The Tale of Rauðúlfr
By Lisa Farrell

Hulda watched the flames dance until her dim eyes saw only light. She listened to the snapping and popping of the twigs, and ignored the sound of women’s voices through the wall. A bird was screeching outside, and she wondered how it could bear to open its beak and call out in such cold.

She had not thought she would survive this winter, but the children told her that the signs of Harpa-month were already here. Well, she could not yet feel it. Her bones still felt like the twigs in the fire, though under siege by ice rather than heat. She could barely move, but spent her hours trying to fold herself up small, keeping her face in the glow, until they teased her that the bristles on her chin would singe. They did not respect her, these young women whose bellies still waxed and waned like the moon. They had continually knocked into her as they prepared the day meal around her, as though she were an unwelcome guest. Yet this was her seat, her place, and she had earned her spot by the hearth-fire, having cooked on it for so many years. At least Rauðúlfr had made the women promise not to let the fire die. He was a good boy; he took care of his mother, as a son should.

Hulda sat up suddenly, and had to readjust her dress to block the chill air again. She sniffed. There was something in the air; sweet, like sheep-dung, but stronger. She stood, and arched her back until it clicked. Then she shuffled to the door in her calf-skin shoes, and through into the hall.

They were both sat there at the loom; her daughter, Saldís, and her son’s wife, Erna, who played at being mother, mistress of the farm. They looked up quickly, then back to their work, but did not speak to her.

Hulda went out into the snow. It turned to slush beneath her feet and she could feel the dampness seeping through. Mountains loomed on either side of the farm and cast great shadows over the valley, so though there was no wind, the air was sharp.

As she approached the animal shed a new smell reached her nostrils; the thick, warm stench of soiled hay and dung. She walked around the shed to the back where, between the wooden slatted wall and a hardy, scraggly bush, lay the body of a sheep. The wool was tangled, and crawling with lice.

“How can the shepherd not miss you, eh?” she asked it, as she pulled away the brittle branches of the bush to get a better look. She did not like to stoop for so long, but took hold of a curved horn and dragged the dead sheep from its hiding place. She stopped when she realised what else lay under the bush. The small, malformed body of a premature lamb lay in what must have been a sticky pink puddle, but had now dried into stiff, dirty spikes on its back.

“Now,” said Hulda, “just look at you!”

The still-born was shrivelled, short black legs wrinkled under its swollen little body. On its neck was not one head, but two. Two identical white faces, with closed eyes and open mouths, below four little stumps of horn.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” she said, “and at last, transformation… ‘Twas all I lacked.” She looked up to the mountains. “Now I can see you again, Fálki,” she murmured. “At long last.”

She reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a small bundle. Unwrapping her treasure, she fingered the contents carefully; a lock of his blond hair, made delicate by age, a falcon’s feather, like the one he used to carry, and a length of blue thread. She reached down again, and pressed the thread against the twisted body of the lamb, rubbing it hard into the skin of the belly and then the face, until it came away dyed red. She spat into her palm and moistened the thread there, before wrapping up the bundle and knotting the thread tightly at its neck. This took some time, as her fingers were red and bent with cold. Then she moved a little away from the dead sheep, before burying her wish in the snow. Hulda lowered herself slowly and knelt on top, her knees turning numb the moment they sunk onto the frozen ground. She spread her cloak over herself, before she began her chant in the privacy of the darkness there.

#

His body lay inside the belly of the mountain, pinned by blades of ice. He was reflected and fragmented across craggy walls, which captured the pricks of light that infiltrated the cave and so shone even in the dark. His limbs were stiff, splayed, his arms like broken wings. His neck bent back over a rock, split to reveal a ridge of bone in his throat, visible only when the sun was directly overhead and beams of yellow light cascaded through the hole in the roof of the cave. He had not been disturbed; he had lain with his sword useless at his side for what could have been a hundred days or years. His flesh, though cold and brittle, still retained a hint of pink.

As the spirit reached him, crawling into his ear like a familiar voice and squatting there in the dry hollow of his head, his body tried to twitch. Feeble spasms crossed from the tip of one forefinger, to the tip of the other. His toes curled tighter in his boots. The wrinkled fruit that had lain still in his chest for so long, began to warm.

