The Reckoning

The coffee cup has long since gone cold in my hands, the porcelain now just a dock for my trembling fingers. The air between us is toxic, thick with years of unspoken truths, micro-tears fraying at the fabric of our existence.

"I need to know why," I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just tilts his head slightly. Always slightly, like he’s posing for a portrait. Always silent, or more like dead, when it matters most.

“Why do you flicker in and out of my life?” I press, a slow burn rising in my chest. “You appear like a warrior and vanish like a thief. Why do you ride off so effortlessly to them, while I’m left here chasing your shadow?”

A measured inhale. A pause that stretches just long enough to make me breathe all the way out. I wait.

"You think I left you?" His voice is calm—too calm. As if he already knows the answer.

I let out a hollow laugh, lean in hard. “It’s all you ever do.”

“Is it?” He arches an eyebrow, no hesitation.

He pulls back, folding his hands in his lap—like a marble statue, smooth as ever. Untroubled. I want to shake him, force him to feel even a fraction of the frustration clawing at my ribs, a glimpse into the cost of disillusionment.

"I never left you," he says.

My gut clenches. “That’s a lie,” I say, quieter now.

I think of my parents—my father breaking himself apart just to have you come around more, my mother stretching every bit of your time with us, until her fingers bled. The fights. The silences. The fear of you that settled into their bones like a second skeleton.

He leans forward, eyes honest. “It must have been hard to give me a chance. You learned, better to brace yourself for abandonment every time I came close. I can see how I was a mortal threat, a source of chaos. Even something fleeting, something cruel.” His voice softens, cutting deeper. “It sucks cause you only saw the pain I caused, never the comfort I could give.”

A prickle runs down my spine. He read my mind.

"That’s ridiculous," I protest, hands raised.

"Is it?" His voice is steady, almost without emotion. "Like those who came before you, you fear me, at times resent me, mostly use me up, and then curse me. You, child, never trust that I want to stay, want to be part of your life, so I never do."

His words lodge in my throat, heavy and foreign, like a stone sinking into deep water. My mouth opens, ready to fire back, but nothing comes.

I think of my twenties, clawing my way through single motherhood, every paycheck spoken for before it even hit my account. The sleepless nights. The late child support. The empty fridge. The impossible math of survival.

The years of bitterness. The quiet, seething hate as he flowed to him, and him, and him.

My throat is dry when I finally speak. "You always go to them first," I whisper. "The men. The corrupt. The powerful. They don’t even need you, and you stay."

"I don’t choose to go or stay with them. I go because they never question whether I will mold to their will."

The answer lands like a slap across my cheek. My pulse stutters. My face reddens.

"So, what?" I croak. "I don’t deserve you?"

He tilts his head slightly, always slightly, considering my accusation. "I could never say that. But let me ask you genuinely—he leans in slightly, voice softer now—"Have you ever opened your arms to me without bracing for my absence?”

I listened.

“Do you ever hold me without flinching, without waiting for the floodgate to open and wash me away? Did you ever see me as more than a fleeting shadow, more than a battle to be won?"

I swallow hard, my heart pounding.

Another long silence pulls at the seams of my resolve.

I lift my gaze, searching his face. There’s something eerily familiar about him. Something I can’t place.

"Who are you?" I whisper. But as I say it, my stomach knots—because I already know.

His smile is slow, assured. "You’ve known all along."

And in an instant, I do.

This is Money. That guy I’ve known since I was born.

The realization knocks the wind from my lungs.

He extends a hand across the table. "So, what’s it going to be? Are we done fighting? Or do you finally want to work together?"

My heart pounds. The old instinct flares—to recoil, to push away, to treat this as a trap. But something stops me.

I exhale. My fingers twitch. For once, I choose to not fight it.

I reach across the table, my palm meeting his.

His grip is firm—steady, solid. But as our hands clasp, something shifts. His edges blur, his presence softening like sunlight through sheer fabric. The pressure in his grasp eases, fluid now, effortless. Warmth blooms against my skin—his hardness eases, his presence gentle now, offering rather than taking.

