They called it “the outback.” Brush and bushes among trees, which obscured the chain link fence separating our property from parking lot. Once an argument led to thrown sticks on both sides. Mostly they were fine. They’d play safari, and if the neighborhood cat wandered through it was a tiger. Then they’d pet it and run inside for juice boxes.

“Daddy, there’s something weird.”

The dove’s chest cavity was empty, the inedible wings splayed. “Looks like the cat got one,” I said.

They still petted the cat but looked at it differently, more like I looked at them.

“Hey!”

“Hi.”

“I’m Adam.”

Silence.

“You’re headed to the city too?”

Eye-roll.

“Right, stupid question. That’s the only bus this early.” After a few seconds, “You new here? Never seen you around.”

Sighing impatiently, “No.”

“Oops, my bad, probably didn’t notice you earlier.”

A frown behind the book.

“Oh no no! I meant that I’m always in such a hurry. You, of course, are very noticeable,” adding a toothy smile for good measure.

No reply.

Pointing at the book, “Beth dies, you know.”

The book snaps shut as she finally turns to look at him, with murder in her eyes.

The way her eyes are smiling. It's disgusting, unbearable. The whole process is hard too watch.

The way her hands work. She is familiar with this. She has done it before.

The whole scene plays out silently, like a television on mute, embellished only by tiny whispers of breath.

Chilly tears. The brush of strangely warm fingers across a cheek. Murmurs, a language not recognized, rythmic and piercing.

The dagger is jagged, yet gorgeous. Sparkling emeralds, like hopeful eyes, rest in its hilt.

It is very, very, sharp.

As one is wont to do when age creeps up and illness follows, they each had a handful of pills to take before bedtime.

They each had an extra one tonight.

Side by side they lay under the quilt, legs entwined, hands gripped as they often were as they waited for sleep to come.

“I love you,” she said.

“With all my heart,” he replied, completing the thought as he had done so many nights before.

But tonight was different. They both knew it. They lay in the dark, eyes wide open, knowing once closed, they would not open again.

They’re all wrong.

All of them. The geologists, the sheriff; heck even the governor!

Stubborn. Who’s stubborn? ME? Poppycock!

I say hogwash to the lot of them damn so called experts telling ME to evacuate.

Hittin’ me with facts. Facts. Smacts. What do they know! Bunch of wimps.

Jeez. Why such a fancy name! Mount Saint Helens! It’s just a molehill!

That damn volcano is a mile away from this here lodge. I ’aint budging and the last laugh is gonna be on all those fools who thought they knew better than me, I, Harry R. Truman.

I though my birthday party would be fun, until I heard the words “We should play Truth or Dare!”

I picked dare the first time, but embarresed by the result, I picked truth on my next turn.

Smirking, my best friend asked me my crush, her eyes sparkling with mischief and kindness, while her shining white-blonde hair gleamed in the artificail lighting.

Wait, where did that come from?

I blinked. Twice. Then I ran out of the room as fast as my feet could carry me.

Her gaze landed upon him gentler than the forest breeze. His heart stopped as he stared back. They'd only left camp to collect kindling, but a different kind of spark ignited. Magnar hazily drifted towards Anselma until her back was against a tree. She sighed as her hands found his shoulders and her eyes closed. The kiss was soft and sweet. She breathed his name as their lips parted and lingered, hovering to touch again when--

"Magnar? Anselma?" Syndri called, walking up the way, "Brother, where are you?"

The couple giggled.

Another moment interrupted by the lad but cherished nonetheless.

Writing endings is hard, Patrick muses.

He's a published author, and has been for decades. Patrick wouldn't claim to be a bestseller author, but critics will tell you that the novel he publish a year ago did earn a few dimes that lead to a couple book tours and a movie. No biggie.

But that same novel got him into trouble. His publisher had requested for a happy ending, and he went with it, depsite it not fitting his plot. They said it would sell more.

Sitting amongst the hate mail, he writes his own ending with a gun.

“I’m not sure, it’s risky.”

“Trust me. J.P.’s alright.”

Max suspiciously looks at J.P. waiting twenty meters away.

“Ok. But if it goes wrong, you’re the one paying.”

Tom signals J.P. to come over.

“J.P. you’re on watch, Tom, diversion. Me, I collect”

Tom and J.P. nod.

“First target in sight. Ready? Go!”

Tom walks towards the target and bump into him, making his bag fall on the ground. Max picks it up and flee running.

Away from prying eyes, Max, Tom and J.P. celebrate their victory.

“Halloween is my favorite day” says Tom, his mouth full of candies.

Screaming and shouting won't help you. Neither will covering your ears and eyes. To defeat me you have to face me on without your mask and those huge overalls. Show me your skin and I'll show you my fangs. Now, now, don’t run from me. Not after you killed my father you piece of crap! Come back here! I’m nowhere near done with you! I’ll be the one to kill you, I’ll be the one to avenge my father! You can’t run or hide, you’re leaving a trail of blood. Plus, I can smell your fear from a mile away.