Decker, A. E.

In the Woods

Issue 76, Spring 2024

Felicia told you to do what?”

“Look, babe,” drawled her stepmother’s chauffeur-cum-gamekeeper-cum-lackey, boredom lacing his Northern British accent. “I’m not happy about it either.”

“You’re not happy about it.”

He shrugged. Noncommittally, Snow felt.

Photo by Olivier Guillard on Unsplash

“Felicia commands you to murder me and leave my body in the woods and you’re not happy about it.”

He held up a finger. “Murder you and cut your heart out.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s just freaky serial-killer-type stuff.”

Snow struggled to rein in her temper. He was supposed to drive me to the Saratoga Farmers’ Market, dammit! She’d spent the ride dreaming of bins of fresh produce, waiting to be transformed into mouthwatering recipes. Instead . . .

“But you’re fine with just murdering me?” she asked.

He shrugged again. Scratched a stubbled cheek. “Well, she is my employer.”

Snow stared, then shook her head. This has to be a joke, she thought, digging her smartphone out of her pocket. Searching . . . searching . . . the little icon on the screen whirled before giving up the quest for available satellites. “It worked when I called Rose an hour ago,” muttered Snow, resisting the urge to bang it against the nearest tree to see if that improved reception.

“Dead zone, babe,” said her impending executioner, watching birds flit among the trees. A trace of annoyance crept into his voice. “Give me some credit for planning.” In his tough-looking brown trousers and buckskin jacket, he rather resembled Daniel Day-Lewis from Last of the Mohicans. Pity he seemed bent on channeling Day-Lewis from Gangs of New York instead.

A breeze toyed with Snow’s hair. Pretty day, she thought. An exceptionally picturesque spot, for that matter. Purple bellflowers and white daisies and some yellow blossom she couldn’t identify occupied every patch of sun that filtered through the trees’ branches. Maple. Hickory. Perhaps oak; she reminded herself to look it up when she got home. If she got home. The smells reminded her of spice and damp coffee grounds. A lovely place to die, really.

Snow took a breath. “Well, Daniel?” she asked. A chickadee chirped on a nearby branch.

Daniel’s gaze returned to her face. An eyebrow lifted. “My name isn’t Daniel.”

“I don’t care. Shouldn’t you get on with it before I scream and run away?”

“Are you going to?” He sounded genuinely interested.

Snow considered. Running was the preferred course of action in every horror movie she’d ever seen. Except all those girls inevitably tripped and got mauled or stabbed or eaten anyway. She gauged the distance to the Jeep, parked by the side of the road. Running might be worth a shot, although not-Daniel looked both athletic and at home in the woods.

Screaming? Waste of breath. They were alone. Plus she hated that quivering, falsetto sound. If their positions were reversed and not-Daniel started making that noise, she’d be tempted to kill him just to shut him up.

Rose and Cindy often teased her for having too analytical a mind. Seemed they were right.

Not-Daniel waited, his hands in his pockets, an expression of infinite patience on his face. “Don’t see the point,” Snow said, rubbing her arms. Despite the sunlight, the wind blew cold in the shadow of the woods. Her skin goose-pimpled through her thin sleeves.

“Well.” The bird flew off the branch. Not-Daniel’s eyes followed its departure. “Well. I’m not sure I can do this, you know, face-to-face. Maybe you could turn away and pick flowers, babe.”

“Pick flowers? What am I, six? Just do it. And stop calling me ‘babe.’”

She was betting he couldn’t cold-bloodedly murder her. Didn’t want to. Why else would he stand there watching birds instead of getting down to business?

He slid the knife out of its sheath. Metal rasped against leather. Snow shrank back. She used knives all the time at the culinary school, but this one—big, perhaps a Bowie—was definitely not the sort used for dicing herbs. She swallowed. This would hurt worse than the time she’d gashed her palm shucking an oyster.

“Why?” she blurted as not-Daniel took a step forward. She strained, trying to peer around the trunk of a maple, at the Jeep. Had he locked the doors? Maybe she could barricade herself inside and blare the horn until someone noticed…

Not-Daniel’s shoulders lifted inside his buckskin jacket. “You’re in the way. Felicia wants to take your da all the way to the White House.”

Snow gasped. “The presidency?”

Felicia. First Lady. Once the shock settled, Snow could picture her stepmother on magazine covers: kissing Ethiopian children, organizing charity dinners, speaking to the press. Perfectly coiffed, her rage clenched behind a polished smile.

It won’t make her happy, thought Snow. Nothing did, except those moments spent sipping green tea and staring out over the garden. She seemed a different woman then.

“I’m not in the way,” said Snow. “I’ll stay at the culinary school.”

“Exactly.” Not-Daniel twirled his knife’s point against a fingertip. “Won’t even wave for the camera, will you? Rather do your own thing.” The sun glinted off the blade. “Ruins the image of Senator White’s perfect, happy family.”

Snow bit her knuckle. Politics and her stepmother. She’d imagined she’d escaped both when she entered the culinary school. How they’d fought over that.

I thought we fought because Felicia wanted me to stay, said a small, hurt part of herself.

No, said another, colder section. You knew she wanted to use you. That’s why you left. You just didn’t realize how far she’d go.

“Better dead than disapproving?” that cold part asked.

“That’s right. Felicia figures your da will ride a crest of sympathy to the White House after you’re found murdered.”

Found murdered. Fear grabbed her, slicking her palms, pulling her heart into a choking lump at the base of her throat. She’d taken a self-defense class one summer. Unfortunately, the instructor’s advice on handling a man with a knife was to run away. I should’ve asked what you do if you have nowhere to run to.

No voices, outside of their own. No crackle of footsteps. Only birdsong and the wind. She swept the ground with her gaze, hoping to spot a thick branch or fist-sized rock. Flowers nodded back at her.

Not-Daniel ran a thumb down the blade. “Probably should get on with it,” he said.

Snow delved into her pockets. A tissue. A half-eaten tube of mints. Her useless smartphone. Pulling it out, she jabbed at the keys. Nothing. “Why are you doing this?” She flung the phone at not-Daniel’s face. He dodged and it fell amongst the flowers. “Is it for money? Or are you Felicia’s lover?”

He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging so hard it shocked the breath from her. “I just adore what you people think of me,” he hissed, shaking her. Their noses almost touched. Snow stared into his hazel eyes before he shoved her away. She stumbled, falling to her knees. Damp earth soaked through her skirt.

Who was this man? She’d glimpsed him around her father’s house, working in the yard or returning from town with a canister of Felicia’s favorite bitter green tea. Never gave him a thought. When she’d discovered her car had a flat this morning, Felicia had offered his services to drive her to the market.

In retrospect, that should have warned me. She fought a hysterical giggle.

“Yeah, money or sex; it’s always that,” said not-Daniel above her, his accent roughening. “What else could motivate a bloke like me?” He flipped his knife and caught it by the hilt. Its edge flashed as it bisected a sunbeam. Snow gasped and he blinked down at her, as if he’d forgotten her presence. The hard set of his jaw softened. “Turn away, babe. Pick flowers. You won’t see it coming.” He raised the knife, paused. “Or you could beg me not to kill you.”

Snow thrust out her trembling chin. “Will you spare me if I do?”

He studied her a long, long moment then shook his head. “You won’t beg. Pick flowers.”

Turning, Snow reached for a bellflower, feeling faintly ridiculous, like an oversized child. A twig snapped behind her.

I could plead with him. Her cheeks burned at the thought of weeping, but the idea persisted. He could bring Felicity a deer’s heart instead of hers; she’d never know the difference.