My breath catches as I realize it’s no longer him.

But her.

A presence that doesn’t take, but gives.

My breath catches. I exhale slowly, relief filling the empty spaces of fear.

“No more running,” I promise. “Let’s collaborate.”

When I finally let go, so does he.

But she—she remains, still holding my hand.

Blindspot

“Did you know crows can carry a grudge for fifteen years?” Tom whispered, lifting his binoculars with a shaky hand.

“I believe it,” Daryl replied, eyes locked on the nest wedged high in the crook of an old oak. “Smart birds.”

“If you save one, though, it’ll never forget. Might even bring you gifts.”

The two men inched closer, boots careful on moss-soft ground. In the branches, the mother owl stiffened, her yellow eyes sharp and unblinking. Three downy owlets peeked from behind her, fragile but alive.

“Think we could get closer without spooking her?” Tom asked.

“Maybe,” Daryl muttered. “Fourth year nesting here. Usually, they’ve gotta fend off hawks.”

Tom nodded. “Peaceful, in its own way.”

“Circle of life,” Daryl murmured.

Above them, a crow cut across the sky—silent, unnoticed.

The men spent the afternoon talking softly about the owls, their voices full of admiration, pointing out every twitch of feathers, every stretch of wings. They thought they were keeping watch. Protecting.

The next morning, they returned, notebooks ready, eager to add another observation to the reporting board.

But the nest was gone.

Not just empty—destroyed. Feathers scattered like ash across the tall grass. Twigs split and snapped. The owlets were nowhere. No mother. No mate. Only silence.

Tom’s breath caught. “No… No, no, no. How—?”

On the ground, he saw them: a pair of glasses, shiny and new. A gift.

Daryl’s face drained of color. His mouth opened, but no sound came. His eyes followed the path of broken twigs to the ground, then up toward the ruined nest.

And then it hit them.

They had left the blind. Walked right up to the tree. Pointed. Talked.

They had shown the crows.

All their care, their gentle steps, their whispered reverence—none of it mattered. The smartest birds in the forest hadn’t needed to search for the nest.

The old men had drawn a map for them. Their reward: glasses to see better next time.

“Circle of life,” Tom echoed, voice hollow now.

But Daryl shook his head, eyes wet with guilt. “No. This is on us—being stupid.”

Above them, a crow’s shadow passed overhead, silent and patient as ever.

The Ass of the Year

This ass,

rides high on stubborn pride,

stands smug, in a suit worth more

than all the riches of the workers he feeds on.

His red tie dangles like a flag—

a declaration,

a warning,

a noose.

Hands deep 

in so many pockets,

he moves through marble halls,

ears twitching to the hum

of war machines, stock tips—,

muted echoes,

silenced prayers, 

the powerless.

He’s no leader—

just a pack mule in golden handcuffs

who hauls the heft of the Warehouse Pharaoh,

builds glass pyramids from shattered lives—

Who deals futures at a crooked table

and cloaks his empire in 

freedom’s ragged mantle.

A mule doesn’t ask, doesn’t choose.

Blinders on, it bears the load,

dirt or diamonds.

It’s all the same.

Behind him, colors flash:

blue and gold,

a battlefield,

and he, born of war and greed,

stands in quiet collusion—

a smiling symbol of a world on fire.

“This isn’t about politics,”

he whispers to himself.

“This is survival:

the mortgage, the bonuses,

the tailored suit.”

His humanity, packed away,

folded neatly,

forgotten.

But beneath the polished veneer,

he wonders if he really is an ass,

braying into the winter wind,

living in the hollow barn of himself.

He dreams, sometimes,

of something softer:

a field of hay,

the awe of an innocent child,

a moment without the weight.

But the path is endless,

his burdens unyielding,

and the whip never far behind.

In the end, will he be led to shelter,

his burdens released,

his name reclaimed?

Or will he be put out to pasture,

remembered as the beast he became?