His icy prison lost its glow and faded, as his body began to move. His eyes had remained open, but only now did they become aware of the dark. When he stood, it was as though the ice meant nothing to him. He placed one foot heavily before the other, and passed through the rock in the direction of that voice, that smell that felt like Hulda’s breath upon him.

She said his name, that he had long ago forgotten, and he was drawn on.

#

They lit the long fire in the hall that evening, and she could hear their voices deepen and thicken with drink as the hours passed. That son of hers had more friends than he had workers; she hoped he could afford enough ale for them all. She had needed the latrine for some time, but refused to move from her bench, and her own, more benevolent fire. She could hear his wife cackling and squawking in there, and men stamping their boots. They would be dancing next. She would not pass among them, even for the sake of her bowels.

Then the noise stopped. It took her a moment to realise that this was real silence, not just a trick of her ears. They could not have all left so quickly. She rose, and pulled her shawl tight around her neck before moving to the door.

They sat along the benches in the hall, drinks half-raised, staring across the flames at each other. She hobbled towards the fire. This seemed to rouse them.

“What was that?” whispered Saldís, who should have known better than to keep such company at such an hour.

“What was what?” Hulda asked, peering at the faces, trying to distinguish those she recognised from those she did not.

“A knock,” said Rauðúlfr, “that’s all.”

“A single knock, and after dark,” someone said. “That is no friend outside.”

She was too far from the door. She tried to get out, but the chill had long since stiffened her legs, and Rauðúlfr was there before her to bar her way.

“It’s only superstition,” she told him, “don’t leave the poor soul out in the cold.”

“Sit down, mother.”

She shook her head, but her son was taller and broader besides. He only had to place a heavy hand on her shoulder and she would be rooted there where she stood.

Then they looked up, as they heard a hollow thumping on the roof, and a scrabbling, and then the beams began to shake as if someone were sitting up there, kicking their heels and causing the whole hall to shake. The banging made the children cry, and even Erna, Rauðúlfr’s formidable wife, shrieked in fear.

“No, no, it’s just a storm! That’s all!” Hulda shouted above the din. But dust and cobwebs were filling the air, landing in the fire and on her head, and she allowed her daughter to usher her into the corner with the other women, while the men crouched at the door, in case.

“Will no one go out to him?” she wailed, but no one answered.

#

Few slept well that night. Even once the spirit seemed to have passed, they were afraid to speak or move. She did not tell them who it was, because it would do no good; they still believed Fálki had left her of his own accord, because she nagged him.

As soon as light could be seen through the cracks around the wooden door, Rauðúlfr led some men outside. The rest soon followed, and even Hulda moved to stand in the snow and stare. The gate had been flattened, as though by some giant’s foot, and the animal shed nearest the house had been turned on its side, as though only a toy. Remains of the animals were scattered in scarlet heaps. The snow had already formed veils over the bodies, and would gradually bury them.

Rauðúlfr strode towards the gate, clumps of wool drifting around his ankles as he moved through the destruction.

“Where is the shepherd?” he asked, but the shepherd could not be found.

#

The next night Hulda did not make the same mistake. She left the hall while the women were busy cooking the night meal, and crunched her way across the snow in the dark, heading towards the gate. It still lay on the ground, so she walked over it, her footsteps echoing, and out of the farm. They would miss her, but not for some time yet.

She walked until her knees refused to bend, and then she stood and waited, feeling the chill spread up her legs and into the very core of her. She shivered and cursed, but stayed where she was, staring up at the mountainside in the moonlight.

Until Fálki came.

He came swiftly, silently, though he had swelled to three times the size he had been in life. His eyes were two eggs bulging from his skull, and she almost feared to meet their gaze. But as he stopped before her, one huge hand supporting his head, she readied herself to speak to him at last.

“Away! Away, evil draugr!” shouted Rauðúlfr, running towards them with his sword drawn. Hulda screamed, but as the blade came down the ghost was gone, and a falcon soared away up towards the top of the mountain.

“What have you done?” she asked, grabbing her son’s arm. “Why couldn’t you let me speak to him?”

He shook her free of his arm and sheathed his sword. “I feared it was you that had loosed this ill upon us. When I saw you leave the hall tonight, I knew you went to meet it.”

