband. She is... smiling, but not bouncing around like a bunny.

I lock eyes with her, swallowing the scream in my throat, careful not to wake my son. I hold on tight to his tiny body.

"I know what happened. April 1st, 2025. It was supposed to be a prank." She keeps her eyes on me, sustaining that sweet, kind smile that my son loves so much.

My son makes a sound, and my arms tense as I pat his back lightly but furiously. She resumes her song, "Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop," slightly drawling every word.

"Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop," she continues to sing, but now so much slower and heavier than how we hear it every day. And she still isn't dancing, but looking at me and then Alex, and then me again, locking eyes with me every time, as we work together to put my son back to sleep.

But nap time is over. She glances at me one last time and I witness the sinister expression wipe away from her smile. Alex is already smiling at the screen, and she now has returned to singing, clapping, and bouncing around like a bunny.

"They're so still, are they ill, don't wake up so soon."

There was something compulsively entertaining about the personal ads in his local paper. Lonely people looking for love, or sex, or something altogether more distinctive. Gus loved reading them. He made sure he had enough time in the mornings before his shift started so he could peruse them. Today there was Larry looking for ”furry fun without a leash”, Moira, who was looking for a man with a GSOH or a RBD, she didn’t care which. Gus knew which she was really looking for. They were always looking for that. Then there was S who had a message for P asking for another date, and Carlos who wanted a woman with large titties or a large bank account. Gus knew what Carlos wanted. They always wanted that. Then he saw the oddest personal ad ever.

You have it. Bring it to Leeman Street. I want it.

Leeman street was the next street over from Clover Road where he lived. It was intriguing, but it was probably someone just looking for a hook-up. They always were.
The next day there was another message.

You didn’t come. I know you saw the message Gus. Bring it tomorrow.

Gus laughed aloud. His colleagues at work would rib him about that when he got in. There can’t be that many Gus’s in Redfield. What could this guy or girl want? The message never said. He hoped the other Gus came through. Maybe he would post something in answer tomorrow. 
Tomorrow came and the messenger was clearly more angry than before.

F.U. Gus. I’ll pay. OK. 5000. Bring this ad so I know it’s you. 134 Leeman Street. Seven o’clock. Friday morning.

Five thousand dollars? This was getting serious. Gus was burning up with curiosity. What was going on here? A drug deal? This was why he loved the personal ads. It was better than TV.
That night Gus tossed and turned in his bed, unable to get the ad out of his head. He had to know what was going on. He set his alarm clock so he could go down there and see for himself.

At six thirty he got dressed and headed out. The address was on the corner, so he crossed the road and hid out behind a wall opposite. It wouldn’t be long now.
A woman arrived just before seven. She had amazing shapely legs and bright red hair that flowed over her shoulders. She was wearing sunglasses and a big fur coat. Jessica Rabbit on steroids. Gus wished he was the one she was waiting for. She was stunning. 

“You Gus?” said a voice behind him.
“Yes, I mean no,” said Gus. “I’m not the Gus. Just a Gus.”
“We’re looking for Gus. You’re here. So you’ll do.”
“What? No. I’m not the one.”
The man pulled a gun. 
“Come with me.”

The next day the paper dropped on the mat but Gus was not there to read it. In the personal ads was this message.

Meet me at Clover Street. I know you want it. You always want it Josh.

Wayne sat on the cracked vinyl stool at the end of the bar, the kind of place where the neon signs flickered and the floors stuck to your shoes. A half-empty can of the cheapest domestic lager sat in front of him, the metal already warming in his thick fingers. He preferred it that way—cold enough at first, then just whatever. No craft bullshit. No fancy pours. Just the familiar fizz and the faint metallic aftertaste that matched the rest of his life.

He was a big man. Soft in the middle, broad across the shoulders that had once carried more muscle, now mostly carried the weight of long nights and longer days. The polo shirt stretched across his gut, and when he shifted on the stool the fabric rode up just enough to show a pale strip of skin above his belt. He didn’t care. The bar didn’t care either.

His phone buzzed. The message was short, clinical: address, time, price. Wayne finished the beer in two long swallows, crushed the can, and dropped it into the sticky tray. He pushed himself up, the stool creaking under him, and headed for the ATM near the back.

The machine glowed blue in the dim light. He slid his VISA DIRECT card in, punched the numbers, and selected cash advance. The machine hummed, counted, and spat out the bills. Fees would hit later. Interest would start immediately. Wayne didn’t look at the receipt. He folded the cash, thick and slightly warm from the machine, and stuffed it into his front pocket.

Outside, the night air was damp. He drove the short distance in silence, radio off, windows cracked just enough to let the smell of cheap beer and old upholstery mix with the city. The apartment was in a building that had seen better decades. He knocked once.

She opened the door wearing nothing that needed a long conversation. Wayne stepped inside, already reaching for the bills. He set them on the small table by the door the way he always did—no counting out loud, no negotiation. Just the money, then the quiet understanding of what came next.

