By Kenneth M. Kapp

“Quiet Times.” Malcolm was unaware he was talking to himself. His hearing was getting worse and more often than not he forgot to insert his hearing aids before he left his room in the old age home. He griped again as he made another circle around the enclosed yard of his residence. “Quiet Times. Kids had that right when they said I’d find this quiet enough, joked all I had to do to turn down the volume a notch was to take out my hearing aids. Making like I was some kind of cripple.”

He stopped, made a funny face, and laughed. They’re not in. Knew it without punching myself in the ear. I’d end up looking like a boxer with cauliflower ears if I kept doing that. Cauliflower gives me gas. No big deal, old geezers can’t hear them coming or smell them after they land.

Malcolm folded another finger down and went around again. I’ll sneak out half a donut for my room or two cookies. I did the math. Extra cookie’s for…And then he couldn’t remember what the extra cookie was for or how many calories were burnt every time he’d “circled the compound.” He patted one of the raised beds on his last round. “Marigolds and zinnias. I’ll sign up for half a box for flowers. Maybe get a few sage plants too.”

He went back to the bed and stuck a finger in the soil. “Hmm, still too cold and wet.” When Mary was alive, we used to steep fresh sage and lime zest in potato vodka, joking about marketing a line of herbal vodkas. That was the best one.

He grabbed a tissue from a box inside the door to wipe his fingers, waved to the receptionist, and continued down the hall to the dining room, stopping to read the menu posted to the side of the double doors.

Gil, one of the residents, gently bumped his walker into the back of his legs. “Hey, big guy, why don’t you watch where you’re walking. Could tell you weren’t planning to signal when you pulled out. Good walk this AM? And what are they serving for breakfast?”

“Yeh, good walk. Same old, same old, but they’ve added the “full English” option. Little asterisk says you need a note from your doc saying your heart can handle it. I think I’ll go for it anyhow; say I have the note under my pillow in case Cissy asks. Weather’s great, so I’ll make up for it with a walk in the Conservancy late morning. Get back in time for lunch. Join me, and you can fill me in on that Preston book you’re reading, about the city of some Monkey God in Honduras. From what you said so far, not a place you’d want to be.”

Gil filled a bowl with granola, added raisins and nuts, and poured oat milk over it. “Hey, Malcolm, you should eat healthy like me and you wouldn’t have to be hiking all the time. Have more time for intellectual pursuits like reading.”

“I’ve got you for that, Gil. You give great book reports. Two nights back at supper you were telling me how European diseases wiped out large swaths of native people in the Americas. And how stupid it was to cut back on the CDC and NIH since new exotic bugs can easily hop a plane. Preaching to the choir.

“Nah, I’d rather eat what I want. Besides, I enjoy all the walking.”

Over coffee Malcolm asked, “Did I tell you about the new trail I found in the Conservancy?” He couldn’t remember, and most likely neither could Gil, who was beginning to nod off.

“No, if you did I forgot. So, you going to tell me?”

“My kids say the outside walks are my Great Escapes and I don’t have to go over the wall like Steve McQueen on a motorcycle either. It’s pretty: lots of old trees. Some of the trails are alongside little creeks. Light comes down dappled through the trees. Here, all we have are a couple of saplings. Dummies must have leveled everything before they started building Quiet Times.”

Malcolm paused, noticed that Gil’s eyes were already closed. I’ll let the bugger be. He gets lucky, Cissy takes him back to his room. I’ll piss and put on a heavier jacket; it’s colder in those ravines and old guys and coffee always have to pee. Besides, I’m not about to stake my territory from skunks or coyotes.

As he pushed back from the table, he muttered, “Let the fun times begin.” It had become his rallying cry.

~ * ~

Spring got an early start, and the home put out lawn chairs in the backyard, telling residents that fresh air was good for them and there would be blankets and cushions already in place. Malcolm happily took advantage of their suggestion. He would bring out a magazine or book along with a thermos of hot herbal tea, leaving them on whatever chair he felt was favorably facing the sun.

