Brandon waited for the sound of a pin dropping.

Silence like this had to be pierced at some point. He prayed for anything besides his wife's breathing next to him, besides the clink of her pearls as she fiddled with her necklace. The jury was eyeballing him with a mingle of sympathetic looks and scowls. The sympathy outweighed the anger, which was why he'd be getting his son back again.

The gavel had been struck. Soft murmurings started up as people finally became mobile.

"I know he did it."

"That boy's going to get killed."

"Wait to see it in the papers."

Heavy doors creaked open somewhere behind him. Brandon stared up at the judge and hated him, hated the way he looked down at him, the way his thoughts were written all over his face. I can't wait to land your ass in prison next time.

You wish, fucker.

His wife put a hand on his arm. Her fingers were delicate and dainty. The engagement ring he'd given her so long ago glared up at him, condemned him. He wanted to take her pretty little hand and crush it between his fists. To bruise her eyes and leave the imprint of his knuckles along her lovely face. She'd deserve it. Deserve every little bit of it.

"Come on, sweetheart," she murmured. "We won. Let's get out of here."

Their lawyer smiled at them as they walked past. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, and the reek of pricey cologne. The best con money could buy. He followed them out to their car and opened the door for his wife.

"That was a great victory today. I'm so glad for your family. I hope you'll contact our firm with any furth-"

Brandon put it in drive and pressed the gas. Deb gasped, the door on her side shutting awkwardly as she tugged it in. The lawyer stood behind them, dumbstruck back to that plastic smile, polished leather shoes glinting on the asphalt.

"That was rude," Deb said. Her voice was like nails being driven into his eardrums. "He's done a lot for us."

Brandon's teeth clicked together hard. It hurt down to the roots and he clenched harder. He merged onto the highway past a minivan that blared its horns angrily, gunning it up to eighty, then ninety.

"It's sixty," his wife pointed out. Her voice was tense, her shoulders pale and borne through her red dress. It was a ridiculous thing to wear to a trial. She looked like a slut, not like some saddened mother whose son had broken a leg. An arm. A son that had had bruises often enough the nurses of his private school called protective services.

They'd showed up at the hand-carved door of their sprawling house with grim faces. Their son had watched from the staircase with his teddy in hand, wide-eyed and wondering.

The blue on his cheek had been steadily turning yellow. It'd be gone by the time they picked him up, like it'd never happened. But it had, everything had, and that truth would never go away.

"The speed limit is-"

"Shut the FUCK up!"

He whipped around a semi and she shuddered, turning her head away with tears in her eyes. He didn't care. He couldn't bring up even a single shred of empathy, not anymore. Enough was enough, and he'd had his fair share. His hands tightened on the wheel and he imagined choking the life out of her slender throat. He imagined it and wished he had the balls to carry it through.

She'd earned a taste of her own medicine.

"I'm not covering for you anymore," he rasped.

Deb didn't answer. She turned her face away, watching the cars whiz by, worrying her hands in her lap.

"If you ever touch our son again, I'll fucking kill you."

Long grasping vines were reaching for him from the sinister dark trees. Hearing loud screams, he tried to engulf himself in safety, covering himself with thorny branches which scraped his very essence and left his soul raw. Scratching a small eye hole in the arms of the forest, he was able to see a man beating and stabbing a helpless woman. Although he knew he should do something to stop this brutality, he remained motionless, holding in his words and breathing in silver drops of cowardice. “I have no strength to skirmish with evil,” he told himself.

His self-hatred consumed him in red waves of futility but still he remained silent. He timidly waited for the abuser’s anger and emotion to calm its storm before venturing forth. Still, he did not approach the woman, even though the avenging intruder was no longer present.

He began to gallop toward the clearing at the edge of the forest. “I’ll get help when I get there,” he promised himself. He gasped in panic but began to see beams of light tiptoeing toward him. Racing frantically, he turned his head to make sure no one was following him. Bam! He ran into what seemed to be a large sheet of glass, which shattered in shards around him, piercing his body in bloody trails. Falling on the ground in anguish, he surveyed the blood dripping from his body. He picked up a shard of the glass and was astonished to see that it was a mirror. He frantically chanced taking a peek and saw reflections of his own face and body, covered in blood. Finally, it dawned on him that the mirror could tell no lies. It was he who was the perpetrator!

By Elaine D. Walton

She started planning the garden because it was the dead of winter and she was bored and didn’t know what else to do. Her mother told her once that some plants did better when they were placed next to others, but four long years ago have passed and what did she have to show for it? Just an empty patch of dead earth. 

This year things would be different.  She had a new plan that would put tomatoes with tomatoes and peppers with peppers. The half-double lot was tiny but she knew from experience that she didn’t need much space—and 3 feet X 6 feet would be plenty. Besides, the only mouth she had to feed now was her own.

She gathered her tools and headed to the backyard.  Yesterday’s snow was still hanging around, and since the wind wasn’t blowing, all her neighbors could see the black lines she scratched into the white dust. She thought of how pissed Mrs. Finkelstein would be without plump, juicy tomatoes to steal and it made her laugh out loud.  The sound rattled the leaves clinging to barren branches.

