I promised

Infinite Nothing.

So let's hold that Thought.

Saw it, in half if one must.

For each side of the locket,

Clasped,

To the here after.

Not prying open.

Hearted,

Peering into past perfect.

Penmanship, left-right, handed.

Presence, common-sensed.

Closed,

like a Safe.

What puzzle piece of the Universe

ever fitted up exactly,

having no cushion in

the era, or in itself...

Being just space:

For Partial

Human

Understanding.

lots of negative weather forecasts

lately but

the park was still full

He folded the newspaper and

looked to the next

bench where some old man was begging

his caretakers to take him

home

He cried that his hemorrhoids

were killing him

Far into the distance children

were screaming

the kind of screams that make it difficult

to tell whether they're having

fun or being slaughtered

On the front page of the paper

there was some

article about a recent murder. Some

monster stabbed a kid to death

in a park much like

this one

and everybody was

in uproar

And he fished into his pocket for

a cigarette

and then for the lighter

and smiled at their concerns. It was the

smile of someone who got away

with murder and he stretched it because he'd

gotten away with murder

Many years ago

Far abroad

Into the enemy country

There was a kid much like the one described

in the news article

and the little shit tried to sneak

past their camp and make a delivery

to the enemy

Sure the enemy were just

using him

as they used others

but as luck would have it

he got caught

and the soldiers were mad at him

The kid probably apologized but no one

could understand his language

so they gutted him

solely for the purpose of releasing anger

and frustration

It didn't work

And the memory was still spinning around

in their heads. At least in

those heads that survived

But only one of them

could smile at it

***

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The man cut a Comanche arrow out of the mule’s flank after the fight at the tanks, but the festering wound would not knit.

Crossing the rain-swollen Nueces, the mule died under him and dumped his possibles into the churning red water.

He’d felt the animal falter as he spurred it down the bank, so he wasn’t surprised and managed to leap from the saddle, snatch up his powder and shot from the tree while he pulled his Walker Colt from his waistband. He waded ashore holding them aloft like holy relics.

But the man was afoot and it wasn’t two days before the half-breed Quanah and his band ran him down.

He managed to kill four of them before the Colt misfired. By then it was over.

The man spoke enough Comanche to understand what they had mind.

There was no comfort in this knowledge.

#MarchChallenge

'The delicate green shoots grew

in the warm spring sunlight.

A vibrantly beautiful hue

spread across the new pink flowers.

The scent of mown grass and dry earth

bakes in the warmth of the sun.'

The book is snapped shut with a dry, rustling sound. Despite the vivid description, I can't visualise this lively world. All that I can see out of the window is a barren bleakness of rocks, and nothing even suggests that life would have been able to survive out there, once upon a time . . . and as I imagine the beauty and the splendour of nature that once existed I wonder how the extinction of life was ever allowed to happen.

Based on her recent search history, Valerie Hollow was certain that she was going to be able to research some very interesting material first-hand. As a freelance writer, Valerie handled all kinds of jobs - everything from small journalism gigs to ghostwriting biographies. But there was only so far Google could take her. Over the past few years, Valerie had been compiling an anthology of sorts. She wrote stories of dying professions, of small business owners and traditions and customs that had faded through time. She wrote people.

    Valerie’s very livelihood depended on the progress of her anthology. It was not financial problems, no Valerie was quite an accomplished multi-tasker and didn’t exactly have to beg around for employment. Valerie’s anthology was her very world. She had created these people and their families and friends, all on the very same Earth, but who she would never meet with face to face. Only when this anthology was published would she tell the jeweller down the street from her favourite cafe that Iris Chandler’s necklace was a spitting image of the locket Valerie had bought for her mother all those years ago. Only then would she tell Owen Simmons, a farmhand who was her first crush in school, that he and his mare River were immortalised in text. Only then would she tell her sister that she had written proof that art was not a professional mistake.

    Google could only take her so far. So she had come up with an idea, thanks to her overbearing father. Yes, she was 28, no she did not want to get married soon, no she did not want a baby, fine, she would thinking about dating. And thanks to an initiative which had recently been approved by her state government, R.U.S.H., Valerie was now sitting at the window seat of her favourite cafe, waiting for her date to arrive.

    She drummed her fingers against the lacquered wood, manicured only for this occasion (since they had been bitten and chewed from frustration at Google’s inadequacy, hence why she was here) and stared out into the cobbled street. The warm cafe offered some shelter from the winter’s chill outside, and she sipped at her coffee, watching every person who passed the window, wondering if the next passerby would have her appointment.

    Someone cleared their throat next to Valerie’s small table, dragging her out of her stupor. She expected it to be the waiter again, but as she turned, a tall man in a trenchcoat and plaid scarf stood in front of her. A plaid scarf, this must be him.

    “Valerie Hollow?” he asked. His voice was... natural. For all of Valerie’s extensive vocabulary, she was suddenly lost for words. Lord knows she had been anticipating this encounter for an entire week, but nothing had quite prepared her for the real thing. She nodded and stood, her chair making an awful screeching noise as it was pushed back, her green parka jacket crumpling to the ground. Valerie shook his hand quickly, then motioned for him to sit as she retrieved her jacket as quickly as she could, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

    As she sat, she cleared her throat as well. “You must be Simon Reeves. Feel free to order something, I’ve already gotten my coffee.” She turned her mug slightly and continued. “This may sound a little strange but we might be here a while because I have some questions to ask you.”

