Craig approached his car. "Oh, c'mon. Shit!" A fresh goober trickled down his windshield. He looked left, right. No one in sight.
He hopped in and slammed the door. The wipers cleared away the spit, but Craig's ticked-off look remained. He gunned it through yellow lights and around corners until he parked his Escape in the driveway behind my early-model Corolla. A tree's shadow danced on my piss-yellow house, the eyesore of the neighborhood. We were renting from Uncle John and Aunt Sue, Craig and Nathan's parents. They bought the dive as a knock-down-and-rebuild investment, but thus far rented it out as-is.
Craig peered in the rearview mirror. "Am I driving you guys tomorrow?"
"Sure, that's cool." Daniel added curve to the brim of his Mets cap. "How many you think Coach'll keep?"
Craig yawned. "Probably seventeen, like last year."
I felt my blood run cold. I expected a twenty-player team, maybe nineteen. But seventeen players . . .
"I'll be getting cut." Nathan scratched at his triangular nose.
"Um, you told us that before cuts on Friday," I said.
Truth was, Nathan was lucky to have made it to final cuts. Lackluster fielding, little pop at the plate. I just couldn't see Coach keeping him on.
Craig reached between the front seats and shook Daniel's knee. "One thing's for sure. This stud isn't getting cut."
Daniel laughed modestly.
Craig flicked my leg with his finger. "And Coach would have to be brain-dead to cut me. Three complete game shutouts last season. That's right, son."
Just one good punch in the face. That was all I wanted to give my idiotic cousin. "Hey, thanks for telling your pal I said he blows at baseball. He looked ready to rip my head off today."
"Don't mention it." Craig leered. Some family loyalty.
Craig dropped us off then screeched away toward his high ranch on the corner of our street. Daniel kicked up a chunk of driveway pavement that lay loosely in the groove of a deep crack. "An earthquake hit here?" he asked.
I snickered. The weed-choked garden flanked the moldy stoop. "Place should be condemned."
As I pushed the squeaky old wooden door open, the smell of stale cigarette smoke tickled my nose. A gift from the previous occupants.
The furnishings were what you'd expect to find at an old geezer's pad. A sectional couch covered in clear plastic. A grandfather clock. Pull-chain lamps that burned green. Uncle John and Aunt Sue rented the house optionally furnished. A good thing, I guess, since Dad had auctioned off a lot of our crap.
Daniel hung up his coat on a rusty hook screwed into a wall beam. He hustled to the bathroom, the only one in the house.
I booted aside an empty cardboard box that blocked the entrance to our drab living room, sat on the edge of the couch, clicked on the TV and switched to ESPN.
A car pulled into the driveway and I peeked through flimsy plastic blinds. Dad stepped out of his beat-up SUV. I was a cutout of him, just five-eight. Where Daniel got his height from was anybody's guess. If not for his big, crooked-anchor nose, an undeniable family trait, I'd have pegged him as adopted.
Dad popped the hatch and filled his arms with groceries, and I met him outside.
"Hey," I said.
Dark circles underscored his eyes. "Hey, Andy."
"I'll get the rest."
He gave me a wary glance.
Without a word, he and I stocked food into the old metal cabinets. That was until Daniel strutted out of the stunk-up bathroom.
"Ever heard of an air freshener?" Dad asked in a not-so-joking manner.
Daniel shrugged, his palms turned skyward. "There wasn't any. What? It's not that bad."
I fake barfed.
"Shut up." He elbowed my arm as he passed.
Dad pointed at the half-open bathroom door. "Close it."
Not one to talk back, Daniel did as told.
Dad flattened the wispy gray hair rising from his head. "You're on your own for dinner. Overtime tonight."
Dad had his sister's husband, Uncle John, to thank for being back at work. Uncle John put in a good word with a buddy at UPS. So now, the former shop supervisor loaded trucks. But Dad being employed was a blessing. Not just for his sake. He wasn't pleasant to be around when he didn't get his workaholic fix. He was still no ball of joy, but better. No doubt.
He poured himself a glass of water and retreated to his bedroom.
Daniel leaned against the counter, ankles crossed. "Wanna get beat in Xbox?" he asked. "Loser cooks dinner."
"You're going down."
In the fifth inning of our video game, Dad pulled open the front door. He tipped the bill of his brown cap. "Make your old man proud tomorrow, huh?"