He’d walk his rounds and return to “home base” as he told Gil one night during dinner. “Be good for you, Gil. Add color to your cheeks. Who knows,” he leaned over and whispered, “Crissy may think you’re alive and jump your bones.”

“Hhump. More like her bones if she ever got me started.”

Malcolm smiled, raised an eyebrow, and went back to slurping his soup.

More often than not pleasant days would find Malcolm in the backyard wrapped in a blanket. If he came out after lunch, he would frequently nod off once he was comfortable. The sun would smile through the broken clouds and a breeze would turn the pages of the magazine opened on his lap.

When he wasn’t dreaming he was scheming – “dream and scheme” was one of his youthful mantras – and he soon decided he wouldn’t mind trading places with one of the saplings.

At the end of the second week, he pretended to fall asleep and then sat up. He looked around. The yard was empty. He shrugged the blanket off his lap and muttered, “Perfect. I think best on my feet when I can talk to myself.”

He heaped the blanket on the chair, dumping his magazine on top. Smacked his lips and marched off, muttering. “Couple oaks look healthy enough. Shouldn’t be hard to sell them on the idea it’d be nice to get out and see the world. I’ll bring in a couple of travel fliers, heck even our City Magazine. Temp them. Tell them, ‘such a deal: see the world while you’re young.’ I’ll get Gil to draw up a legal contract on some letterhead he’s got from his old law firm.”

He laughed and went round to each of the oaks, running his hands up and down their trunks. Coming back for a second time to the sapling in the far corner of the yard, he stood on his tiptoes, nodding to himself that this would indeed have the best view and seemed to have ample growing room. “Mighty oaks need their growing room!”

He spent the weekend in his room, working out the details of a contract. He left a half-page for the oak to sign. “Dip the tip of a branch in an bottle of ink. Done deal.” I’ll get Gil to draw it up; he can be my witness. Couple of those birches can sign for the oak.”

He discussed bringing out a bottle of single malt scotch to celebrate after the signing but Gil said it would be in poor taste. “Most of your single malts are aged in oak barrels. Could be staves from one of his great grandparents.”

A week later all the paperwork was finished. The next day immediately after lunch, both men changed from their sweatsuits to business casual, squared their shoulders, and marched out to the oak tree. Gil said he would do the talking as he was Malcolm’s lawyer. He squinted at the brass tag hanging from one of the branches – Quercus rubra – addressed the sapling.

“Ruben, we have a wonderful opportunity for you here. A chance to get out and see the world. My friend on the other hand wouldn’t mind a quieter life: he’s been there, done that. So he’s offering to trade places. No hidden clauses. Plain and simple. You both sign, I’ll be a witness for Malcolm and we’ve already asked the birches along the fence if they’d stand in for you. And they said they’d be happy too. Contract couldn’t be simpler. All fits on the top half of the page. Plenty of room for our signatures below and yours on the reverse. If you need more time to think about it, say so and we’ll come back another day. Malcolm told me you’ve talked about it already, but no pressure here. So what do you think?”

A stiff breeze blew through the yard bending the red oak over. Gil took that for an affirmative and explained as much to Malcolm. “He’s nodded it’s a deal. Why don’t you drag that chair over and we’ll use the arm as a table.”

A minute later they held the contract up for Ruben and helped him dip a tip of a branch in the ink and then on the contract.

“Once again, Ruben. It’s in triplicate so you get a copy, we get a copy, and the original is filed downtown.”

They next went over to the birches for their signature.

Malcolm clapped Gil on the back. “Thanks, Pal. We can celebrate in my room. Single malt, oak cask be damned, and I’ve crackers and cheese.”

The following week Malcolm told Gil he was going for a short walk in the Nature Conservatory. “If it doesn’t get too hot, I’ll grab a bite and then go sit under my oak. Got to decide exactly when we want to trade places.”

Late that afternoon, Gil had a funny feeling and went to check on his friend.

Malcolm was wrapped in a blanket with his hat over his eyes. There were a couple of travel folders on the ground beside the chair. He had passed peacefully in his sleep.