She paced off the area parallel from the scratched line. Making marks in the snow like that reminded her of the snow angels she made as a child. She thought about laying down and doing it once more for old times’ sake, but changed her mind when she noticed Mr. Williams looking out his kitchen window at her, saying Jesus Christ what the hell is that crazy woman doing in the middle of winter like this without as much as a coat on. She gave him a one-finger salute until he closed the curtains.

The shovel piercing the frozen soil made one hell of a racket but she didn’t care. Her heart beat faster and beads of sweat formed on her pale skin as she moved earth from one spot to another. Whether from exhaustion or the cold, she couldn’t feel a thing anymore and that was just fine. As she worked, a cardinal tweeted his blessing from the rooftop.

Just as the last scoop of dirt was excised from the plot, she heard it—quiet and far away but certainly heading her way. The blue curtains parted like the sea to reveal Mr. Williams and his bubble-gum chewing slut of a wife eyeballing her from their kitchen window, and then she heard the squawk of Mrs. Finkelstein’s storm door opening and knew that dried-up scarecrow had come out to enjoy the show, too.

They didn’t have to wait long. Their only regret was that there would be no tomatoes or peppers to steal next year.

Just a little "mood" setting - this story is set in the early 1900's in Bradford, England.

“Why must you be so pathetic all the time?” Bethany spat out in contempt for her mother. She couldn’t stand the way she sat there, in her chair by the window, like she always did; Trying to tell her what to do, while calmly practicing her stupid embroidery.

“And why must you always be such a wicked brat?” Her brother intervened as he walked into the drawing room. Given Bethany’s reaction, he knew exactly what the quarrel was about.

“Ah, little brother,” she greeted him. “Perhaps it has something to do with my upbringing.”

“Do not speak to our mother this way,” he threatened.

He was sick of the way she constantly shook the stability of their small family. She had been acting selfishly, and since their father had passed, he had to be the responsible adult.

It didn’t have as much to do with the fact that he was now the man of the house, but more to do with their mother’s decline. She barely spoke, barely ate. Always sat in front of the window and stared outside in melancholy. She obviously missed their father greatly; she had not been the same ever since that damned day.

“Don’t you speak of what you don’t understand, you foolish boy,” Bethany fired back, her tone somewhere between disdain and pure annoyance. He could be so naive sometimes – too naive for his own good.

“I understand perfectly. Our mother has given us everything she had, until she had nothing more to give. Have you no shame?” His face contorted. He was disgusted and ashamed to see his sister turn against their mother like this.

“None whatsoever, dear brother,” she simply smiled. “That deranged witch needs to understand that she can't control our lives.”

“She is only trying to set you up for a proper marriage, with a proper man. Tell me, what is so wrong with that?”

“Stop arguing,” their mother commented from across the room without so much as glancing at them, “you’re tiring me.”

“I’m sorry, mother,” he rushed to her side and kneeled before her. “But I must insist that Bethany pays you your deserved respect. I will not have such talk in our house.”

Bethany sighed. “You’re right, James,” she said softly. “I have spoken out of term.”

He turned to face her, feeling exhilarated. He felt as if he really were the man of the house. “And you will apologize to mother?”

She nodded to him. “Let me speak to her alone,” she implored.

He nodded back warily and left the room, hoping his sister would at least try to behave. She wasn't bad; he knew that much. She could be a handful, but she wasn't a bad person. She had always looked out for him and cared for him. She would hide him in the closet when their father came home drunk and looking for a quarrel. She would prepare his meals and help him study from books in their library. She was good.

Bethany looked at her mother, awaiting.

Soon enough, her mother started laughing heartily.

"You stupid girl. Did you really think he would take your side?" Her mother finally looked at her, and put her embroidery aside. "He's my precious boy, and it's going to remain that way."

"I will not leave him alone with you wretched woman," Bethany said solemnly.

"I'm afraid you will have to," Mother replied. "Surely my bargain with Lord Valmont won't take long now. You will be his, and his money shall be mine."

"You cannot sell me to a man!" She screamed out. "Has cruelness taken over you at last?"

"I'm sure you know by now, dear," she began embroiding again, "I can do whatever I wish."

"James will not believe you, you know. He won't stay with you until the end of his life, he wants marriage, and children."

"I already ruined one of his engagements, I can do it again until he gives up - and realize the only person he should spend the rest of his life with, is his dear mother."

Bethany wanted to cry out in frustration. She didn't care much about her fate; there wasn't much to live for these days anyway. But she couldn't bare the thought of her brother being deceived in a way that would leave him miserable for the remainder of his life. He deserved a life.

"Now, if you're quite finished, go and fetch me my afternoon tea," Mother said, leaving no room for further argument.

Bethany stormed out and walked determinely into the kitchen to prepare the tea.

She couldn't let this happen. She wasn't going to be removed from the way so that her mother would satisfy her twisted need to hold onto her precious boy forever.

She looked down at the tea, and at the empty vile in her hand that read Rat Poison, Do Not Consume.

Her mind was resolved.