“It was no ‘ill’, it was your father’s ghost,” she cried. “I wanted only to speak to him, to see him one last-”

“That was not my father,” Rauðúlfr said. “That was trouble caused by your meddling. You should have let my father rest.”

“How can he rest when he is lost in the mountains? You should have sought him out long ago, when he was newly lost. But even you believed that he had left me, that he did not want to be followed, that he did not need your help.”

Her son gripped her by the wrist and led her quickly back towards the hall.

“Just because he is a ghost now, mother, does not mean he did not leave by his own choice.”

#

Rauðúlfr waited until the sun rose again before following the creature. He climbed the mountain, and though he would never admit to such a feminine skill, he followed his nose to the cave.

From outside, it was no more than a hole in the rock, a gap through which snow and rain would travel, and sometimes light. This was a hole that could trap the unwary traveller, but now Rauðúlfr lowered himself through it with a purpose. The fit was tight, but he drew his shoulders in towards his chest and wriggled, rubbing snow into his armpits as he slipped through at last, into the darkness.

He did not want to move away from that pool of light, but there was a glint in the back of the cave that called for his attention. He drew his sword, and carried it before him for those few delicate steps across the slippery floor of the cave.

In the dark, he could barely tell the head from the body, but he waited and listened to his heart pound like an animal beneath his tunic, as his eyes accustomed. He lifted his sword above his head, and swung it down in a practiced arc. It only took one slice to decapitate the ghost, whose neck had been already broken. Rauðúlfr grasped the hair, frail as straw between his thick fingers, and positioned the head between the feet of his enemy. There was no danger of it rising again now.

Rauðúlfr returned to his farm with no trophy but the dull stain on his sword. His mother was waiting at the broken gate to meet him.

“I can smell your father’s blood on your sword,” she said, “and so you have killed your mother too.”

He took her back into the warmth of the hall, telling her to keep her peace and not to frighten the children. Erna was in the hall and she waited, her arms folded, as he led his mother to her accustomed seat. Erna went outside, and though she did not speak, he knew to follow her. The world was frozen but her cheeks were red.

“Why did you leave the farm? Where did you sneak to today?” she asked. “The men are suspicious enough already, and everyone is afraid. Could you not have told us where you were going?”

“I can tell you now that you are safe,” he said. “I followed the ghost, and found my father’s body at long last. I have put him to rest.”

When the day’s work was over and everyone had returned to the hall, the fires were lit and drink was passed around. Rauðúlfr was toasted for his bravery and his skill with a sword.

Erna went to the hearth-fire where lamb was boiling for the night meal. Hulda seemed to her to be sitting very still.

Erna placed a hand on the old woman’s to rouse her, but found the skin cold.

* * *

Lisa Farrell holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, and her short stories have appeared on pulp.net, Open Magazine, and in Volume magazine, among others.  You can visit Lisa, and read her other online stories, by going to her blog.

Ragnarok

by Patrick Scalisi 

I didn’t mean to cause the end of the world. I suppose it’s just in my nature.

Plus, it wasn’t entirely my fault.

My roommate was such an asshole. If I didn’t need the cash, I would have kicked him out a long time ago. All his friends were always there, lording over the place as if they were gods, smoking, drinking, stinking up my apartment as if it were a crack den.

Bastards.

I got home around two last night after working second shift at the Gladsheim Diner. Odin was already there, half in the bag with his girlfriend Frigg. I think they were incapable of living their lives sober.

 “I asked you not to smoke in here,” I said as I watched the two of them roll a new joint. I tried to make my voice sound as weary as possible: not difficult, considering I had just worked a ten-hour shift.

“Relax, Loki,” Odin said, not looking up from the delicate task of stuffing and rolling, stuffing and rolling. “Have a hit. Have a beer for Christ sakes. You’re too wound up.”

“Too wound up,” Frigg agreed as she took the joint, unrolled it, and began the process again herself.

I ignored them, dumped my bag on the empty end of the couch and went to my room.  I thought about some of my stuff that had gone missing in the last few weeks, and I kept meaning to install a lock.

Who has time for that?

