The man was simultaneously looking for an escape and some clothes. Hammond blocked the door, and he would have to come within arm's length of Hammond to reach the window. Hammond realized he was enjoying watching the man panic.
He heard the man say, "This isn't what it looks like!"
He pulled the trigger twice, and the man fell bleeding onto the ground.
Cailyn screamed, "Gabriel!"
Hammond was in dumb with confusion, as he wondered who she was calling. Faced with irrational solutions and irrational fear, Hammond froze. Finally, his wife looked at him in tears and said, "Don't just stand there, Hammond! Call an ambulance."
He said quietly, and with relief, "My name is Hammond Mathieson."
"What is wrong with you?" Cailyn screamed. "He is dying."
She tried to rush past Hammond, but he blocked her way. She went back to Gabriel and told him it would be okay. They would call an ambulance and he would be okay. Hammond did not intend to let either one of those things happen. He had made his choice, and Gabriel Nelson had to die.
Gabriel suddenly stopped making noises, stopped moving, and stared blankly. He was dead, and his wife cried uncontrollably. She rushed at Hammond, and began to pound on his chest. He pushed her away roughly, and she tripped and hit her head. It was enough to make her hold her stay seated, but it didn't seriously injure her. He did not mean to hurt her. He also did not feel the need to apologize.
Hammond saw Gabriel's pants, and pulled the car keys out of the pocket. He left to open the trunk so he could put the body in it. When he came back, Cailyn had thrown a blanket over Gabriel, and Hammond laughed at her. He was dead. Did it really matter if he was naked?
Hammond was driving down the road calmly when he heard the old man say, "You forgot your shovel."
Hammond nearly drove off the road in shock. He glanced at the passenger seat and saw the old man smiling at him. Hammond looked back at the road and refused to ask the question he knew the old man was waiting for.
The old man finally said, "It's not too late, Hammond."
"I have a dead body in the trunk of a stolen car," Hammond responded. "In what way is it not too late?"
"A jury would probably go easy on you for killing your wife's lover in a fit of passion," he answered. With a laugh he said, "Tell them about me and you'll probably serve your time in a loony bin."
"Leave me alone."
A police car seemed to come out of nowhere with lights flashing and sirens blaring. Hammond swore and pulled over. This time, the police officer jumped from the car with his pistol drawn. He was immediately yelling for Hammond to get out of the car.
"It wasn't supposed to happen that way," Hammond said.
"Why would that bother—"
"Shut up," Hammond snapped.
"This is real life, Hammond," the old man said. "You can control your actions, here. You know what you have to do."
The old man vanished, and Hammond saw the pistol lying on the seat. He did not remember if he had brought it with him. Hammond grabbed the pistol, and took the safety off. It did not really matter where it came from; he had made his second choice. He stepped out of the vehicle, raised the pistol, and fired.
The End
684 Feet
The exact length of my life is 684 feet, he thought as he gazed down at the sidewalk from the edge of the building. It would only take one step, and it would all be over.
They always said your life flashed before your eyes just before you died. Instead, he found himself looking six months back and six hundred feet down. Both apprehension and determination gripped him as his feet inched over the ledge. Just a few more inches, and it would all be over.
"Hey!"
The voice startled him from his thoughts. This momentary slip was all he needed. He felt himself lose his balance, and only made it worse by trying to steady himself. First one and then the other foot found nothing, and he began to fall.
His heart raced as he waited for the final impact, but he had stopped. He looked up, unaware that he had caught the edge with his fingers and instinct had taken over. Some animal impulse of self-preservation caused him to catch the ledge as he began to fall against his will.
The fall was what he wanted.... Wasn't it? He realized that he had very little time for philosophy as his hands grew tired. Now, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he fell whether he wanted to or not.
As he struggled to pull himself up by his fingertips, a calm, handsome face appeared over the edge. There was no surprise, no concern. The man managed a smile that was amused by the situation but wasn't mocking. The man's eyes mesmerized him, and he could not call out to the stranger. Finally, he remembered his position and his voice, "Help me!"
The man paused for a second, and said plainly, "I'm sorry, you'll have to be more specific."
His jaw dropped in disbelief, but all he could manage was an honest and inane, "What?"
"I mean help you where? Up... or down?" The way the man said these words made it sound like an entirely valid question.
He replied with an automatic, "UP! Help me up! I'm going to fall."
The speaker asked as if daydreaming, "Wasn't that the point of coming up here?"
"Please, help. I can't hold on much longer."
As if he had not spoken, the mysterious stranger went on, "You don't strike me as a voyeur. It seems like an odd place to watch birds. You aren't wearing a parachute, so base jumping is fairly unlikely. And I don't imagine you found yourself here by accident."
"I'm going to fall! Help!" His fingers were almost off the ledge.
"Now why would a man who means to jump be concerned he is about to fall? Seems... well, let's just say poorly planned. Why climb the fire escape at all?"
