I wasn’t trying to kill him.

Ten tiny fingers: terror and love.

Piled plates and cups lay on the grimy metal with pools of water in each nook and cranny. Slowly, the water darkens and films. Tiny flies crawl and fly over the mountain, feasting and multiplying on the food remnants. On the floor beside it, a motionless hand reaches out eternally.  

             A long room, lined with chairs and televisions. Strangers sit, side-by-side, chatting like old friends. In the background, Kelly and Michael chatter with bubbly enthusiasm. A woman in bold colors steps through the doorway with a piece of paper and calls a name. One group leaves to be swiftly replaced.

             Shattered splinters sparkled, barely visible from certain angles – the baseball lay among them, decorated with tiny fragments. Outside, young voices rose and fell in panicked chorus, then faded amidst pounding feet that fled in the bright afternoon light. Alone, one pair treaded hesitantly but determinedly closer to the door.

             “Oh, life-giving box,” the man intoned, kneeling. “Thank you for your benevolent and generous ways!” With an expression of piety, the man laid his arms palms-down on the floor before him and waited.
            Beep.
            The man sprang up, grabbing the steaming hot food. A teenage girl sighed.
            “Dad, you’re weird.”

The bell rang for the next round. The fighter groaned, face planted firmly downward. “Get up,” her mind commanded. Even as the thought ended, the eyes fluttered heavily closed. Again, the bell rang. A hand fumbled for the only target that mattered. Enduring one last ring, she struck blindly. K.O.

The soft light of dawn casts shadows over a desk covered with overflowing ashtrays and empty glasses. The basket next to it is piled high with crumpled paper balls. Shaking hands lift a thick stack of pristine papers, slide them into the manila envelope, and seal it. Ready to send.