Adding it to my list of priorities, I opened the door and heard manic yowls that came from the chest at the foot of my bed. I threw it open and found Fenrir bound hand and foot with a bit of string, her cries and meows now deafening.

“What the hell—?”

Frigg appeared at the door faster than I would have thought possible, given her lack of brain cells.  “Cat kept climbing over everything,” she said. “Scattered the pot twice. Thing bit Tyr’s hand after you left.”

“Where’s your head?” I shouted. “You can do that to a cat!”

Frigg rolled her eyes and returned to the couch. “You’d think it was your kid or something.”

I stepped back into the living room, Fenrir nuzzled in the crook of my arm. “Odin, come on man.”

Odin was trying to get the joint started now, the end burning like a red star fallen to Earth. Between puffs he said, “It’s just a cat.  It’s fine.”

Talking to them was useless. I headed to bed.

I slept late and spent the following morning in Laugardalur Park. There was a particular tree I liked to read under, provided the weather is warm enough. The sign post said it was a “Yggdrasill Ash.” Never heard of it before, but I never claimed to be a tree expert.

Even here I could find no peace.

Three pages into my book, something began falling on my lap. Seeds and acorns were dropping like hail, missiles lodging in the spine of my book and in my hair. There were giggles from up in the branches, and a boy’s voice admonished, “Be careful!”

“Come down from there,” I said.

No sooner had I given the command than two children — twins from the look of them — dropped to the ground.

“We’re sorry,” the boy said.

“Didn’t mean to bother you,” added the girl.

Seeing how young they were stole some of my anger; they were just kids.

“What are your names?” I asked, brushing the seeds from my book and placing it on the ground.

“I’m Lif,” said the boy, who gave a little bow.

“And I’m Lifthrasir,” said the girl, who curtsied.

“Lif, Lifthrasir, where are your parents?” I asked.

“You’re not going to tell on us?” said the girl with a look of horror on her face.

“We’re sorry,” repeated the boy. “It’s our favorite spot to play.”

“It’s no problem,” I answered. “I’d just like to be alone.”

“As long as you promise not to tell,” said Lifthrasir.

“Of course,” I replied.

Lif winked, then ran from the tree in a wavy line. His sister followed, both shouting in delight and already playing a new game.

I returned to reading the last book I would ever read.

* * *

The party was already in full swing when I got back to my apartment. Odin had taken advantage of my absence to invite all his acquaintances — and everyone he didn’t know — to a spontaneous blow out. It was Wednesday night, after all. Why the hell not?

The floor was already sticky with spilled beer, and the air was filled with a haze of marijuana and cigarette smoke. People were packed against the door; I could barely get inside.

“Odin?” was all I could manage when I saw the assembly.

“Hey,” he said with a certain lack of enthusiasm. “Wanted to have a few people over. That’s cool, right?”

“This isn’t a few people,” I said. “This place isn’t a night club.”

He repeated his mantra that I should “relax,” then ignored me completely. I would have punched him if I could have gotten in three blows before his friends intervened. Instead, I kicked the corner of the couch and stormed into the kitchen. Another man passed me on the way in, grabbed my shoulder and forced something into my hand.

“Hold this for a minute,” he said. “I gotta piss.”

I looked down as he moved off. I was holding a baggie of white powder — cocaine. The realization made me feel as if I was holding a lump of shit, of feces dripping between my fingers and soiling my very being. The rage bubbled in my throat and emerged as a kind of whimper. I walked to the sink with revenge in mind. Expensive stuff? Too bad, ‘cause now it’s down the drain.

I was halfway through dumping the bag when something on the stove caught my eye: Mistletoe-brand baking powder.

My plan took a U-turn.

I grabbed the box and refilled the baggie. To the untrained eye, it was a perfect ruse. I couldn’t wait to see the results.

Shouts from the living room interrupted my reverie. The man I had passed earlier returned to the kitchen, buttoning his pants as he did so.

“Gimme the bag,” he said. “Balder’s here. He’ll want a hit.”

I tossed the bag in a gentle arc. The man looked horrified but caught it easily. He shot me a glace that was mixed with terror and sardonic humor, and then turned to the living room.

I stood in the doorway to watch.