And then? Flight. Perhaps she could seek sanctuary at the Seven Short Sous Chefs’ apartment back at the culinary school. Eventually the story would come out. After that—the tabloids, the paparazzi. Celebrity, perhaps even a made-for-TV movie. In her mind, she saw the magazines again. This time her face smiled from the covers.

Her nail nicked the bellflower’s stem.

Other images crowded into her head. Jason from her confectionary class, with his gentle, crooked smile. The peculiar sweet-savory taste of leeks in almond cream she’d recently discovered. Herself presiding over a large kitchen, stirring pots, tasting sauces. A hot Tuscan summer sipping wine. Dancing in the autumn leaves, her arms flung over her head, joyously alone.

Not-Daniel’s shadow loomed over her. The knife’s silhouette pierced a daisy. Snow curled her hand into a fist.

“Sorry, babe,” he whispered.

She whirled.

The sound of the blow reverberated through the woods. Not-Daniel staggered back three paces, clapping his hand over the scarlet patch rising on his left cheek.

“You’re right,” said Snow. “I won’t beg.” The wind ruffled a lock of her black-as-night hair. In that moment she believed she could tear the sky in half and walk through the gap.

His mouth twisted; not quite a grin. “Of course not, babe.” The knife rose again, reached its apex.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The knife froze.

“I should’ve asked your name this morning,” she said. “Instead, I acted as if you were just there—” She stopped. Felicia’s flawless, closed-off face rose in her mind like a phantom in a mirror. To get me what I wanted.

She looked at him. His head drooped, the knife limp in his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

He laughed, harsh and sour, the sound muffled by the fall of his hair. “Me too.” He cleared his throat. “You’d better run now, babe. I’ll cover for you.”

“No. I won’t run.” The Seven Short Sous Chefs’ place was a pigsty, anyway. Stepping up close, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “What you want to kill isn’t me, is it?”

Around them the forest lay still, devoid of wind and of birdsong, as if holding its breath for his answer. The slightest shake of his head. A bird chirped. The breeze returned and toyed with Snow’s hair.

She shivered. “I’m cold. Want to find a café and have coffee? My treat.”

A wisp of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t suppose you can get a decent cuppa in this blasted country.”

“Let’s give it a try.” She hooked her arm through his. “What is your name?”

“Not Daniel.”

“All right.” She laughed. “Fair enough.”

His smile blossomed fully as he sheathed the knife. Together, they walked back to the Jeep. He got out the keys and beeped it open. So it was locked, thought Snow, nestling against the white leather upholstery.

“Felicia won’t be happy,” said not-Daniel, starting up the engine.

“Felicia’s never been happy,” said Snow. She stared out the window as the forest receded. She’d left her smartphone lying amongst the bellflowers like an abandoned heart. “And I never cared.”

“Feeling sorry for her, babe? She tried to have you killed.”

“What she wants to kill isn’t me,” said Snow softly. “It’s the face in the mirror.”

We’ll talk when I get home, she decided. So much to discuss: kitchens, Tuscan summers, and the taste of leeks in almond cream. What dreams had Felicia discarded by the wayside?

Let me help you remove that mask of trampled hopes and petty ambitions, Felicia. You’ve worn it too long. I want to see your true face.

Snow met the dark eyes of her reflection in the window and smiled.

I bet it’s beautiful.

Part 1: Bruno, a Decapus

From "A Fish Out of Water" (Spring 2023)

I am not an octopus. Octopuses have eight arms, and I have ten—a decapus, one could say. And as everyone knows—all the sensible folk who live beneath the ocean’s waves, that is—my two extra arms give me the power of prophecy.

At the moment the whole mess began, however, the only thing I could foresee was that it was going to be a very long while before I enjoyed my dinner.

Mucking oysters, I thought, rasping my spiny tongue against the creature’s hard shell. They take forever to drill into. My second left arm curled and twisted, desperate to taste the succulent lump of meat inside.

A shadow passed overhead, interrupting the pattern of the light filtering down from the surface. Shark? I sank to the seafloor, raising papillae on my skin to mimic the clumps of red-brown seaweed waving about me. My second left arm, however, obstinately refused to let go of the oyster. That arm’s particularly single-minded arm when it comes to food.

If that shadow does turn out to be a shark, I’m going to let it bite you off, I thought at it fiercely, trying to convince it to release the oyster.

Before I succeeded, the currents carried the shadow-caster’s taste to my suckers. Not the bitter-sour tang of shark after all. Something oilier, closer to tuna. My skin smoothed as caution gave way to curiosity. Stretching up my eyes, I recognized the weirdly unbalanced shape of one of the merfolk from the refugee camp—young Hudson with the blue-green tail and sand-colored strands flowing from his head. He swam to the rotting wooden skeleton nestled in a cleft in the seafloor, coiled his tail about a barnacle-encrusted lump of metal, and heaved a sigh of bubbles.

Odd. The merfolk rarely visited the old wreck. I pondered, taking an internal census. My second left arm thrust the oyster—still unshucked—at my beak, demanding that I keep drilling, but my first right arm, my best searching arm, reached out towards Hudson. Most of my other arms either clung to the rock or curled noncommittally, but my third left and right arms, my special prophecy arms—tingled.

A shiver ran through my mantle. I knew what that quivery feeling meant. Mucking prophecy. Folk always get so worked up about the future. I don’t understand why, even though it’s my special gift. It would be a different matter if my arms foretold anything useful, like where to find the tastiest crabs, but they never seem interested in that sort of thing.

I clung to the rock a moment longer, hoping the sensation had just been the tickle of sea grass.

Hudson reached down, sifting his stubby webbed tentacles through the debris. His chest heaved, releasing another surge of bubbles.

My third arms tingled again. Giving up, I pushed off the rock. My cranky fifth left arm peeled away from it reluctantly while my second left arm insisted on bringing the oyster along. I let my own string of bubbles trickle out my siphon. Some days, I just can’t keep myself together.

Splinters clouded the water as I approached the wooden skeleton. The rotting shell reminded me of a whale that had drifted to the sand and decayed—only much less tasty. Hudson, bent over, seemed oblivious to my approach. He picked more flat, yellow-glinting objects from the seafloor and let them slipped through his stubby webbed tentacles. Released, they settled heavily back into the sand, raising small clouds of silt.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, settling on a nearby crusting of barnacles.

Hudson looked. His features lifted, tilting upwards. “Bruno!” he exclaimed.

My actual name is a flickering of alternating black and brown over the skin, followed by a raising of the papillae into a delicate, fanlike shape. But you can’t expect merfolk to speak proper cephalopod. “You taste like an old eel fin,” I told Hudson. “What’s wrong?”

Hudson’s flavor turned salty. Reaching down, he picked up one of the circular glinting things. “It’s the colony,” he said. “Everyone there is so old.”

I turned a sympathetic shade of orange.

“No one’s even sure there are other merfolk colonies out there,” Hudson continued. “It’s been so long since we’ve heard from any of them. But if there aren’t any, where am I supposed to find a mate?” It burst from him like a squirt of ink. His stubby tentacles tightened around the flat object. “I could search forever and not find—wait!” His eyes went wide. “Bruno, could you use your power to help me?”

A fresh tingle ran through my prophecy arms. I curled them tighter against my mantle. A mate, I thought. Well, it seemed a better use of my gift than some of the other merfolk’s requests, like foretelling next year’s weather, or gauging the disposition of sharks. I don’t know why anyone would bother wondering; sharks are always unreasonable. When the world was created, they’d asked for teeth instead of brains. (I’m allowed to be smug about this, having eleven of the latter myself.)

Still, there was that shivery feel. Even without using my power, I’d bet twenty of my suckers that it meant trouble.

“Please,” said Hudson. “Help me find my perfect mate. I’ll open that oyster for you.” He reached for a knife hanging from a loop of seaweed around his middle, where his human skin merged with fish scales.

