Volume 2, Number 5                     May 2006

Butterfly Milkweed by Warren Bull.  A man alone faced with overwhelming odds and trying to save a life - the stuff of which heroic stories are made.  And most of the time the weapons are blades, guns or fists - but not this time. 

Time slows and then stops.  Worry, doubt, hope and fear all fall away from my mind, leaving me with one terrible, clear certainty.  In this place, at this time, I will die.  Here on the hilltop, alone, surrounded by enemies, I will die.  My heartbeat roars in my ears. I grip the sharp edges of the flint spearhead hidden in my hand, coiling myself to explode from my kneeling position.  In a second, Dakota will drop his hand toward his gun.  I will strike upward, howling and rip his throat open.  His hot blood will spurt out.  Maybe I will be able to seize his gun in the seconds before the others react.  Maybe not.  Either way, the others will blast away at me until my body is shot to pieces.  I will die today, but I will not die alone.  

Jack killed his wife Frannie.

After several years of suffering from a slow-growing cancer, Frannie became bedridden.  With so many painkillers in her, she seldom reached a full awareness of her surroundings. A day came when Jack could stand her suffering no longer. Gently, he covered her face with a pillow until her spirit departed the pain-racked body.

Detective Lilly St. John scrolled down through her emails.  There was the usual collection of messages from her sister, who probably needed another loan, and a group of in-house memos from the squad.  And some prankster with a macabre sense of humor.  Killer@Yahoo - DEAD BODIES.  She hit delete without bothering to open it.  Instead of deleting, it spawned another thirty messages, all the same.

"What the hell?"

"Exactly.  You really need to open that one," came a voice from behind her.

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Bobby had spied on them for weeks now, ever since they moved into the place down the hill.  He sat in the smoky, dingy dining room of his trailer home, sipped a beer and watched them through his old Navy binoculars.  Little mounds of cigarette butts grew in the old peanut butter jar lids he used as ashtrays.

“In order to wear these socks, I’m gonna have to go buy new shoes that are two sizes larger than the ones I usually wear, or go without shoes at all.”

Judy stood with her hands on her hips looking at me like I had completely lost my mind.  Then her foot started tapping.  I knew that sign.  Small tears were starting to form in the corners of her eyes.  “Do you have any idea how hard I worked on those socks?”

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Melanie answered the phone on the third ring. She was wrapped in a towel, having just emerged from the shower.

'Hi, Mel," the voice said. "This is Cheryl. I have a date for you. That puppy-kinda guy who always says 'please' and 'ma'am, like he's askin' for a favor instead of payin' for it."

Melanie gave a low moan. "Oh, hell, I was hoping to stay home tonight. I've been out every night this week with 'long-timers.' And I'm expecting an important call from my mom's surgeon."

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You'll be glad you did.  Or else.

My nerves were shot.  My ears were ringing.

Something had to be done.

And no one wanted to do it.

So it was up to me.

Funny, though, how I thought the problem was you.