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By Daniel Deisinger

The Tooth Fairy is pretty simple. Kid loses a tooth, kid puts the tooth under the pillow, kid gets some cash.

Tooth, pillow, cash. Simple. Kids understand it, and it makes having an older sister kick a shard of bone out of your skull a little easier to stomach. Having pieces of your head fall out is disturbing to a kid. The Tooth Fairy became so popular that the higher-ups decided to do a little bit of expansion. Move into new markets.

The first attempt was doomed for failure from word one: Puberty Fairy! Yeah, look, I wasn’t paying attention that much, and I am better for it. I kept my nose down and stuck to my job running the central tooth processing center. It’s a stressful position. Anyway, the Puberty Fairy was way too complicated, we’re pretty sure it scared some kids, and there were even some news reports about it. After a few short weeks of the trial run, the Puberty Fairy project was over.

Attempt number two was only a little better. They called it Driver’s License Fairy. Kid turns sixteen, kid gets a driver’s license under the pillow. You probably have a brain, so you can see that it was a bad idea. DOZENS of accidents, angry parents, and a police investigation into where kids were getting fake licenses. Turns out that they have to go through, like, a LOT of classes.

The higher-ups knew there was some kind of market to break into, but it was harder than expected to find something workable. They tried out Frontal Lobe Has Stopped Growing Fairy, which leaves a book of crossword puzzles and information about IRAs under the pillow, but the marketing department raised a stink. The project never even got to the testing phase. After that, it was Retirement Fairy. As you can tell, the think tank wasn’t exactly churning out gold.

I had taken a bit of interest by this point, but we had entered summer–big uptick in lost teeth. Things were getting busy, and there was a lot of pressure. I thought about sending some ideas, but nothing I had seemed right.

Somebody had the bright thought to move away from big life events and came up with the Cough Fairy. If a kid is coughing, a bottle of soothing medicinal liquid appears underneath the pillow. But kids don’t want to find medicine under their pillows. Also, the bottles were too big. The team considered splitting into the Sore Neck Fairies, which would have left heating pads, but instead decided to rebrand themselves Cough DROP Fairies. Sadly, the damage was done.

The next attempt fared a little better. They took the original Puberty Fairy idea and reworked it into the First Date Fairy. You know, how to be a good companion. But difficulties arose. First, how were they going to do it? Leave a pamphlet? Yeah, that’s exciting. Have the fairy give a talk? Nightmare city. Plus, those kids need sleep. They tried a few other things, but it never worked out.

Next came the College Fairy. It was supposed to help the kid figure out which college to go to. This one actually got to the testing stage, but there was a mix-up with the testing groups. So, some of the 4.0 GPA, Honor Roll, National Scholar Society of High-Thinkin’ Muckity-mucks were getting pamphlets about community college, while barely-graduated dopes were told they might go to Yale.

Don’t look at me, I wasn’t in charge.

They tried out one thing after another. Things got kinda loopy. They knew there was something that would work. Board Game Fairy. First Snow of the Year Fairy. Seeing Mom and Dad “Do It” Fairy. That’s the official name, but everybody on the inside called it something else. In the Army Fairy, which I think might have worked, but corporate was looking for something with a wider user base. Watering the Plants Fairy, which was just stupid.

All this had happened while I was running myself ragged, managing the central tooth processing center. I had been thinking about these new fairies and thinking we’d moved away from what had worked. We’d started with cash for teeth, but all these new attempts were different. They seemed like work. It’s supposed to be an award. A prize for reaching a stage in life. I was looking in the mirror after a long day, and I had an idea. I dashed off a memo, and wheels started turning.

So I’m proud to announce the official new division: the Hair Fairy. The first time you see a little gray on your head, check under your pillow. There might be something fun under there.