Balder sat on the couch next to Odin, the two exchanging handshakes, petty news, bullshit. Balder was the handsome stereotype of a northern man: fair skin that reddened under too much sun; blond hair, parted and combed as if just tended by a stylist; and a heavy build that spoke of either manual labor or many hours spent at the gym. Balder was a man who got what he wanted because he was pretty, because he had just stepped out of some music video into the real world.

The man with the coke was almost done spreading the lines now. He had a mirrored tray and was cutting a slope of white powder into fat, even lines. When one didn’t meet his exacting standards, he would redistribute the drug with a straight razor, tap, tap, tapping the powder into a new arrow of death.

“Would you care to do the honors?” Balder asked, his voice more cultured than the usual rabble that found its way into my apartment.

“Guests first,” Odin replied.

Balder took the proffered straw and leaned over the leftmost line of cocaine. To me, the sound of it entering his nostril was as loud as an earthquake.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Balder howled, threw back his head and began clawing at his nose. Odin and the others stood in concern, watching as blood and foam began to pour from both nostrils.

I thought about coming home late last night, about all the times I had caught Odin smoking in my apartment, about Fenrir tied and bound in my chest.  I let out a snicker that seemingly echoed throughout the room.

Balder was dying now.

Odin whirled, pointed a finger caked with powder and tar in my direction, and said simply, “You.”

The others seemed to understand, as if they all shared some psychic link. The first was upon me faster than I could react, holding my hands behind my back as another charged me from the front. I braced for a blow to my chest or stomach, but something instead collided with my head.

That was all.

* * *

There was blood on my neck, dry, crusted, itchy. I lifted my arm to scratch at it, but my limbs felt like lead. I was afraid to open my eyes. The events of the previous night came rushing back. Was Balder dead? What the hell had I been thinking?

The light coming through the window was gray. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night, or how long I had been asleep. A virulent ache surrounded my skull, emanating from the back of my head and tunneling through my brain to the back of my eyeballs.

I opened my eyes completely.

By some miracle, I was in my room, on my bed. Some of the blood from my head had seeped onto the comforter. How much would it cost to dry clean? I sat up, head throbbing, and waited for my equilibrium to return. I remembered reading somewhere that lacerations to the scalp would appear much worse than they actually were because head wounds tend to bleed a lot. Still, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that I was sporting a mild concussion.

I stood and moved to the door. It was barred from the other side.

I jarred the knob violently, then threw my shoulder against it. The pain in my head was momentarily replaced by fury. I don’t know how many blows it took, but the jamb finally splintered. I fell through the door, my chest striking a chair that had been lodged up against the knob. The anger was gone again, and the pain was back.

I lifted my eyes from the sticky floor. I wish I hadn’t.

The living room looked like a crime scene. Broken glass littered the floor, along with puddles of beer and—

I began retching when I realized that blood stained nearly every surface. There was an especially large spot on the couch where Balder had been sitting. Somehow, the remaining lines of cocaine were undisturbed.

My chest hurt. I needed to get out of there.

I stumbled out the front door and into the hall. There was glass and blood there as well. Whatever had happened was larger than Balder’s overdose. Indeed, it looked as if a battle had taken place while I was still unconscious.

I rushed down the stairs and into the street. It was still impossible to determine the time of day. I say this because the sky was blank — not cloudless or overcast, simply blank. Where the sun would ride its chariot-path across the sky, there was now, nothing — just an emptiness that filled the dome over my head.

The streets were vacant, too. The city’s main thoroughfares never wanted for activity — even in the dead of night. Now, there were no cars or pedestrians, no shouts or even talking people, not even the flutter of pigeons that would nest on the larger buildings.

Frantic, I ran to Laugardalur Park.  The footpaths and bike trails were empty. Thousands of people would gather on the park’s many acres each day when it teemed with life.

I sat at the base of my Yggdrasill Ash to consider what had happened. Every scenario, every possibility escaped me.

Seeds began falling on my head.

They felt like raindrops of hope.

“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking.

“There’s someone down there,” said one voice.

“We should see who it is,” said another.

Two faces poked from among the branches: Lif and Lifthrasir, the twins I had met the previous day.

“It’s the man from yesterday,” said Lif.

“Hello again,” said Lifthrasir. I imagine she would have curtsied again if she were standing on the ground.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Are you safe? Were are your parents now?”

