Her eyes belie her age. Cold and hard like two lumps of coal. Certainly nothing like the supple contours of her young maiden's face.

Maiden. I assume too much, for I know nothing of her--or the others for that matter. She says nothing, though I have spoken to her in her native tongue many times before. Even now, her gaze pierces me like the icy arrows of winter.

“What is your name?” gado detsadoa?

Silence. No more.

“Do you want to eat?” tsadulis tsaldati?

Her eyes flicker recognition, but still, there are no words spoken. Instead, she shudders from the cold bite of the wind, and curls in on herself.

- published in the Owen Wister Review (as C. M. Hood)

The old man braced against the bitter cold, clutching his wool overcoat tight to his meager body. It had snowed only an hour before and already the city streets were dressed in a generous blanket of white. Normally, that would have limited the amount of downtown traffic, as people locked themselves away from winter’s cold embrace. But not on this night, for today was Christmas Eve. Hordes of last-minute shoppers scurried about, desperate to pick up last-minute gifts before the local shops closed down for the evening. Many of the stores would close early. Yet there was so much to do and so little time.

In this way, the old man did not differ from anybody else. Time waited for no one. He looked small and out of his element as he shuffled his way across Elm Street to Harry’s Hideaway, a used and rare record store. The window had gold garland scotch-taped around its border, but offered little else in the way of festive decorations.

A little bell chimed above the old man’s head as he entered the establishment and was 

I don’t remember the car accident. Not really. I remember the impact, the sound of grating metal and the explosion of shattered glass. But I barely remember the mind numbing cold of the ocean or the darkness as it poured around me. And I don’t remember my escape from its icy clutches. But I do remember the fight I had with Melissa just an hour before, the spiteful words I had thrown at her like poisoned daggers, each piercing her heart with deliberate accuracy.

Oh! And I remember I was drinking. Again.

Why does it always come back to that? Why am I so weak? And in God’s name, why do I always hurt Melissa? Well…enough is enough. I’m through with drinking. I have hurt Melissa too many times. That’s why I have to apologize. I have to set things right. That’s why I’m heading home.

 I’m not sure how long I take, but time, like the endless miles of two-lane before me, stretch on without measure. Not one car passes me.