My second left arm practically hurled the oyster at him while the rest of me was still debating. A mate, I told himself. Surely everyone had the right to seek a mate.

“All right,” I said, extending my prophecy arms. They wove through the water, digging into the sand and snatching debris from the currents. Each object I collected sent a fresh shiver through them: a splinter of wood with a bit of crusted metal protruding from it; a scallop shell broken into a peculiar shape with two curves and a point; a knotted twist of seaweed.

A small, glinting metal ring.

Images collected in my third arms’ brains; strange visions that made my main mantle-brain ache. “She’s young,” I said. “The weedy stuff topping her head is dark and long.”

That wouldn’t be enough for Hudson to locate her. I concentrated harder, even though it made all three of my hearts race like I was fleeing a shark. “She’s in a big, square den with…a wooden floor?” How is that possible? “Its walls are lined with clear stuff you can look through, like sheets of solid water. It smells salty and hot, and there are people perched on—there are people!” The shock almost jolted me out of the vision. “Landpeople.”

“She’s a landperson?” asked Hudson, wide-eyed.

My mantle throbbed as if bloated with fresh water. “She must be,” I said, making a final effort. “She’s close by, on shore, at a place where landpeople gather to feed. A clam den.”

That wasn’t exactly the right description, but I couldn’t bear it any longer. Sinking to the seafloor, I released the debris.

“Thank you Bruno.” Hudson offered the shucked oyster.

My second left arm snatched it and rolled it over its suckers. Mm…savory, sweet, briny… “I’m sorry,” I said, delighting in the taste. “When I recover, I’ll try to find you a mer-mate.”

“I don’t want a mermaid,” Hudson replied.

I froze; the oyster pinched between two suckers.

“Why would I want a mermaid when the land girl is my perfect match?” Reaching into the sand, Hudson started gathering up the heavy glinting things he’d played with earlier. “Landpeople value these,” he muttered. “I can trade them to find her.”

Black spots blossomed on my skin. “What about the treaty? You’re not supposed to go on land.” I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Are you?”

The war happened long before I was hatched. Neither I nor Hudson had ever seen the lost mer-city of Atlantis.

“No, it’s all right, so long as I don’t use machines,” Hudson replied. But he didn’t look at me; just kept his gaze focused on the sand as he hunted out the glinting things.

“Machines,” I echoed, letting the unfamiliar word bounce between my eleven brains. My fourth left arm helpfully picked up a corroded thing with dull spikes like an urchin’s along its rim, and then I remembered. “Those nasty metal things that click and spill filth into the water?” I asked as the fourth arm poked an exploratory tip through the object’s center.

Hudson’s fleshy beak parted to flash his teeth. Shark! I paled and flattened before remembering that merfolk did this to indicate humor; not an intention to attack. Well, the poor things can’t raise papillae, I reminded myself, turning brown again.

“Not all machines are nasty,” said Hudson, putting the glinting objects into a pouch hanging from his belt. “Some are like big shells that landfolk travel inside. Others—but I haven’t used any,” he finished hastily, cinching the pouch closed. If he’d been a cephalopod, I’m quite sure he’d have gone a defensive shade of white.

“I should hope not,” I replied, popping up a few spiky papillae to emphasize my opinion. I’d remembered the reason for Atlantis’ fall. “Machines are what set off the war in the first place.” Some of Atlantis’ merfolk had started dabbling in machinery instead of proper magic, and the resultant muck had polluted the water, causing sickness among the sea-folk.

Also—it was whispered; never stated, but I believed it—the sharks feared that merfolk using machines would make them too powerful.

“Not my ancestors,” said Hudson, and it was true. He was descended from the merfolk who’d agreed to give up machinery and live in isolated colonies scattered under the sea. The others—well, they’d been exiled to land, and no sensible person cared what happened in that desolate place.

Except, apparently, Hudson who seemed to know far more about the world above the waves than he should. Rolling the oyster along my suckers, I watched him prod the sand a final time, find a blue stone with a flashing center, and add it to the pouch’s contents.

Trouble, trouble. It pulsed through my mantle. “This land-girl won’t be able to live under the sea,” I cautioned. “Why not look for a selkie, if there aren’t any mer-girls available?”

“Because this land-girl’s perfect for me. You said so.”

So I had. I squirmed, struck by a desire to ooze into a gap between the rotting wood and the seafloor.

“Anyway, I’ll change her into a mermaid.” Hudson brought out a string of seashells and ran it through his webbed tentacles, fleshy beak bent into a curved line.

“Change her?” I suppressed a squirt of ink. “That’s big magic. The sharks will come sniffing around at the scent of such a powerful spell. And if they object to what you’re doing, there could be war. Teeth. Whirlpools. Even…” Frantic blues ran over my skin. “Even the Great Sucker might feel compelled to rise.”

Hudson tucked away the seashells. “The sea’s not going to go to war over a single land girl.” He looked up at the faraway, shimmering surface dividing land from sea. “Thanks, Bruno. I owe you a dozen oysters for this.”

With a powerful surge of his tail, he pushed off from the wooden skeleton. I followed his silhouette with my eyes for long seconds, too disturbed to eat the oyster now that it was bare and defenseless.

Was Hudson right? Would no one care? Sharks were always looking for a reason to use their many teeth. One had bitten off my original fifth left arm, merely because it had tickled the shark’s gills. I missed that arm. It had been playful, unlike the new one that grew; always moping and clinging to rocks.

No, if the sharks heard of this, it would be bad, very bad indeed.

Still—oysters. My second left arm savored the shucked one. A dozen oysters; think of that! Besides, I reminded myself, sharks can’t swim on land. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—find out, so long as Hudson didn’t touch any machines.

Would it matter if the land girl used magic?

Of course not. Her kind wasn’t included in the treaty.

Doubt nagged inside ten of my brains. It was only a small nagging, however, and mostly eclipsed by my eleventh’s brain delight in the prospect of a meal. Dismissing worry from my thoughts, I settled comfortably on a rock to enjoy my longed-delayed oyster dinner.

Top 10 Reasons Octopuses Are Amazing

In light of the BWG’s group story featured this month, your kindly chief editor has decided it’s time to enlighten the readers with some facts about the ocean’s most incredible inhabitants.

10: It’s well known that octopuses can change the color of their skin to match their surroundings, but it’s less well-known that they can change its texture as well by raising bumps and flanges called papillae.

9: Octopuses have rectangular pupils which gives them control over how much light they let in as well as allowing them a wide field of vision—octopuses have no blind spot! These strangely shaped pupils might also fragment light into prisms, allowing them to see color. Science is still studying the possibilities!

8: Although some studies suggest octopuses should be color blind, they can match the color of their surroundings. Some studies suggest they might be able to see light or even color with their skin.

7: Octopuses have three hearts. The two peripheral hearts pump blood to their gills, while the main heart takes care of general circulation.

6: They have blue-green blood!

5: If you think you’re brainy, imagine being an octopus. They have nine—one central brain and another located in each of their arms. Some scientists have observed that each arm of an octopus seems to have a different “personality,” and the octopus might even favor one arm over another for certain tasks.

4: One single arm of an octopus can have up to as many as 240 suckers on each of its eight arms. These suckers can smell and taste. Imagine smelling something with your hands!

3: Octopuses don’t have tentacles—wow your friends with this bit of trivia at your next party. Tentacles are appendages strictly used for attacking prey, while octopuses use all their limbs for various functions. Technically, an octopus has six arms and two legs. Some species even “walk” across the sea bottom.

2: Although most octopuses are solitary, a species of octopus called the gloomy octopus had been discovered living in cities in the scallop beds off the coast of southern Australia. These cities have been dubbed Octopolis and Octlantis.

