Out on the Bay

"I've been working on a boat out on the bay." I was sharing the bar with a down-to-earth working man, three days' stubble, worn jeans, a beat-up denim jacket. I didn't know he was the wrong person to tell. He grunted. "A pretty little thing?" I laughed.

"Not a chance. Ugly as sin but safe as houses. Looks like Frankenstein's boat maybe, but she'll be floating when the trumpets call."

He smiled. "Sounds like a good boat. Like to go out and get some peace and quiet?"

It was my turn to grunt. "Like anyone can find peace these days. No, my Sanctum — that's her name — is loaded up with food and fuel, water, ammo, all that."

He nodded and was quiet long enough for me to worry he could be an informant. Then the guy launched into his own plans, a cabin in the woods someplace, belongs to his cousin. Sounded made up to me.

It probably was. Because when shit met fan and I went to my Sanctum, she was gone. Did he tell the government? Did he wake up and smell the manure before I did, and remember my ugly little boat? Does it matter?

Ideas Will Come

"Do it." The woman leaned over the drafting table, looking down at the field of unspoiled white on it and the artist staring at it. She was tall, blonde, and looked endlessly cheerful. "Not. Helping," said the artist, a slender woman hunched over the pad, ink on her hands, hair in disarray from hours of worrying it with her hands.

"The only thing stopping you is that you aren't starting."

"I can't start when I don't have any ideas."

"If you start, the ideas will come." The blonde leaned in close and whispered. "That's the great secret to inspiration. It's that easy."

The artist slammed her pen down. "If it's that easy, why don't you do it?"

"You silly!" She waved the idea away. "I'm the muse. You're the artistic genius! Go ahead, start." Her smile was brilliant and clueless.

The artist stared daggers at her. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. A long moment later, she picked up her pen and put it to paper.

"That's it," cried the muse. "That's how you do it!" The artist worked furiously, and the muse looked closer. "What a fascinating, hideous monster!" She paused.

"Is that me?"

Staring Out to Sea

On a rocky spit mired in the deep blue of the ocean and smothered by the unending pale blue of the sky, only a man broke the monotonous beauty. He was still as the stone he sat on, staring out to sea. Sometimes he thought the ocean spoke to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting," he said. He continued staring into the lazy waves.

The ocean lapped up against the rocks, reaching out to comfort him but never coming close enough. "What are you waiting for?"

The man was silent for a dozen heartbeats. "If I wait here, I'll be the first to see her when she comes back."

The ocean had to think about that for a while. A cloud rose on the horizon, a dingy white that looked to be dragging grey clouds behind it. Eventually the ocean said, "This is private property, you know." The man just nodded, gazing out at the water, never still, never going anywhere.

After another period of silence, the ocean said, "I guess he's harmless. C'mon, let's go. If he's still here tomorrow, we'll call someone."

Out on a rocky spit, under a sky darkening with stormclouds, a man waited.

Nothing Comes Out

My tea grows cold as I watch the black family sitting across the aisle. The hispanic waitress bustles past, and I wonder again if I can ask her to put their bill on my tab. If there's something I can do to let them know that I don't agree with what's happened. I want them to know they aren't alone. They probably know that already, but not about me. Lucy apologizes for the delay. I wave it off, and my smile draws a genuine smile from her. That warms me, but I wonder if she's scared today for herself, or for someone she knows. I want to reassure her that I'm scared for her too, and for those unknown millions who will suffer. I want her to know that my skin isn't a blank slate for others to write their hate upon.

My food comes. Twice as Lucy passes, I feel the words form in my throat, trapped behind uncertain lips. Then the family gets their check, and it's too late. I eat quietly, then take my check to the register. I want to say something, commiserate, apologize, but nothing comes out.

I leave an exorbitant tip, and I leave.

Faces on a Plane

She looked at me over the back of the airplane seat, her eyes weighing me with all the wisdom of her seven years. I made a face. Those eyes widened and the girl disappeared, only to reappear a moment later and smile when I made a new face. It became a game. Whenever she popped her head back over the chair to look at my next face or show me one of hers. I switched to scary faces. First she pretended to be scared, then she mimicked me. She started simple, but her scary faces soon became sophisticated, even expert.

When it was time to put up seats and trays, I'd just delivered a real fright, something I'd learned after an errant football displaced my jaw. I could tell she was impressed. She looked sidelong at her parents, then gave me the face.

It was all I could do not to scream. I don't remember clearly, but I think I managed to wave goodbye. It was all I could do to wave goodbye.

I was the last to disembark. I needed to know I wouldn't see her — see that — again. Except I do, every night in my dreams.

Catch Him by Midnight

Ansgar dodged between two adults, ignoring their curses. He ducked behind a pile of hard-framed luggage stacked by a cabin. In the cabin, a man narrowed his eyes at the boy. Ansgar grinned and ran off. A moment later, a red-haired girl of the same age ran past, laughing. Turning a corner, Ansgar threw open the door into the aft dining room. Instead of going through, he ran halfway down the stairs to the cargo hold. He stifled giggles as Eilish neared, then chased after his false trail. With a wide grin, he ran down into the hold and hid behind a crate. He hoped she'd pick up his trail soon. It was cold with the cargo, and running was warmer than hiding. Not that he'd let her get too close. If she didn't catch him by midnight, in twenty minutes, he'd win a kiss. He wanted to win, and he suspected that Eilish wanted him to win, too.

He heard a rumble from somewhere else on the ship, then the floor shook him to the ground. Ansgar climbed back to his feet and resumed waiting. He was looking forward to what came next. Another fascinating evening on the Titanic.

Through the Sluggish Traffic

"C'mon man, hurry!" Jaxon crossed the busy city street through molasses-quick rush-hour traffic. Jason hefted the heavy bag of recording gear and followed. They'd needed months to put it together: scrounging money to buy or rent equipment, wheedling friends and teachers to borrow anything that was available, and skipping school. They'd get in trouble, sure, but they'd be legends. It was the chance of a lifetime. At least the chance of high school. Same thing.

Jason weaved through the sluggish traffic. He was halfway across when a honk and the shriek of metal on asphalt turned him around. A motorcycle squeezing between the cars had flipped somehow. The rider wasn't moving. Jaxon yelled at him to come on. Someone in a Lexus yelled for someone to pull the bike and biker to the curb so he could get to work.

Jason had taken first response classes. He knew what a bad idea that was. He knew the ambulance would take forever in this traffic, the police would demand paperwork, and he would never have another chance to shoot this video.

Ignoring Jaxon's yells, Jason knelt by the rider and pulled out his phone. "Help is on the way," he said.