    Simon’s easy smile faltered slightly, but returned within the second with a positive response. “Honestly not the strangest thing I’ve been asked today,” he said, his lips turned upwards as if about to smirk or chuckle, Valerie couldn’t foresee which.

    As her partner turned to call the waiter over, the brunette retrieved her notepad from one of the deep pockets of her jacket. It was old and worn, filled with scribbles now meaningless to her, and important questions and titles she doubted she would forget before her eventual retirement. Her fingers itched for the easy rhythm of digits against smooth keys, but she had left her laptop in her crowded apartment for the sake of traveling easier. And more than anything, she did not want this to seem like an interrogation. Good appearances were crucial.

    Valerie looked up from flicking her notepad to a page mostly empty of ink or graphite to see Simon staring lazily at her, his head resting on a propped arm that reflected no small amount of dedication to physical fitness. “Isn’t this supposed to be a date?” he asked, but it wasn’t an accusation, more of a playful jab. This was the turning point Valerie dreaded with every encounter she managed to scrounge up from the R.U.S.H. program.

    “Actually, I’m not here looking for a romantic interest,” she said carefully. If she didn’t play this right she would lose another potentially valuable asset. “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you. As you know, my name is Valerie Hollow. But I am a writer. As a writer, I am constantly looking for a way to better improve the way I view the world, so that I can create windows to ordinary people to see how the other half live. I have been deliberately searching up... how do you say... interesting questions? Niche inquiries? To make things simpler, I’ve been Googling weird things so that I can use the algorithm of R.U.S.H. to my advantage and collect information about certain fields of work straight from personal sources. Based on my recent attempts, I’m guessing you are either a miner, due to your... adept physique, or a bodyguard of some kind, security perhaps...?”

    Valerie waited, terribly aware of how this could turn out if Simon Reeves didn’t have a curious nature or at least a sense of humour. But to her immense relief, he only laughed.

    “Thanks for the compliments,” he grinned, “but I’m not a miner, and I’m definitely not a bodyguard. That kind of lifestyle doesn’t suit me.” He waved his hands around as if to emphasise, “All that training just to stand around all day. I wouldn’t be able to stay still!”

    Valerie was feeling quite at ease when she ventured, “Then what are you? Professionally.”

    “I’m a butcher of sorts,” he answered, none of his charm lost.

    Only then did Valerie remember the Google search she had made two weeks prior to investigate how to thoroughly remove blood stains from fabric. It was quite unrelated to her writing, she had misjudged the projection of her knife and given herself quite a nasty slice after dealing with some meat that she had left in the freezer too long. But still, this was a rather unusual opportunity, since the local butcher didn’t exactly have a favourable opinion of her.

    Valerie clicked her pen. “When did you start, er, butchery? Is that right?”

    “That’ll do,” replied Simon. “I was pretty young, I took up an apprenticeship for the trade when I was around 12.”

    “What led you to seeking out this profession, or did you just fall into it?” Valerie wrote the dot point - apprenticeship at 12.

    “I guess the easiest answer for this is I ‘fell into it’. I have a lot of siblings, I’m the oldest of six,” at this, Valerie looked up from her notepad, mouth agape and Simon laughed again, “yeah, but the youngest two were from my mum’s second marriage. He was a businessman, and my mum was a late shift nurse, so both of them got out of the house pretty early and came back pretty late. My mum’s second husband didn’t have to stay out that late, and I only found out into my teens that he was an alcoholic, so I guess that explained that.” He smiled sardonically before continuing. “I had to look after five kids, and I didn’t really have the best time in school either. We had a neighbour that came in and helped out sometimes, and he hooked me up with the apprenticeship so that I could earn some money and still look after my siblings without sacrificing my own sanity or personal time.”

    “So you left school early?”

    “I got free tutoring through the apprenticeship.”

    “I see.” Valerie noted - tutoring through ATT. “Can you tell me the perks of your occupation, or particularly interesting story or experience you’ve had? What are your specialties, things like that.” She had already gotten thrilling content for this character, but she needed more on the job to make this story believable.

    “Well, I specialise in difficult to acquire meats - fowl, buffalo, kangaroo, camel, a bunch of exotic stuff for those really well paying clients. But like everyone, I have my favourites. Care to guess?”

    Valerie looked him up and down and tapped her notepad with her pen. “You seem like a beef kind of guy. Am I right?”

    “Wrong!” he announced cheerily, as if no one ever won this little game. His gaze turned to steel, trained on Valerie. “It’s human.”

She wore a dove gray fedora. A black hat band sprouted a small blue jay feather, electric against the gray felt. It was snowing lightly and the fat flakes perched on the brim of her hat. We stood in the sun on the windy platform waiting for the streetcar. She was looking over the tracks, her face alive, a bright sparkle in her eyes. The breeze played in her long blonde hair, and she dug her bare hands into the pockets of her jacket. I had never seen anyone as beautiful, and I wished that she was waiting for me.