1: Octopuses are incredibly intelligent. Many escape their tanks. One, named Inky, famously escaped back into the sea from his New Zealand aquarium. They can open jars, figure out puzzles and mazes, and remember the faces of humans they met months ago. So, don’t tease an octopus, or the next time you meet, you may get a squirt of cold water from their siphon!

Part 7: Bruno, Again

From "A Fish Out of Water" (Spring 2023)

It all changed in an instant—the very taste of the ocean.

Having finished the oyster Hudson had shucked for me, I was heading back to my den. Belly full, no hurry—just ambling along, occasionally poking my arm-tips into the sand to see if they scared up any tasty crustaceans while keeping an eye out for sharks. There were no sharks, but a striped bass started following me curiously, probably wondering why I was such a cheerful shade of spotted brown, and thinking perhaps it meant I had food it could grab a share of.

My first right arm coiled up, readying to punch the bass. That’s always hilarious. Fishes’ eyes always bug even more when I pop them a good one on the gills.

But before I could release the strike, my third arms, the prophecy ones, acted in a way I’d never experienced since the day I was hatched. They shot out from my mantle—straight out—and remained in the awkward position, thrumming and as stiff as if they’d inexplicably grown bones. My other arms turned floppy as rotten seaweed as I drifted helplessly to the seafloor.

I lay there for several seconds, gone pure white and unable to move except to burp a few unhappy bubbles out my siphon. If there had been any sharks about, I’d have made an easy dinner, but the ocean had gone deathly still. No schools of sardines milled about. The curious bass had fled. Snails hid in their shells. Even the currents seemed muted. Muted—yet charged. Pricky and bitter; the way they taste when a storm rages above the surface.

Was there a storm? I’m generally not very interested in the weather above the waves. The merfolk ask me about it sometimes, as it affects their fishing. My arms warn me if it gets bad enough to worry me, and then I hide in my den until it blows over.

They hadn’t warned me this time.

They were beginning to relax. That wasn’t quite correct—the skin on them was still tight and tingling, but at least I could move and curl them again. Life returned to my eight other limbs as well. They stretched out, feeling the currents, except for my fifth right arm, which remained huddled by my mantle. It’s a bit of a coward, I admit.

My skin remained white, matching the sand below me, but I gained enough courage to stretch my eyes up towards the surface. Light filtered down, strong enough to cast the seabed in muted colors. No storm, then. It all goes to murky grays and blues when clouds darken the sky above.

Just a fluke, I tried to convince myself. I’m not sure why “accident” means the same thing as a whale’s fin. There’s nothing accidental about a whale’s tail—unless it hits you, of course. I forced a few encouraging stripes into my skin, but my prophecy arms weren’t having it. Still tense, they sent another warning ripple to my mantle-brain.

What’s the trouble? I asked them, frustrated.

Another tingle, strong and definite. Once, when I was young, I’d made the mistake of punching a torpedo ray, and it had rewarded me with a similar-feeling jolt. That shock, however, had only caused me to release ink and jet off. It hadn’t sent a flow of images through my brains. Pictures formed almost too quickly for me to make sense of them before they dissipated.

Sculpted sand crumbling in the tide. A flat, glinting round thing cupped in a landperson’s tentacles.

Waves. Big waves under a black sky. Waves strong enough to sweep the ocean floor and hurl its hapless denizens onto the shore. Strong enough, maybe, to pluck a decapus from his den and spit him onto the rocks.

As I sank again to the sand, my arms spat up a final vision of two merfolk wading arm-in-arm into the sea. One was clearly Hudson. The other was female, with dark strands flowing from her head. The string of shells he’d showed me shone about her neck. As the pair began to swim, their clumsy lower appendages fused into sleek fishtails.

Then, wings like a gull’s sprouted from the female’s back.

Oh. Oh, muck. I’d made a mistake. Curling all my arms about me, I slipped into the closest crevice I could find, scaring out a family of lanternfish in the process.

I only wanted to help him find a mate, I protested silently.

Well, and oysters, too, I had to admit. The prospect of oysters had certainly played a part.

As the lanternfish swarmed about the crevice’s opening, frantically seeking entrance, the sea’s surface darkened. Not a storm. Still not a storm. Several dozen slowly moving silhouettes had appeared, blocking the light.

Sharks. Another joined the pack as I watched.

Then another. And another. And another . . .

Pieces

Winter 2022

The knight watched the cleric approach from the southeast, his step firm despite his apparent age. The staff he carried appeared more war cudgel than cane.

“Come nearer and I strike,” said the knight when the cleric reached a certain distance. Inside, he quivered, barely restrained rage scorching his veins. Come nearer, he begged. Let me avenge the loss of my comrades.

The battle couldn’t last much longer. Both sides had suffered horrendous casualties. He’d watched from a distance, outwardly impassive, as one of his lord’s castles was taken. He’d retaliated by striking down an enemy knight, but that victory was soon marred by his brother’s capture.

Whether it was the effect of his warning or some more nefarious reason, the cleric halted just beyond his reach. Biting back a growl, the knight dropped his hand from his sword’s hilt. He used it instead to soothe Ebony. She shook her mane, as eager as he for the signal to attack. But there were rules.

“Peace,” said the cleric, leaning on his staff.

Again the knight fought down the urge to strike. “Peace is a hateful word in these circumstances,” he said. “You and I are enemies.”

The cleric stroked his beard. A wind fluttered his white robe about his legs. “Enemies? Hm. Why?”

Ebony stamped. “Your side advanced on us, old fool,” said the knight, patting her neck. In lieu of a physical attack, he poured as much disdain into his voice as it could hold. “But we shall be victorious.”

The cleric continued to stroke his beard. The knight cast a mistrustful eye over him, weathered but hale, like a piece of white oak ossified through time. He refrained from looking back over his shoulder lest he give away his lord’s position. Have faith, he told himself. Hold strong and victory will be ours.

“Does it matter which side wins?”

Matter? The question tore the knight’s thoughts into a glittering trail of fragments. He wrenched his attention back to the cleric. “Matter? What could be more important?”

“The feel of the wind,” said the cleric at once. “The ground underfoot.” He tapped his staff against the smooth, flat earth. “They, at least, are real.”

It took several seconds before the knight gathered enough breath to speak. “What of your vows to your lord?”

“I can’t remember them.” The cleric shifted his weight; in all their bleak surroundings, there was nothing to rest on. “Tell me, why we are fighting?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” said the knight. “You advanced on us.”

“Ah, yes.” The cleric’s pale eyes grew vacant. “That’s how it always starts.”

The knight steadied Ebony as she danced beneath him, his muscles shifting smoothly with her movements, as if they were all of one piece. Madman, he thought. Fool. Then: distraction. Deliberately, he returned his attention to the battle at hand. How many remained, out of the fallen?

But the cleric spoke again. “I envy you,” he said. “All glorious fire and blind devotion. To still feel purpose. Yes, I envy that. Tell me again why we’re fighting.”

“Your side advanced upon us.” The knight beat a fist against Ebony’s saddle. “How many times must I say it?”

“It’s not enough!” cried the cleric, tilting back his head. The sky spread above them, starless and fog-gray. “Tell me, knight, when did you kneel before your lord and swear eternal fealty? Was the ceremony glorious or somber? Did the courtiers shout huzzah or keep a genteel silence?”

“The ceremony?” The knight paused. Of course there’d been a ceremony. He was a knight; therefore he must have been knighted.