By Anne Dougherty

The hot tub out back would have been the perfect place to relax and unwind if I wasn’t running for my life. Empty in the middle of this sleepy mountain town was someone’s treasured home away from home. Maybe an Airbnb during the busy tourist season? A weekend getaway for lovers?
Whatever it was, right now, it would be my perfect hideout.
Temporarily, anyway.
I opened the mailbox to verify a small allotment of old junk mail, confirming my suspicions before heading around back. The driveway looked pristine: freshly resealed and not driven on since.
I’d thought that I had left my past of breaking and entering behind. Yet as I scouted around for a hide-a-key, I realized it would always be a part of who I was. Reformed or active; I would always be a former criminal. I had turned a new leaf, hiding in witness protection; lived a life of honesty now.
This A-frame cabin wasn’t visible to its neighbors. Thankfully, thick layers of trees surrounded three sides. The only vulnerability I initially clocked was the open view of the main road a hundred feet away. My eyes landed on an outdoor thermometer and I smirked.
Classy choice. I slide the front up to reveal a set of silver keys.
“Thank God,” I whispered to no one as I slid the key into the lock and heard it click open. Much easier than my other options: squeezing through a window or breaking door glass. Breaking a door was too obvious. I wouldn’t be able to stay overnight if I resorted to that.
Locking the door behind me, I cased the first floor. It was easy, since it was an open concept: living and dining rooms, kitchen at this end. The loft overhead appeared to be the only bedroom; no doors for a basement.
It was a risky choice, but with twilight settling in, it would have to do.
Just for tonight.
The walls are decorated generically with a stereotypical “we live in the Poconos” wildlife theme. Definitely an Airbnb, then. I quickly searched for closets and hidden compartments. The chances of finding a gun here were slim at best, but worth my time if fruitful.
I had been aiming to find myself a hunting cabin. Somewhere I could get a leg up…
I had just reached the kitchen again when I heard a loud truck on the gravel road. Ducking behind the counter, I held my breath. My heart soared as the noise came closer.
Risking a peek, I pushed the top of my head up. My pulse echoed in my ears as the sound increased and the sight of headlights appeared at the end of the driveway.
Shit, had they found me already?
The light brightened, illuminating the mailbox. Just as quickly as it started, the truck passed, leaving darkness in its wake.
Sighing, I collapsed back onto the cold floor. Had I only made it three years before my past caught up with me? Looking at my clothes, soiled and blood splattered, made me shake my head.
I knew that turning state’s evidence against my boss over his shifty construction business would not be an easy road. I rolled on the top tiers of the organization, a local conglomerate of middle-level criminals. The prosecutor was champing at the bit when I was caught during a burglary. I’d been hired to slip in and remove some incriminating evidence from a rival’s offices. Caught red-handed, I became a cliche: singing like the canary, giving them everything they wanted for immunity. Start over through witness protection.
Prison scared me more than death. Just the thought of that small cage suffocating me led to a panic attack.
I pushed my anxiety down, refocusing on my current situation. Standing, I began searching for weapons to defend myself.
Not if, but when they found me.
The few knives I uncovered got shoved into the drawer next to a pair of broken metal-framed eyeglasses for easy access. Grabbing the fireplace poker, I carried it up to the loft with me.
Not daring to turn on the overhead light, I allowed the dim light from the windows to guide me: two double beds across the room from one another. Dressing table and closed armoire between. A large closet along the wall. A quick search of the drawers accomplished little, besides discovering some forgotten clothing.
Heading back to the bathroom on the main floor, I paused on the steps to listen. Could the truck have stopped up the road? Were the occupants backtracking toward me right this second?
“Stop,” I whispered aloud to disconnect my train of thought. Closing the bathroom door behind me, I was grateful for the small frosted glass window above the shower. Shedding my soiled clothes like a snake slithering from his old skin, I turned on the showerhead, praying the water heater worked.