“Everyone’s gone,” said Lif. “Ragnarok is here.”

“Where has everyone gone?” I asked, ignoring the second, unintelligible part of the boy’s statement.

“Balder’s dead,” said Lifthrasir. “His death has broken the bonds that hold together the nine worlds.”

“His friends were very upset,” Lif continued. “Everyone was sad, except for you.”

“Odin and his friends can go to hell!” I shouted. “They brought it on themselves!”

“I told you,” said Lifthrasir. “No remorse at all.”

“In any case,” Lif cut in, “everyone has gathered at Vigrid, where the final battle will take place.”

“I don’t understand,” I pleaded.

“We’re hiding here until it’s over,” said Lifthrasir, whose face began to retreat again among the branches. “Maybe we’ll see you again, then.”

She disappeared. Lif looked to where his sister’s face had vanished and began withdrawing himself.

“Thank you for not telling on us,” he said. “If you want to go to Vigrid, the journey is long. Head north until you cross the rainbow bridge, then look for the field that stretches one-hundred-twenty leagues in all directions. Pack enough food for the trip.”

The boy’s face disappeared as well. I shouted for him to return, shouted until my voice was hoarse and my throat burned with thirst. It was no use. I never saw the children again.

* * *

And now I am ready to begin my journey. I don’t know what will happen there; I don’t know what has happened here.

Like I said, I didn’t mean to cause the end of the world.

It’s just in my nature.

* * *

Patrick Scalisi is a young magazine editor and aspiring author from Connecticut. He has published fiction in several magazines, including The Willows, Twisted Dreams and Space Westerns, among others. When he’s not writing, Pat enjoys watching way too many movies than are good for him, reading more books than he has shelves for and listening to music (his tastes range from classical to classic and modern rock).  You can visit Pat at is website, www.patrickscalisi.com. 

Handy Man

by David Landrum

“Hey, baby, I’m your handy man.” — From the song, “Handy Man” by Otis Blackwell

I’ve always liked the song “Handy Man.”  I like the original version by Jimmy Jones and the cover by Del Shannon.  My favorite, though, is the recording James Taylor made of it in 1977.  I like Taylor’s version because he sings it in an easy, sweet, gentle voice, and this reflects how I am.  Of course, I like the song most of all because I do the thing the guy in the song says he can do.  I fix broken hearts.  I’ve done it now at least two times.

The first one I fixed belonged to a girl name Linda Seales.  I got to know her when I worked at a McDonalds in Indianapolis.

Linda was not a pretty girl.  She had red hair and blue eyes but her teeth all had spaces between them and she was a little chubby.  She came from a poor home.  As a senior in high school she started working at Mickey-D’s to earn spending money.

Linda didn’t open up much at first, but after a while she started talking about a kid named Tom Hefner, who was giving her a hard time at school.

Hefner came from a wealthy home.  Religious, good-looking, popular, clean and wholesome, he tormented Linda without let-up—and to the great amusement of the other students. Every day he launched some kind of barb at her.  She insulted back, but he had popularity on his side and good looks.  “Suck my nose,” she would say, but her insults had no effect because he, and the other students, knew he rated higher on the social ladder than she.  Linda patiently endured it and confided to me, the Handy Man.

Hefner was breaking her heart.

I did research on him. He played football and sang in the school choir.  I studied his picture in her high school yearbook so I knew what he looked like, found out what church he attended, and went there a couple of times myself.  He always attended a 9:00 P.M. service with his family but stayed afterwards for something—a catechism class, I think—until after ten and then walked home alone.  I waited for the right night, and when it came I got my shotgun, and cornered him on the empty church parking lot.

Rain poured down.  He came walking, wearing a poncho with a hood.  I got out of the car, shoved the shotgun in his face, and told him to get in.  Terror flooded his face.  His eyes darted both ways and I saw from the way he placed his feet and shrank back that he meant to run.  I let him have it, putting a deer slug right in his heart.  The shot flipped him completely over and he landed facedown, blood streaming into the falling rain.  The loud sound of rain and the church bells muffled the shot. I hopped back in my car and drove away.