He could envision every detail: a rich carpet stretching across a floor as dark as still water to a dais where his liege waited, his sable-trimmed cloak pooling about his feet. In solemn silence the knight advanced, knelt, and bowed his dark head. The great sword lifted, descended three times. His shoulders tingled under the blows. The courtiers cheered . . . he could hear their cries.

What he couldnot do was believe that any of it had actually happened.

Where was it situated, this great kingdom he served? He swept his gaze across the landscape. Flat, barren, and featureless. No tender young grass would ever cover the hard earth. There would never be trees for birds to perch in.  No yellow grain would ever sprout to feed the hungry.

“In my worst moments,” said the cleric softly, leaning on his staff, “I believe that we are here simply because whoever made the rules decided it would be . . . enjoyable.”

No. The knight’s hands shook on Ebony’s reins. A lie. I am a knight. I serve my lord. He conjured up his vision of the ceremony, willing it to be true, but it broke apart at his mind’s touch, fragile as a paper flower cast into water.

A glimpse of white caught the corner of his eye. The knight sucked in a breath as the pale lady, the most lethal of all his adversaries, swooped across the battlefield in a movement deadly as a falcon’s stoop.

Purpose returned in a flash. “You’ve been distracting me all alone!” he shouted at the unmoving cleric. Drawing his sword, he urged Ebony forward, leaping into the path of the onrushing foe. “Here’s for your stratagems, old fool!” he cried, striking her down.

The cleric raised a brow. “Not mine. But for your sake, I fear you should have held your position.”

Frowning, the knight turned the fallen queen over with the tip of his sword. On her face he beheld not despair, but the satisfaction of one who has sacrificed life for victory.

My lord! He whirled around exactly as the lowly pawn, unheeded until now, took the single, lethal, step forward. The knight screamed his throat raw, but there were rules and they held him helpless.

“Tell me again,” said the cleric. “Why are we fighting?”

I no longer know. The knight wept as his king fell, checkmated.

Issue 62, Fall 2020

Literary Learnings

The Right to be Happy: A Fearful Glance at Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman’s Assassins

Welcome to Literary Learnings, dear readers! Let me begin by stating that I do not advocate assassinating the president of the United States.

This is not a sentence I ever imagined using to open an essay, but the disclaimer seems necessary for any analysis of the musical Assassins, written in 1990 by composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim and librettist John Weidman. The authors of nearly every critique I’ve read on this work take care to make the same demurral. It’s especially important to say it now, during such a volatile election year, with the election itself coming up within a month of this essay being published.

I do not advocate assassinating the president of the United States. But I love Assassins.

You probably know who Stephen Sondheim is, even if you don’t recognize his name, or do not care for musical theater. There are likely few in America who haven’t heard “Tonight” or one of the other songs from West Side Story, for which he wrote the lyrics, or wouldn’t recognize “Send in the Clowns,” where he acted as both composer and lyricist. For those who love musical theater, Sondheim is acknowledged as the great master of the age, America’s greatest living composer. At the same time, it is unlikely that you would find the majority of his works being performed by your local community theater—prior to our present Covid-19 misery, I mean. Aside from being vocally extremely challenging, Sondheim’s works tend toward the cerebral, the cynical, and the dark.

How dark? Well, his arguable magnum opus is Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, a tale of vengeance, murder, and cannibalism. Other works include Passion, a gender-flipped Beauty and the Beast tale with an obsessed stalker for a heroine; Follies, which spins a tale of adultery and disillusionment, and Into the Woods, which begins as a slightly off-kilter retelling of several well-known fairytales and ends up killing Rapunzel, Jack the Giant-slayer’s mother, and a number of others in the second act.

Even among this lot, Assassins stand out as the black sheep of the family. Sure, Sweeny Todd’s leading man is a barber who slits men’s throats while his partner bakes their bodies into pies. Assassins’ protagonists are the people who attempted to kill or succeeded in killing the president of the United States.

It's disturbing. And hilarious. And then again, disturbing.

Frequently styled as a “musical revue” rather than a standard musical, Assassins lacks a straightforward plot. Instead, the action moves forward and back in time. The assassins, none of whom ever met in real life, congregate at a rundown carnival to converse, exhort, eat fried chicken (and occasionally shoot at the bucket it comes in), and air their grievances. There’s another character, the Balladeer, who acts as a counterpoint to the assassins. He observes them critically and sings about their motivations. Embodying the American Dream, he serves as a cheerful reminder of all that is good about this country and a rebuttal to all the assassins’ dark impulses.

Except, in many stagings of Assassins, the Balladeer turns into Lee Harvey Oswald at the end. Even in those productions that eschew this interpretation, the Balladeer is chased offstage and the assassins assume full control of the narrative. No matter the production, the assassins win. John Weidman’s script demands it.

Of course it does. Despite the fictional setting, the assassins were (or are—John Hinkley Jr., Lynette Fromme, and Sara Jane Moore are all still living) real people. Assassins plays with history, but it refuses to undo it. Uninterested in “what ifs,” it instead asks us to confront what is.

Does every American have the “right” to be happy, as is claimed in the show’s opening song? Is the American Dream real? Do we truly believe that everyone is equal and that we can all advance through our own merits, or is that a naïve fairytale? Perhaps more important, is the American Dream a promise? If we, as a country, have set forth the idea that all people are equally respected and given the same opportunities, do we owe anything to those the system has failed? Do the failures prove the American Dream a failure? How much can we blame people for being angry, when they come to believe they’ve been lied to all their lives? How much do we sympathize with their despair when they lash out?

Assassins raises all of these questions without answering any of them. The final verdict is left to the audience. If Assassins ended with a condemnation of the killers’ actions, it would be easy to dismiss it after the curtain fell. You could sleep easy in your bed, comforted by the thought that the good side, the “right” side had gotten the final word on the subject of America. But Assassins insists we attempt to understand these people. It forces us to look at them, even live briefly in their heads. It reminds us that they were all, every one, Americans. Perhaps it’s worth taking a look at the four men who succeeded in assassinating a president.

John Wilkes Booth. Successful actor, ladies’ man, and supreme racist in an era of racism. His brother Edwin, a superior actor who supported the Union, disowned him. In 1865, Booth shot Abraham Lincoln in the hopes of reviving the flagging Confederate cause.

Charles J. Guiteau. Conman, would-be preacher, would-be lawyer, would-be writer. A man who could not find a willing partner in a free love commune. He gave a speech to five or so people on the sidewalk outside the Republican convention in 1880, and subsequently decided James A. Garfield owed his election to him. When Garfield didn’t make him consul to Paris as a reward, Guiteau shot him in the back at a train station in 1881.

Leon Czolgohsz. Son of Polish immigrants, Czolgohsz (pronounced CHOAL-gosh) was a steelworker who lost his job in the crash of 1893. Blacklisted for striking, he lost his faith in both his religion and the American Dream. Suffering from illness, he became impressed with anarchist Emma Goldman. He shot William McKinley in 1901, in imitation of the assassination of King Umberto I of Italy.

Lee Harvey Oswald. Product of a troubled childhood, Oswald dropped out of school to join the Marines at age seventeen. He defected to the Soviet Union in 1959, only to grow disaffected with socialism and return to America in 1962. He shot John F. Kennedy in 1963. His exact motivations remain a point of contention among scholars and history enthusiasts.

These four men's heinous acts changed the course of American history. And really, it was so simple. All it took, as Assassins’ centerpiece number “The Gun Song” proclaims, was the movement it took for a finger to pull a trigger.  And although it’s been decades since we’ve seen a presidential assassination or a serious attempt at one, gun violence has become a serious issue in contemporary America. Not a day without some perfectly innocent citizen being killed by random gunfire in this country. Sometimes it isn’t random. Sometimes, people shoot others because they feel no one is listening to them. A gun, they feel, gives them a voice. Gives them power. Today’s shooters are the assassins’ successors.

