A Solemn Event by Karen Sorce

It was a solemn event, but one that mostly went unnoticed by other people.

She stood, holding in one hand something that had been important once upon a time. The other hand held the cold, metal railing.

For a long time, she was a statue, could’ve been sculpted in marble, a beautiful angel.

A chilling breeze came up, blowing her coat’s hood down, pushing strands of blond hair around her face. She ignored them. Ignored everyone and everything. Except for her thoughts.

If anyone had approached her, they might have been able to see the tears.

It was the wrong time of year for picnics and romps across the grass and over the rocks, through the trees. A few hearty parents and children were there, couples huddled together in some places. People were still walking, passing her by on Central Park’s famous Bow Bridge.

She could’ve told them about the history of it, built in 1862, a romantic meeting spot, a place where couples got engaged. Views of the Fifth Avenue skyline. It had been a special place for her, too…once.

She never felt unsafe there, walking miles through the park, watching the birds, breathing in the scents of the trees and grass that was hard to find in the City. The sounds of horses’ hooves as they clomped along, pulling carriages with tourists doing the traditional ride. She always felt bad for the horses. Felt it was somewhat of an abuse of the beasts, though most were certainly well cared for. Just like people.

The traffic on the Bow Bridge quieted. She held her hand out over the water, opened it.

She wasn’t sure which thing hit the water and disappeared first – her wedding band. Or her single tear.

 

Chestnuts By Terry Le Feber

What a delicious time of year to have a murder. The family all gathered around the roaring fireplace, Christmas Tree ablaze in lights and shiny decorations, wassail bowl filled in anticipation, when suddenly, mean old Chet falls dead, face down, into the roaring fire. 

The flames are so intense and large as if sent by the Devil himself. Before anyone can reach him, Chet’s clothes are aflame.

 

John and Jake, Chet’s two sons, grab his ankles and drag the corpse off the pyre and roll it up in a Persian carpet, extinguishing the flames.

 

Flames safely out, John rolls the smoking Chet onto his back and everyone stares down at the crispy critter who once was a father, husband, grandfather and the biggest philanderer within a five county radius.

 

Karen screams and points. “Oh my god! Look at his pants! Look at his crotch!”

 

“Hmmm,” says Bill, Karen’s latest heart throb. “Well, yes. It would appear he has now been cooked. As one might say, as the song goes, ‘Chet’s nuts roasted on an open fire’. Eh?”

 

Karen is now laughing uncontrollably and proclaiming, “The old bastard finally got it in the end. Right where he oughta… in old the storage locker!”

 

Bill, John and Jake quickly look down at their zippers, collectively vowing to keep their equipment ‘in the storage locker’.

 

Karen doesn’t care about Bill and the contents of his storage locker. She’s going dump him after New Year’s and head south and find a certain Cabana Boy. Why not? She inherits dear old Chet’s estate, or will, after her two brothers expire.

 

Later, the police come. As this was a death with the body being badly damaged, the coroner orders an autopsy and inquest.  Only then did it come out that old Chet had been murdered with a thin spiked cylindrical weapon. Possibly a woman’s hatpin?  But, no one present at Chet’s roasting was known to use or have such a device.

 

Karen had dumped her hatpin collection years ago. But, she did save one piece for a possible special occasion. The special occasion had now come and gone, taking Chet and his nuts with it. And, no one would ever find that special hatpin.