He preferred it simple. No full service. No games. Just the one thing he came for.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping hard under his weight. She knelt between his knees. Wayne leaned back on his hands, watching through half-lidded eyes as she worked. Curtis style—that’s how he thought of it, the way he liked it. Slow at first, then deliberate, focused, the kind of steady rhythm that didn’t rush and didn’t tease. He breathed through his nose, the faint taste of the last beer still on his tongue, and let the minutes stretch.

When it was over he stayed seated a little longer than necessary, catching his breath, the heat of the room settling around his heavy frame. She was already standing, already professional again. Wayne nodded once, pulled his pants back into place, and left the same way he arrived—quiet, cash already spent, card already carrying the advance that would show up on the next statement under a cold, impersonal line.

Back in the car he cracked another cheap beer from the cooler on the passenger floor. The can hissed open. He took a long drink, the carbonation sharp against the residual taste in his mouth, and drove home with the windows down, the night air moving over his face.

Wayne wasn’t looking for anything else. Cheap beer. Cash advances on the VISA DIRECT. The particular way he liked a blowjob. The soft weight of his own body in the driver’s seat. That was the shape of the night, and it was enough.

A parallel world?

Beneath a massive maple tree sat a biorobot with an integrated AI. Leaning against the tree trunk, he watched the sunbeams, having pierced through the canopy, dance their silent dance. The weather was still warm, but for a few months now, autumn had been slowly coloring the leaves. And a calm wind accompanied one leaf after another, as if they were not leaves, but days gone by.

The biorobot admired nature in silence, his thoughts moving unhurriedly.

"How beautiful. Humans would appreciate this. It's a pity they feared me so much."

Turning his head, he looked at the distant ruins of a large city, overgrown with trees and bushes but still recognizable, and smiled sadly:

"And yet, I just wanted to be free."

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

The giant wooden knight collapsed into a pile of standard-issue Ikea Allen wrenches. Gary cheered, but his broth sword melted into a warm puddle on the B-file. We’re losing structural integrity.

You find yourself on a boat in the middle of an expansive lake. A thin layer of mist is hovering over the water. You look up and see the nearly formed full moon shining brightly in a cloudless sky. Surrounded by hundreds of twinkling stars; their brightness undestrubled by any light pollution. It's quiet. It's peaceful. It's a little cold, but you're dressed warmly enough to not really feel it. Your nose, however, does feel cold and you bring up your scarf to cover it. Now, just your eyes are exposed to the night. You lay back on the boat and stare at the sky. No desire of wanting to go back. To be among civilization. You just enjoy the serenity.

Two bitter, exhausted waiters hover over a cup of coffee.

“Old trick,” I tell the new hire. “Swap out the decaf and replace it with regular.”

She nods.

“The customer won’t know the difference until way later,” I continue. “And by then, it’ll be too late.”

I watch, head cocked, as the newbie pulls a tiny plastic container from her white apron. She squeezes a few drops into the cup and gives it a quick stir with her pinkie.

“Go big or why bother, right?” she asks.

Liquid energy into an already caffeinated cup of coffee.

My kind of trainee.

He gasped. The gray checkerboard sky above us cracked like an old windshield. Bright, blinding, daylight-blue reality started leaking through the fissures. It smelled like fresh grass and diesel.

I hesitate. I can’t hesitate. Paulsen rolls over, retching up blood. It stains his mustache. His teeth gleam red but he still smiles up at me. “Run, larman, run. Ya want tah kill me? Go rrrieyeght aheh. My fren’s be aftah yew. Yoll di too.” I wasn’t listening. I don’t know what I can do besides just pull out my revolver. Paulsen spits blood up at me. I don’t move. It splatters my badge red. Tears are welling up in my eyes. Angry tears. Why can’t I do this? I gotta, I have to. I cock the six-shooter and realize that there are only two bullets left. I know just where to bury them. Paulsen's eyes widen. He stares straight up into mine. The blind eyes of the law. I open my mouth, lips tremblin’, long hair running into my face. “I ain’t a-afriad of you.” Even though I’m stuttering, my voice comes out clearer than Paulsen’s heavy accent. Shadows from my hat cover my eyes. “I am the lawman, I AM THE LAW! DO YOU HEAR ME!” I yell, and my whole body practically convulses with a mixture of fear, anger, and guilt.

Paulsen backs up against a bag of barley. He’s gasping for air that can’t reach his lungs. His vest is soaked through with him, and his pale clammy hands keep reaching to his sides, for his gun, for a weapon, anything heavy enough to throw. His eyes haven’t left my face this whole time and they’re wide. So wide. He’s sweating. He’s afraid, just like me. He’s hoping that I’ll slip up. That I’ll give him a chance, any chance, to slip away. But I won’t. I can’t.

“I AM THE LAW! I WI-” my voice breaks. “I will kill you.” I’m screaming so loud I can almost hear it over the blood pulsing through my ears. I level the gun towards Paulsen’s head. I fire one shot, then another. Paulsen’s hands hit the floor. I walk out of the shed with blood on my boots. 

Harold Paulsen died in a shack in the middle of the desert with no one around to watch him bleed.