This issue, I feel, is at the heart of Assassins’ power. A merely historical show could remain safely in the past. By remaining open-ended, by playing with time, Assassins forces us to confront issues with American society today. Racism. Unemployment. Poverty, hunger, injustice. Much as we might like to deny it, Booth, Guiteau, Czolgohsz, and Oswald were Americans. They chose the path of violence, hoping to be heard. For some people, it seems the only answer to dealing with a system that grants power to some while keeping others down.

But we do have a power, as American citizens. We have the right to protest, to petition, and above all, to vote to elect the person we wish to represent our interests. So, this November, exercise that power. Vote. Vote by mail, or vote in person. Make your voice heard. And if you can, help others to raise their voices, too, by working at the polls, or offering to drive those who wouldn’t otherwise be able to make it there—even if their opinions don’t match your own.

Let’s cease acting like America’s future is a sport that one team or the other is going to “win.” We are all Americans, regardless of our skin color, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or any other characteristic we can imagine that may divide us. We are all Americans, whether we live in the North or South, in the country or the city. We are stronger together. We will learn more by listening to one another than shouting to drown one another out.

I hope together, we can build a country where everybody truly does have the chance to fulfill their dreams.

A.E, Decker

Flash Fiction

Naked Ambition

(November, 2012)

Can't believe I overslept, thought Gary. This presentation could make his career; he'd slaved over it for months. Briefcase clutched to his chest, he burst into the meeting room. Oscar, Rita, and Fred sat around the shiny oblong table, but Mr. Tereford was not yet present.

Gary sighed in relief. "Sorry," he said, setting down the briefcase. "Didn't sleep well last night." He laughed. "I kept dreaming I'd come to work naked. Ever have that dream?"

Fred coughed. Rita and Oscar exchanged a look.

"What?" asked Gary.

Rita took a breath. "Gary," she said.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't a dream."

Backyard Raisins

Ann Decker

(June, 2012)

(The following work won First Place in the Flash Nonfiction contest 

in the 2012 Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group's "Write Stuff" conference.)

"Oh, no, not another rabbit!" said Mary.

Jennifer set down her lemonade. "Rabbit?" 

Mary turned away from the kitchen window. "They're everywhere this year, nibbling my lettuce, leaving their droppings all over the grass. . . ."

The back door banged open interrupting the women's conversation. Six-year-old Bobby came rushing in, his eyes shining with excitement. He ran to Mary. "Guess what, Mommy? The backyard's full of raisins." He extended two hands filled with wrinkled brown nuggets.

Mary paled. Jennifer's mouth fell open. Bobby looked down at his hands and frowned. 

"Some of them don't taste like raisins, though," he added.

The Quest

by Ann Decker

(Sept/Oct 2011)

The knight took a breath. After an arduous journey, he’d attained the peak where the dragon’s lair gaped like an open mouth.

“Come out and face me, vile beast!” he roared.

The princess came boiling out of the cave. “What did you call me?”

“Not you. The dragon.”

“Oh,” she said, mollified. “Can’t it wait? I have his king in check.”

The dragon poked his elegant green head out of the cave. “Bishop to D4 and the tea’s ready.”

The knight lingered outside, listening to laughter and the rattling of teacups.

It was a long journey back down the mountain.

The Quest won first place in the 2011 Flash Fiction contest at the "Write Stuff" conference of the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.

Ghoul

by Ann Decker

(Nov 2011)

The ghastly apparition targeted Ricky the instant he stepped into the room. Its lips, bloody red in a corpse-pale face, stretched into a leer.  Then it began to advance, trailing a collection of round objects, like an array of severed heads, behind it as it staggered towards him on huge, misshapen feet.  Its grin widened to include teeth.

Ricky knew heroic measures were called for.  Letting out a banshee shriek, he threw his arms around his mother’s legs.

She patted his head.  “He’s shy around strangers,” she said.

“I was just gonna offer him a balloon,” said the clown. 

Poetry

Huntsman

Ann Decker

(January 2012)   

I am the shadow on the wall

I am the silence in the street

I am the echo to the tread

Of your solitary feet.

I mark your tread and measure it, love

But love, you mark not mine

I mark your tread and measure it, love

But mine you don’t divine.

The clock has struck the midnight hour

Blood drops stain the virgin white

Lift the apple, gleaming red

To take the tender, poisoned bite

I hear your heart, love, as it hastens

But love, you hear not mine

I hear your heart love, as it hastens

But my heart keeps in time

In shadowed glade now turn to witness

The loyal heart, the upraised knife

And runs the question balanced thus:

Will I take or spare your life?

I scent your blood and savor it, love

But love, you scent not mine

I scent your blood and savor it, love

But love, you shan’t drink mine.

Bittersweet

A. E. Decker

(Featured Story: Feb., 2012)

Only half past noon, and there went the last pound of brandied rose creams. I must make more for the evening rush, thought Marcel, watching the satisfied customer walk out the door, gift-wrapped box under his arm. Do I still have all the necessary ingredients in the kitchen, or must I—

Then the next customer in line bore down on him and his train of thought shattered like a sugar sculpture dropped onto a hard floor. “What do you mean, you sold the last rose creams?” the man demanded, his loud, aggressive voice carrying over the noise of the small crowd that filled Doux-Amer. “I came here specifically to buy them.”

Zut alors, monsieur, he thought. Quelle tragidie. Quick--tackle that last customer before he reaches Bleecker Street. Marcel bit his tongue. Why did men of this ilk--self-important, business-suited types--never think to call ahead and reserve what they wanted? He stole a look around the shop, hoping to foist this particular pest off on one of his subordinates. Both George and Amanda quickly busied themselves with other customers. They’d heard that bellow and knew the aggravation it portended.

I’ll give them hell later, Marcel promised himself. “If you return this evening, I will have made fresh ones,” he told the seething businessman. “Perhaps you could reserve--”

“Return?” The businessman swelled up. Even his striped power tie looked belligerent. “I took a train to get here. This is coming out of my lunch hour, you know.”

Marcel rubbed his brow. In an aisle to his right, two customers squabbled over a box of mixed creams. A little girl threw herself onto the floor, transforming into a screaming bundle of arms and legs, over her mother’s refusal to buy her cocoa. The checkout line began shifting like an angry centipede as those waiting grew impatient at the delay. Three hundred matters pressed for his attention, and this man acted like taking a subway from Wall Street to Greenwich Village was comparable to traversing the Sahara. Try being a chocolatier on Valentine’s Day, monsieur.

“You have more in the back, don’t you?” the businessman accused.

 “I assure you we do not.”

 “I’ll pay extra.”

 “There won’t be more until this evening.”

 The businessman drummed an angry staccato on the countertop. “Let me speak to the manager.”

Marcel wrenched his attention from a woman who wandered the shelves near the window, picking up boxes of chocolate and turning them over in her hands before setting them down again. Her cap’s brilliant crimson-red-red color had drawn his attention when she’d first entered the shop, at least half an hour ago. “Pardon?” he asked.

“I want,” said the businessman with insulting distinction, “to speak to the manager.”

“I am the owner, monsieur, and I tell you I cannot magic brandied rose creams into existence. Come back this evening.” Or keep hassling me and discover what I can magic into existence, he added silently. 

The businessman gaped. You, the owner? read the almost-visible thought balloon hanging over his head. Barely old enough to shave and not even American?

Twenty-two is old enough to shave, merci beaucoup. Blonde beards just grow more slowly. And what did you expect from a shop called Doux-Amer, a Texan?

Taking advantage of the man’s no-doubt temporary silence, Marcel signaled to George to ring up the next customer. The constipated line finally moved, much to the relief of his patrons.