Protocol was to get to safety and contact my Marshall, but… Greg was dead. I’d watched him get shot in the head. His blood soaked into me as I ducked for cover, running to my car and getting out of dodge. It had been a sniper shot during our weekly check in that caught us off guard. God knows how long they had been scouting me. Stalking my routine.
I’d foolishly let my guard down; hopeful I’d be safe after three years. Everyone was still in prison. I thought I was safe to live a boring, ‘on-the-straight-and-narrow’ life working at a call center.
If the US Marshall responsible for me was dead, what chance did I have to survive?
I hurriedly finished my shower, swiping some of the shampoo and body wash from the labeled dispensers on the wall, and changed into the fresh clothes I’d gathered.
Definitely a rental property.
My stomach growled loudly as I heard a distant creaking outside the bathroom door. My eyes widened; I sucked in my breath.
At least I wouldn’t be naked when I was murdered.
Of course, I’d left the poker upstairs. Abandoned behind during my euphoria of being able to change out of my blood-splattered business attire into anything else.
Nothing but deafening silence surrounded me as I waited.
Shaking, my hand reached for the door handle. If I was going to die, it would be on my terms. Not hiding in some bland bathroom with beige walls.
Throwing open the door, I jumped into the living room, hoping for the element of surprise on my side. Only silence greeted me. I surveyed the room quickly, seeing no one. A creak by the front door made me leap, and I pulled a muscle whipping my head to see a rat scutter across the floor.
“Shit, seriously bro,” I said, rubbing my sore neck. “What the hell. Find your own place to squat.”
Walking into the kitchen, I opened the cabinet that held a container of coffee and filters for the machine on the counter. There were only condiments in the fridge and ice in the freezer, so coffee would have to suffice until morning. I wasn’t very familiar with this town and had abandoned my car a few towns over. The bike on the back patio would be my escape route. I wasn’t a gym rat, but I could bike at least a few miles at a time before getting winded. Head south, I guess, towards Philadelphia. There had to be a Department of Justice there for me to seek solace. Someone had to have noticed that Greg was dead now. Maybe they were also searching for me…
Would they care, though? I was a supposedly reformed criminal who’d already held up his end of the bargain. What did they care if I lived or died? I was no longer an asset.
If I made it that long.
I stared at the clock on the kitchen stove: 9:42 pm.
I poured my weak elixir into a mug from the cabinet that read MILF: Man, I Love Forests before sitting for the first time since I went on the lam earlier that day. Taking a sip, I cringed. It was burnt, but I’d drink all of it anyway.
This time yesterday evening, I was curled up in bed next to my girlfriend, Lyra, trying to convince her we should have sex. We’d hit a rough patch after eighteen months together, but we were working our way through it.
How I’d rather be begging for sex right now.
If only I knew.
No more cars passed by as I stared at the large front windows. Only sheer curtains covered them, allowing me to stand guard without being seen in the house’s darkness. Not long after finishing my coffee, my eyelids drooped as I fell in and out of consciousness.
The adrenaline of my day subsided. Exhaustion took over.
I cleaned my mug and the coffee pot quickly before heading up the stairs. Leave no noticeable trace of yourself, I’d told myself. No cause for suspicion if there’s no sign of humanity inside here.
I said a prayer that the rat stayed downstairs before opening the closet and pulling down the extra pillow and comforter. Leaving the closet door open a sliver, cocooned the blanket around myself, and laid on the floor.
Between the caffeine and the creaking and popping sounds of the house settling around me, my sleep was fitful.
I heard another truck clunk by during the night. I was certain it was going to be mere minutes before they found me. Yet, minutes ticked by and no one came. I drifted back to my dreamless sleep.
I hadn’t heard a door open before I stirred again. My breath hitched as I kept my eyes shut. Maybe this was just a dream, too?
I waited, but no sound followed. My paranoia increasing, I attempted to get a bit more sleep before heading out into my unknown.
As I entered the state between sleep and consciousness, a sense of dread crept into my bones. I was being watched; I could feel the eyes on me.
My blood froze.
“Well, hello Carl,” a voice I’d never forget said as I heard the cock of his handgun. The bright morning sun streamed inside the closet as the cold gun’s muzzle pushed against my temple. “Or should I say Carson? Long time no see, buddy.”
Shit.

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