He stood and looked at the clock. Three minutes before midnight, New Year’s Eve. He unfolded a worn sheet of paper and checked off “ten thousand pushups in one year.”
Two minutes, one item left. One round in the revolver; one minute. He squeezed the trigger.
The television exploded. Check.
B. C. Nance writes fiction and poetry. This story was inspired by a conversation with his good friend and fellow writer Randal Williams, whose story, “Sing, Oh Sinner,” was published In 50 Word Stories on March 6, 2019.
He supported the marches, rallies, and protests from the safety of his armchair, nodding his assent.
When a friend said “those people,” he realized silence was dangerous.
He waded into the next parade, amid the colorful throng, his two-word sign held high. Many agreed that they, too, were “Hopelessly Human.”
B. C. Nance is a writer who still can’t give up his day job. The title is part of a quotation by Elie Wiesel 1928-2016. Hopelessly Human is a song by Kansas.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked. “Charms… enchantments… love potions?”
He laughed. “Of course not. Do you?”
“Oh, no. But your grandma does. She told me.”
“Grandma believes in fairies, too. Don’t take her seriously.”
“You’re right.” She smiled. “Here, drink your tea.”
She watched for fairies.
B.C. Nance is a native of Nashville, Tennessee where he works as a historical archaeologist. In his spare time he writes fiction and poetry and has published several of his short stories and poems.
The tragic play unfolded in reverse. From the kitchen window mother saw the ragged hole in the ice on the frozen pond. Footprints in the snow backtracked to the door. The little red boots were gone, and toys lay abandoned on the floor. The television droned on, speaking to emptiness.
B.C. Nance is a native of Nashville, Tennessee where he works as a historical archaeologist. In his spare time he writes fiction and poetry and has published several of his short stories.