The businessman recovered. “Tell you what,” he said, checking his watch; a gesture meant to convey both urgency and importance. “I’ll give you my address and you can send the chocolates when they’re finished. I need them by six-thirty.”

The wandering woman picked up a bag of chocolate-covered raspberries. Her thumbs caressed the foil as she held it, longer than anything else she’d selected. Her eyes squeezed shut a moment then she put it back on the shelf.

Marcel shook his head. “Sorry, but we don’t do deliveries.”

The businessman’s face tightened. “I can always go elsewhere, you know.”

Marcel turned quickly away, feigning a cough. It was either that or let the derisive laugh escape. Take your business elsewhere? Thank you, monsieur, I could use a break. He couldn’t see the checkerboard floor for all the bodies obscuring it. More people kept piling in; the bell over the door hadn’t stopped ringing since eleven o’clock. His neck burned and his legs ached all the way up to his hips. Better to be a sled dog in the Arctic than a chocolatieron Valentine’s Day. At least after being run off your feet, you’d know you’d gotten somewhere.

“That is your choice, of course,” he said, once he trusted himself to speak, “but no other chocolatier makes brandied rose creams. They are one of my signature chocolates.”

And he’d been a fool to allow The New Yorker to write that article about them. Suddenly they’d become the “in” confection to give one’s sweetheart on Valentine’s Day. Most likely this businessman was looking to impress a fashion-conscious lady friend. And after she’d cooed and swooned, the chocolates would probably end up in a bin, untasted.

A customer left with his purchase tucked in a gold foil bag. Three more promptly surged in, tracking fresh snow over the floor. The smell of hot bodies wrapped in heavy coats, some of them wool, nearly overpowered the aromas of chocolate, butter and sugar. Still the businessman refused to concede.

“I know you have more in the back,” he said. “Sell them to me. You can make fresh ones for the other guy.”

Marcel rubbed his temples. Oh, what a beaut of a headache was blossoming there! The worst part was this idiot was right; he did have another half-pound tucked away in back. Maybe he should concede, sell them to this businessman just to be rid of him.

But no; Dan Lucas was a reliable customer who’d had the foresight to place his order the week before. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides--Marcel touched the gilded theobroma blossom tucked beneath his shirt . . . he had another option available, one not open to the average chocolatier.

He chewed his lip. Using magic on a customer? Surely the Theobromancer’s Guild--the secret organization of chocolate wizards--would object. But this is an emergency. He forced his hand to unclench. “Might I suggest an alternative?”

“Are you offering a discount?” asked the businessman, almost before he finished speaking.

Marcel quickly reviewed his vocabulary. True, English was not his first language, but when did “alternative” become synonymous with “discount?”

“I’m offering something exclusive,” he said with the care of an angler casting into a deep pool.

Ah, he did know his English well. “Exclusive” was the right hook. A covetous expression stole over the man’s face. “Something not available to the general public, you mean?”

“Exactement, monsieur, something very special.”

“How do I know it’s any good?”

Fish landed; Marcel fought back a smile. “Taste for yourself.” Reaching under the counter, he took from the display case a crystal dish containing six chocolates, as exquisitely arranged as rare gems. He hesitated a moment, sorely tempted to offer the white chocolate with the sugar-crystal dome. But no; the Guild would be within their rights to discipline him if he put a customer to sleep for the next month. “Try this one,” he said, indicating a shiny dark chocolate embellished with a creamy whorl instead.

The waiting customers watched enviously as the businessman took the proffered chocolate off the dish. He lifted it to eye height, studying it as if he expected to find the words “made in China” printed in small letters across the base, then finally, grudgingly, took a small bite. The soft crack as his teeth broke through the chocolate shell shouldn’t have been audible over the general babble that filled Doux-Amer, but it was.

The tight lines bracketing his mouth softened. His cheekbones stopped straining against his skin as if about to burst through. He took another bite of the chocolate and the hard squint around his eyes vanished.

Marcel set the dish back inside the display. The filling now melting on the businessman’s tongue was as light as a snowflake settling on the tip of one’s nose. It tasted--subtle--more hinting at flavors than actually declaring itself. A suggestion of burnt caramel gave way to the perfumey lushness of sugared violets only to be replaced by vanilla’s bourbon-sweet bitterness.

But the taste mattered less than the effect. These were Zephyr Creams, his own invention. One bite and the eater surrendered to the most blissful inner tranquility.

Again Marcel touched the gilded theobroma. I’ve done no harm, he assured himself. Indeed, knots of tension in the man’s neck and shoulders were melting like the trickles of dirty snow tracked across the shop’s tiles. He’d probably sleep better tonight than he had in weeks, and whoever he intended to buy the rose creams for would find him pleasantly agreeable at their dinner this evening.

Marcel’s conscience quieted, not without a few final grumbles. He released the theobroma. “The fresh rose creams should be ready by six o’clock,” he said. “Surely you can leave work a little early on Valentine’s Day.”

“Of course.” The businessman nodded, smiling at nothing. “Those files can wait.”

“Absolument.” Marcel took up a notepad and pen. “Now, would you prefer dark or milk chocolate?”

He jotted down the information, a process that took far less time and stress than the prior confrontation. As the businessman wandered dreamily out of the shop, Marcel stretched the ache out of his lower back. With the passing of the lunch hour, the crowd thinned. There’d be a lull until late afternoon. I’d love to sleep in tomorrow, he thought wistfully. But no, tomorrow customers would come, hoping he’d be offering his chocolates at half price, like some cheap chain--

A flash of red caught the corner of his eye. The woman was at the counter now, peering through the glass at the dark chocolate crèmes brûlées.

He glanced quickly off to the side. Amanda was wrapping up an order while George rang up a purchase. Ah, well.“May I help you?” he asked.

The woman’s head shot up, her eyes widening under the red cap. Perhaps she’d only just realized how long she’d been wandering the shop without making a purchase. “Um,” she began, then faltered and stared down at her hands. Her pale, cold-looking fingertips poked out of her fingerless gloves. Chewed nails. A pleasant enough face, but tired, shadowed under the eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. Her lips curled upwards without achieving a smile. “My--someone bought me chocolates from here last year. I was trying to remember what kind they were.”

She forgot what his chocolate tasted like? Marcel quashed a surge of indignation. “What did they look like?”

Her gaze wandered to the ceiling. “Um. Round. Red at the top with little gold beads sprinkled on them.”

“Those would be the strawberry champagne truffles.” He never forgot a chocolate he invented. “Unfortunately, we’re not offering them this year.” After last Valentine’s Day, he’d decided he wasn’t satisfied with their texture and retired them, vowing to perfect them later. A vow he’d forgotten until now.

“Oh,” she said. She studied her hands again. “I really liked them.”

Why did I forget? Picking up a cloth, he polished an already clean section of the counter. “Perhaps I could interest you in something else?” he suggested, flicking his gaze at her.

“No, thank you. I probably wouldn’t have bought them even if--” She folded her hands into balls. “Sorry. I don’t even know why I came in.” Lifting her head, she bent her mouth into another of those terrible not-smiles. This time Marcel noticed the redness in her shadowed eyes, the rawness of her nose. And he remembered. Remembered who Valentine’s Day was hardest on, after all. Not the chocolatiers.

Valentine’s Day? Might as well call it “Shame the Singles Day.” For every happy couple holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes over a candlelight dinner, a lonely soul sat at home or meandered the streets, resigned to their solitude or bitterly envious of their happily-mated friends.

But as depressing as the holiday could be for those people, there were others for whom it was nothing less than a paean to pain. He’d bet every last chocolate in Doux-Amer that sometime over the last year, this woman had lost her beloved. Death, divorce, infidelity--in the end, what did the how matter?