"Please! I can't hold on any longer!" And his left hand came off the ledge leaving him hanging by three fingers.
"Was it just instinct, or did the jumper find some reason to stick around? How curi—"
His hand slipped, and a terror so great it suppressed his scream gripped him. He waited again for the feeling of weightlessness, the rush of air, and the sudden impact. None of these came. Once again, he was still.
Looking up, he saw the mysterious man had gripped him by the wrist. The man's hand felt as unyielding as a vise, but he looked as concerned with the situation as if he was waiting for a bus. A calm, knowing, and wry smile spread across his face. As he looked back over the ledge into the mysterious stranger's eyes, the other man picked up where he had left off.
"How curious! Of course, when the rest of your life is only 600 feet long it takes very little hope. Very little faith. It does seem the easy way–the only resistance being air."
Suddenly, he came to his senses and realized he was still hanging, "Pull me up, please."
The stranger looked at him earnestly, "Are you sure?"
"What?" he said as his voice squeaked. "Yes. Pull me up!"
"Much simpler when you know the exact length of your life. What is it? 680 feet?"
Did I say that out loud? he wondered. "684 feet."
The stranger shrugged nonchalantly despite the weight. "I don't suppose those last couple feet really matter." He said meaningfully, "Of course, it's not your whole life that flashes before your eyes. Only the last...say six months."
He knew he had not said anything like that. It was as if this stranger—who knelt calmly at the edge holding his weight effortlessly in one hand—had read his mind. At length, he remembered his exact position, and said almost at a whisper, "Please, help pull me up."
"I wouldn't help only to leave you unhappy." He was fairly sure the man was insane, and he must be going insane to think this sounded like a reasonable policy. The man asked, "So which is harder? The cement, or life?"
Could it be a coincidence? It was as if the other man had read his mind. "You can't hold on forever. Just pull me up."
The stranger was beginning to look bored. "I can let you go or hold you just as easy. Physical weight is so easy
to endure." Suddenly, he said forcefully, "Stop spitting out answers without thinking! Up, or down? It makes no difference to me."
He stopped, and truly thought. One way easy, one way hard. Was his life really that bad? Suddenly, it seemed so ridiculous to even consider the easy way out, and strange to realize he had thought this was easier. More importantly, he truly, fully, wanted to live.
"Pull me up," he whispered. "I want to live."
"I can't hear you, sir. Speak up."
"I said I want to live!"
The stranger lifted him with one hand as if he was a small child. He was lifted completely clear of the rooftop, and had to be lowered to let his feet touch. This mysterious man who was capable of Herculean strength and psychic phenomena released his grip, and the would be jumper rubbed the red bands on his wrist.
"Thank you."
"Not necessary," replied the stranger, who was looking around as if he was actually waiting for a bus now. Had one appeared on the rooftop, at that moment, it might have seemed normal.
"No, it is. You saved my life. How can I repay you?"
The stranger shrugged, and suggested, "Don't jump?"
In spite of himself, he chuckled. Then, he realized the stranger was serious. "I guess, thinking about it now, I don't know why I wanted to jump."
The stranger sighed impatiently. "The loss of a job, a wife who cheats, the 'friend' who stole her, a broken car, a pending divorce, failed investments, children who chose her and won't speak to you, a skeleton that came out of your closet...."
He was speechless. He had named every event in the last six months. Is he reading my mind? Is he stalking me?
"...I'm not a mind reader and I'm not a stalker." The stranger paused to chuckle. "Be pretty pointless if I was stalking you to save you, huh? Or maybe not. I wouldn't have much to do if the person I was stalking died.... Not the point. What I'm saying is that you have had it rough, but people have it much harder other places, and have pulled through.
"Are you my guardian angel?"
"Aren't angels supposed to have wings?" the man asked.
After a long pause, he repeated, "Do angels have wings?"
"If your guardian angel had wings, wouldn't he just fly and catch you instead of getting my pants dirty kneeling on this roof?"
"I guess.... That doesn't really answer my question."
The stranger made a dismissive gesture. "The important thing is to remember you only get one."
"One what?" he asked
"One life, one stop, one drop, one death." The stranger said this quickly as if it was a slogan.
He couldn't speak now, and he stared at the rooftop between his feet.
"You've had a tough time these last six months, but adversity can bring greatness." The stranger placed his hand on the man's shoulder, "You have been given a wonderful gift."
He looked up to tell the madman and savior that he understood, but there was no one else on the rooftop. He called and searched every inch of the building, and looked to see if the mad had jumped himself. He ran to the stairway, but the door was chained shut. He looked down the fire exit he had climbed to get there, but it was empty.
He was alone. He was alive. And for the first time in a long time, he was unafraid.