Bess, our supervisor, told us the next day that Linda would not be at work because one of her friends had been murdered yesterday.  I tried not to smile when Bess described Hefner as Linda’s “friend.”  The newspapers and the local TV news reported on the tragedy.  No clues and no suspects.

I knew it would be foolish to leave town.  Linda formed a link between me and Hefner.  This might arouse suspicion.  I had left no clues as far as I could see.  The police said robbery had not been a motive.

I worked at the MacDonald’s there another nine months.  Nothing linked me to the killing.  When Linda returned to work she was subdued.  She told me she felt guilty, even though she knew it was silly to feel that way.  After a couple of months, though, her smile returned, her blues eyes shone, and her red hair looked brighter.  Without Hefner’s constant badgering and bullying, things were better for her at school.  She had met a guy and the relationship was going well.  Everyone around Linda commented on how much happier she seemed.

I smiled to myself. I had fixed it. I had fixed her broken heart.

When I felt it was safe, I left town.  I made sure I closed out my bank account, got my apartment deposit back, and said good-bye to friends, including Linda.  I did not want anyone to suspect I had left town because I had something to hide.

I moved to a place in Arkansas and got a job at Walmart.  I worked there a year, moved in with a girl named Luann, and worked.  I began to wonder if anyone with a broken heart would come along for me to help.   Finally, in the middle of winter, someone did.  Her name was Tiffany Bledsoe.  She went by the nickname Tiff.

Again, a pretty girl, but a girl with a broken heart. This time, though, the guy she had married was the source of her heartache.

Tiff was slow to open to me, but I’ve learned over the years how to win confidence from girls I think might need my skill as a handyman.  In the break room she would talk about her husband, Jimmy.  I would listen, respect her silences, and not push her to open up.  Patience is the key in such matters.  Finally, she began to share the truth.  He beat her. She made me promise I would not tell anyone else.  I promised and intended to keep the promise—but also to make things right.

Here I encountered a problem. If I got rid of Jimmy she would be even more heartbroken.

She would feel guilty and blame herself.  Her heartbreak would get worse.  I thought and thought about it and concluded there could be only way to fix her broken heart. I would not kill him.  I would kill her.

This fixing would be trickier because I lived with Luann and our apartment was only a short distance from her house. But I’m handy with love and I’m no fool.  Soon I got an idea that would provide me with an alibi.

I bought some grass, and Luann and I smoked it after supper. I had set the digits on the clock by our bed up one hour. After smoking, we jumped in the sack and went to it.  I made sure I smoked a lot less than she did. After we were done, she fell asleep.

I got up out of bed as stealthily as I could and left the house quietly.  Jimmy worked nights. I climbed in Tiff’s back window, sneaked into her room, and put a pillow over her face.  I’m sure it didn’t cause her a whole lot of pain.  She shook and raised her arms for a few seconds but then got still. I held the pillow there for a long while to make certain she was dead and then left.  I walked back home and climbed in bed with Luann.  The whole thing had taken me only twenty minutes. I woke her up and told her I wanted her again.  Killing Tiff got me aroused and Luann and I did it then both of us fell asleep.

When the news broke, I was a “potential suspect,” as the police put it.  They questioned me.  I told them I was at home with my girlfriend. They questioned her, asking if I had been with her that evening. She said I was. What time did they go to sleep? She said we watched TV, had sex, and went to sleep around 8:00 (Luann always looked at the clock as she dozed off).  The police concluded I was no longer a suspect.  The coroners had put the time of Tiff’s death between seven and seven-thirty.

I lived there another two years. Jimmy, Tiff’s ex, got married again not even a year after I cured Tiff’s heartache for her. I wondered if he would treat this new girl with equal contempt. But this wasn’t my job. I had done my work.  I had fixed a broken heart. I had done what I came to earth to do.

Luann and I eventually split. I moved on, this time to Oregon. I’ve found a job. There is a girl who seems forlorn. I’m getting to know her and she is beginning to confide to me.

I fix broken hearts. I know I really can.

* * *

David W. Landrum teaches Literature at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan.  His horror/supernatural fiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Horror Through the Ages, Dark Distortions, The Cynic OnLine, The Horror Zine and Ensorcelled. He edits the on-line poetry journal, Lucid Rhythms, www.lucidrhythms.com.

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