He really should get to making more brandied rose creams. The floor needed mopping, and he needed to reorganize some displays and bring more stock out of the back--

“Have a cup of cocoa,” he suggested, coming from behind the counter. Taking her arm, he tried to draw her towards one of the tall tables by the window, where she could perhaps find peace watching the light snowfall trickle down out of the gray sky.

“Oh, no.” She sounded almost alarmed by the prospect. “I couldn’t.”

“Certainly you can. On the house. A Valentine’s Day gift.”

A prodigy. That’s what his teachers called him. He’d spent his adolescence studying chocolate in all its aspects, rarely looking up from his grater and tempering bowl. And he’d risen rapidly through the Theobromancers’ ranks. But perhaps if he’d set aside the cocoa beans just once, he’d have known the right words to say now.

She stiffened under his hand. “A Valentine’s . . .no. No, thank you.” Her chin dipped into her scarf. A muffled sob escaped her then she twisted away from him, fumbling blindly for the door. In another breath, she’d be through it, lost to the crowded streets.

“Wait, please!” For the second time in less than an hour, Marcel went behind the counter and took out the crystal dish of magical chocolates. His conscience didn’t emit so much as a peep as he held it out to her. “Have just one,” he pleaded, turning the plate so a crescent-shaped sweet painted with a streak of bright yellow was in the fore.

If she’d only bite into it. The dark chocolate shell would crack and a bright, tart, citrusy cream would ooze over her tongue. She’d swallow, perhaps noticing no more at first than the taste of lemon mellowed with vanilla and cream, and a slight warm tingling in her stomach. That warm sensation would spread through her torso as she bid adieu and went out the door. By the time she’d walked a block, she’d be warm to the tips of her ears. By the time she reached home, she might even be humming a tune. Perhaps she’d make a cup of tea, call a friend, find something to laugh about, and smile a real smile.

Cheering Moon, he called these chocolates. He’d presented them to the Guild on his graduation.

But she turned in the doorway, that awful not-smile trembling on a face that looked ready to crack in half. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want chocolate this Valentine’s Day.”

“Please--”

She slipped out the door, so smooth and quick the bell suspended over it didn’t so much as chirp. A bitter breeze blew a spray of snow through the gap before it swung silently shut. Through the window, Marcel saw her walking briskly away, her shoulders hunched. Her hand dug into her coat pocket and came up holding a crumpled tissue. She was just pressing it to her nose when a group of three laughing couples passed, blocking her from sight. By the time they cleared the window, she was gone.

Marcel exhaled. He set the crystal dish back in the display then stood with his palms pressed against the counter a while. The familiar smell of chocolate wreathed his head. The walls of his shop encompassed him, warm shades of burgundy, cream, and gold. George fetched a mop and cleaned the checkerboard floor. Amanda straightened shelves. Over the speakers, audible for the first time since the mad rush began, Ella Fitzgerald crooned.

Did you cry a river too? Marcel wondered in some abstract portion of his mind.  He should have checked the song list more carefully.

The bell over the door rang. Marcel’s head shot up, his heartbeat accelerating. But whatever his wild, inexplicable hopes, it was Dan Lucas who came strolling in, his amiable features pink with cold and alight with good cheer.

“Came for the rose creams,” he said, stripping off his gloves. He took a seat at a high table by the window. “But I might as well treat myself to some cocoa while I’m here. Brr! That wind’s bitter.”

“Very bitter,” agreed Marcel. Shaking off his melancholy, he fetched Dan’s chocolates plus an extra-large mug of cocoa with whipped cream and sugar sprinkles. He set both on the table and Dan instantly picked up the mug and took a sip.

 “Mm, that’s good.” He sighed, wiping his lips. One hand reached out to stroke the red foil wrapper on the box of rose creams. “Lindsey will be so happy,” he said. “Nothing says ‘I love you’ like chocolate. Especially your chocolate, Marcel.”

“Nothing.” Marcel faced the window. Snow was falling heavier now, obscuring the figures of passers-by walking the Village streets. “Yes, that’s important to know. Be sure you say ‘I love you’ to Lindsey.”

Soon he’d have to get started on the brandied rose creams. Snow or not, the customers would come pouring in after work, eager to find that perfect gift for their loved ones. But just for now, he’d watch the street, sparing a moment of thought for those who would come home to an empty room rather than flowers and kisses.

 And to spare a moment of pity for himself as well--the prodigy, who, despite all his talent, all his magic, couldn’t promise his customers love. Only chocolate.

Top Ten Chocolates for Combating Writer’s Block

Ann Decker

Chocolate, as we know, is the perfect writers’ food: a combination of caffeine and sugar to jolt one’s brain into action, topped with a sprinkling of theobromine that releases a lovely rush of endorphins. So without further ado, here are ten chocolaty morsels to get the words flowing on slow days. 

10. Chocolate-coated Grahams

If you write in the morning, as I do, one of these is a perfect elevensies break after a successful hour or two of work. They’re a treat to look forward to and give me the energy to keep going until lunch. Make mine dark chocolate, please!

9. Nonpareils

The name actually refers to the little balls of sugar crusting the top, but here in the States, we think of them as a crunchy chocolate treat. Keep a bag of nonpareils on your writing desk and grab a couple when your inspiration starts running dry.

8. Chocolate-coated Almonds

Hey, they’re nuts! You can pretend they’re actually healthy for you. (Psst--if it’s dark chocolate, they’re actually not too bad!) A great mid-writing pick-me-up, substitute pecans, walnuts, or sunflower seeds according to your personal taste.

7. Hot Chocolate

Sometimes coffee isn’t the answer. Why not try a mug of rich hot chocolate topped with whipped cream instead? Especially good for writing on cold winter afternoons, hot chocolate will put a smile on your face and wrap your imagination in warm, dreamy clouds.

6. Brownies

Bake them in the morning, before writing, so your room will be permeated with the smell. Your fingers will fly over the keys as your mouth waters in anticipation of the first moist, chocolate-laden bite. If you don’t bake, buy some from a pastry shop and look at them frequently as you write. You won’t get quite the same effect, but you’ll enjoy eating them regardless.

5. Malted Milk Balls

Easy to store in a jar on your desk, malted milk balls comprise not only the necessary chocolate component, but the added bonus of an extra jolt of sugar as well. Light and crunchy, these are the perfect treat to munch on when you feel your energy flagging.

4. Chocolate-covered Doughnuts

The nice thing about these is you can legitimately eat them for breakfast. Okay; it’s a little naughty, but when you have a tricky plot-line to crack, you need all the help you can get. Dunk them in your coffee or tea to melt the chocolate coating and enhance the flavor.

3. The Good, Old-Fashioned Chocolate Bar

Sometimes, let’s face it, your writing is just not working out. Or you just got that rejection note for a story you thought was perfect. On these days, it’s best to put aside the typewriter and soothe your inner child. Few things are more consoling then hearing a thick slab of chocolate crack between your teeth. I’m a fan of Green and Black, personally. 

2. Dark Chocolate Salted Caramels

I know, I know; it’s the latest craze. But really, there are few more delightful taste experiences than the mixture of sweet, buttery caramel and rich dark chocolate with the added crunch of sea salt. These are what you treat yourself to after a good day’s work or when you finally get that acceptance letter.

1. Raw Cocoa Beans

When all else fails, pull out the heavy artillery. Raw cocoa beans are, I admit, an acquired taste, but once you acquire it there’s no substitute for the slightly bitter, fruity crunch of biting into one. The rush of endorphins that pour into your system afterwards will wash all the cobwebs of stale thoughts from your mind and give you the energy to compose a few hundred more words. Handle with care!