Butterfly
(I wrote this piece for a writing challenge, but the magazine did not publish it. The magazine required the first and last sentence be those shown verbatim. I have highlighted them for the reader. It was nominated for the Writer's Digest Short Short Story Competition.)
I have forgotten my umbrella. The adults always say that it rains when you forget your umbrella, but I don't think they've made an umbrella that can stop this storm. The storm seems to have stopped, and my mother is trying to figure out if I made it through okay. Today, it was harder on her than me. I hate the rain, but I am terrified of the weekly storms.
At first you sit peacefully and watch the clouds. There is never a sign that anything is about to happen, and you think it is going to be a good day for a change. Then something happens—something you can't stop and sometimes can't even see—and the storm starts slowly. First, there is a silence in the room as the storm clouds gather their strength. You can feel the change in the air, not quite cold but there is a pressure there you can't see. Next, the wind begins to blow. The angry storm clouds take turns raging, and each time they switch they get louder.
I heard someone say one time that butterflies cause storms. They said that when a butterfly flaps its wings somewhere in the world it makes a rainstorm happen far, far away. You can't even see what happened, and it is such a simple, pointless thing. I wonder if you knew, if you could find the butterfly that flapped its wings to start this storm, if I could stop it.
Tonight that butterfly has no name, but last week it was named Penelope. I do not understand what this butterfly did, but I think it may have caused two storms. Butterflies are so beautiful, and I can never understand how something so beautiful could cause this ugly storm and the pelting rain. If I could smash that butterfly I would just to stop the storms.
I want to run and hide, but it is raining outside. If I had an umbrella I could protect myself from the growing storm. If I had a raincoat that could protect me I would wear it every day like armor. But the boots, raincoat, and umbrella in my closet would only keep water off of me. They would not protect me from the storm.
I cannot see outside the windows as the rain hides the world, and the storm inside has gotten worse. The wind has begun to throw things around the house. Nothing can stop it from lifting the small items off the tables and tossing them aside. Some have broken in the fury of the storm. I can only hide behind something the storm cannot lift and hope it will all be over soon.
I try to keep the water from coming into the house. The rain must not come inside the house, and I must be brave to stop it. I have no umbrella to keep me dry if I let the rain come out.
And then I hear the storm clouds collide. For a second, the raging wind stops, and there is a crash. Only one storm still is blowing, but the other has only rain to give. My mother also forgot her umbrella, but it is too late to keep her dry.
The rain is falling unstoppably, and the storms are moving apart. My mother braves the rain to pick up the items blown around in the storm. My father is silent as he takes and umbrella into the rain, and to the car. At least one of us will remain dry.
As I peek out from behind the couch, my mother tries to smile at me. I can tell it hurts her face to do, and I know she is not winking at me because the eye does not open back up. She holds me close and says that I must not be afraid of the storms. I cannot stop them any more than I can stop the rain. There is nothing I could do to cause them either. I must be strong and brave so we can all weather the storm. For several days it will be quiet, and when the clouds come together again they will be calmed. I do not care about tomorrow's storm because I know the flap of a butterfly's wing could make it start again. I only care about one thing. They are not shouting at the moment.
The End
I'll Love You for a Thousand Years
(This is the poem that inspired the short story in my upcoming collection Love Transcends. It is not a spoiler.)
You left me at the altar so I left you at the Earth.
I’ve no regrets because it’s you who left me first
Nearly at the speed of light, heading to the stars,
I still miss with passing years the life that would be ours.
You said you didn’t need me, so I found someone that will–
These hundred thousand lives I keep in time arresting chill.
I am old and dying. I’ve been gone for fifty years;
Your grandchildren have now died, but I will shed no tears.
Before I die I know I’ll see just one more living face–
The second of the hopeless men to save the human race.
Centuries will come and pass before we reach our goal.
Before the end I’ll be long dead, but I’l
l die a lovesick soul.
###
About the Author
As promised, here is a thank you for downloading my book. Use the coupon code ET32A to get my first novel Murphy's Second Death .99 cents. This offer does not have an expiration date, but I may shut if off at an undisclosed point in the future.
Oren Hamerquist's work has appeared in a broad variety of magazines and anthologies. His first novel, Murphy's Second Death, is available at most online retailers. His second novel, Savage Animals, is slated for a winter 2015 release, and his third, tentatively titled Immunity Vectors, is planned for winter 2016.
He is married with three little girls, the oldest of who are twins. His wife is taking professional photography, and they are planning a collaborative and illustrated chapbook. He was born and raised in the Seattle area, where he hopes to eventually retire. He served in Afghanistan and several other locations while in the Army. He is currently living in Texas at the needs of the Army. He recently finished a BA in criminal justice with a certificate in paralegal studies from American Military University. He is currently earning his Master of Arts in English from Southern New Hampshire University.
You can connect with Oren at his official website: https://www.orenhammerquist.com, or on Goodreads, Smashwods, and Amazon Author profiles.
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