K. Marvin Bruce

  The two held as still as coral in a sea of fog.   Had someone heard them?   Surely it was foolhardy to shoot even at trespassers that can’t be seen.   Afraid to speak, they stood as if Medusa had seen them, their feet growing cold in the slushy snow. Another report—loud and aggressive.   Terah instinctively raised his hands.   A third shot.   Mich ventured a whisper.   “There’s a shootin’ range near here, now I remember.   Someone must be tryin’ out his Christmas gun.” “How can they see to shoot?” “It’s enclosed.   At least partially.   Like bein’ in a barn.   Still, we’re too close to other people.” Mich was right.   Their best chance was to stay deeper in the woods.   They changed course and measured progress by decibel.   “I don’t even know what day it is,” Terah admitted. “Shootin’ ranges are open most any day.   We probably weren’t in any danger.   I don’t know what direction were headin’, though.” They’d left their shelter using dead reckoning from the previous evening.   The o

  The morning was foggy.   The temperature had crept up in the night, sublimating the snow to vapor that hung in the damp, warmer air.   Terah was beginning to long for days when he could linger upon awakening without having to jump immediately into action.   Those days when he’d awake next to Danielle, warm and cozy, if not properly employed.   Opening his eyes and finding it dark, scooting over to her warm body and wrapping an arm around her.   Even if this didn’t lead to making love, it made him feel accepted, happy, and content.   When was the last time he’d opened his eyes to normalcy? There was still wet, heavy snow on the ground.   He dashed out of the cave, following Mich’s slushy footprints.   He could only see a foot or two ahead, so running was out of the question in this rocky terrain.   He didn’t want to call out—the homeless don’t want to draw attention to themselves.   At least he’d be able to navigate back to his stuff in the cleft by following his own prints.   A figur

  “I told you not to barricade the door!”   Mich was already nervous about exposing himself to new circumstances.   It wasn’t like there were lots of complicated rules to obey to stay safe.   Too many variables.   Too much space between atoms. “I didn’t.”   Terah was beyond the corner, struggling with a pack now overloaded with food. “Well, it’s gonna take a lotta work to get out.” Terah was grateful to put down the pack for a moment.   His shoulders ached.   He stepped around the corner.   In Mich’s light he could see about ten feet of detritus packed against the door.   This was going to take an hour or two.   He began pulling pieces of old furniture out and tossing them into the rooms that lined the corridor.   After several minutes of this, they’d made no apparent progress. “They don’t want us to go,” Mich panted between loads. “That’s why we have to,” Terah responded. Not sure of the time, they had waited until the sky through the clerestory windows was black.   Fortunately night

  I hope you’re comfortable.   With apologies for interrupting The Space between Atoms once again, I’m wanting to share another small success for this struggling writer.   A story I submitted to Coffin Bell about a year ago has just been accepted for publication.   Its title is “Easy Chair.” I know many people that work in publishing.   Although many websites are in a constant state of updating, changing daily or often more frequently than that, publication takes time.   Editors I know often take weeks even to get to submissions they receive.   Those submissions have to be read and compared with others that have also arrived. Many times a story has to go to outside readers and/or an editorial board.   These are all busy people.   And, of course, unless you’re a household name, you’ll be part of the slush pile for awhile. I used to find that off-putting, but the slush pile is a reality of a world where lots and lots and lots of people want to get published.   I’m sure the name “K. Mar

  Terah woke up.   He didn’t remember falling asleep.   When he looked over at the hammock, it was empty.   The fire was dead.   At his age he had to piss with an apocalyptic urgency, but he knew he couldn’t do it here without offending Mich.   He knew the trail to the “bathroom” but he had no light.   Then he remembered the lighter. Never a smoker, Terah had always envied his step-dad’s lighter.   Fire on demand.   When he’d found a Zippo, scared and battered, at All Saints—they’d probably used it to light their candlelighters—he’d pocketed it.   He’d always considered it for starting fires, but where there was flame, there was light.   He fumbled in his pack until he found it.   Flip, zip!   Let there be light!   He walked as quickly as he could, his left hand squeezing his penis, until he found the place.   His zipper was already down and he was out and jetting a stream of relief into the pit.   He couldn’t help but sigh his satisfaction audibly.   “Ahhhh!” “Real classy.” Overjoyed