He walked out before we had a chance to respond.
Dad was the most apathetic person I knew. Except when it came to baseball. That was where all his passion went. He was a regular fanatic. A diehard Mets fan. A student of the game. He used to coach Daniel and me in Little League, and we won a lot. Nothing brought him greater joy than winning. And nobody wanted to be around him when we lost.
Daniel repeatedly pressed his thumb on the controller button. "You going to pitch it or what?" he asked.
I pitched. He didn't swing.
"Hey, you think I'll make it tomorrow?" I asked, my belly flat against the scuffed hardwood flooring.
"Sure. You're better than Joey. Coach'll keep three catchers anyway."
He hit my fastball into the gap for a double, driving in one run.
I gulped. "Greg's damn good. A lock to start at catcher. How'm I gonna get in?"
He rolled his shoulders. "Infield, maybe. Coach'll want your speed in the lineup."
It was hard to tell if he was bullshitting me. As far back as my memory stretched, Daniel and I dreamed of working a no-hitter and winning the high school baseball championship together. This was our final shot. Last season I was a benchwarmer. Excusable as a junior, but not this year. Not in Dad's eyes. Forget that. And if I failed to even make the team, he'd likely disown me.
Daniel won the game in the bottom of the ninth with a bloop single.
My face went hot. "Damn," I yelled. I banged the remote on the floor and walked toward the kitchen.
"Told you," Daniel said. "Make those mashed potatoes extra fluffy, will ya?"
I flung a couch pillow at him. He swatted it down.
"Wait," I said. "Fluffy? Is that what you said? You fag." I knew the dig would set him off.
He wagged his finger. "Oh, you'll pay."
"Come get it. Scared?"
I got into a wrestling stance, arms clenched at right angles. After we exchanged playful taunts, he faked a dive at my legs. As he straightened up, I shot in at his right leg. He sprawled back before I could lock my hold. In no time, he was behind me and I was on the ground, face-to-face with the worn pinewood. A fury rose in me. I buckled to my knees.
He gripped me in a bear hug. "Surrender. Or else."
My arms wobbled. "Never."
He pushed off and stood up. "Yo, you bleeding?"
I got up and pawed at my stinging face. "Great."
"Sorry, bro," he said. My face was the only part of me he minded hurting.
I walked into our shared bedroom. I stood in front of the wood-framed mirror propped on top of my dresser, the mirror I'd cursed more times than I cared to remember. I even spit on it once.
I checked the damage. Just a nick on my cheek. The scarred side. My scar ran just below my left eye to under my jawbone. It joined my earflap with the corner of my mouth. Surgeries had helped, but it still looked awful.
I must have really pissed off The Bitch for her to take a hot iron to my face. It wasn't like I was even old enough to defend myself. My skin melted. I almost died. Sometimes I wish I had. She served time in jail, but she was out now—God knew where. I hadn't heard from her or her family since I was seven.
Daniel joined me in the room. "You okay?"
"It's nothing." I dabbed at the blood with my sleeve.
He lo
oked guilty as sin. "Cool." he said.
"You're lucky. Was gettin' ready to pull a reversal."
Daniel made a face. "Right."
We gave each other low fives—three forward and backward slaps—then a sideways chest bump. Something we came up with a few years back.
Until we moved into this hole, we had our own rooms. Nice, spacious rooms. Now our twin beds were a spit's length away, surrounded by cracked baseboards, a filthy window, and an auburn rug worn down to the cement in spots. It was better than living on the streets, though not by much.
I scooped my black catcher's mitt off the floor, touched it to my nose, and breathed in the leather scent. Perfectly broken in. The same glove I'd used the last five years. The glove I hoped to get more use out of after tomorrow. Final cuts.
Acknowledgements
For Elephant's Bookshelf Press, this anthology represents more than a collection of short stories. It's the close of our first major project. We hadn't set out to create what we now describe as the Seasons Series, but then we didn't fully know what we were setting out to do at the beginning anyway. For all the planning I like to do, I hadn't imagined that within two years, EBP would have published seventy-three short stories by dozens of writers in five anthologies, an author's debut novel, and have several other projects in the pipeline.
For a host of reasons, Winter's Regret was a bit harder to complete than the earlier anthologies, but it would have been impossible without the help of some very generous and talented people. I'm eternally grateful for the members of the EBP editorial advisory board, in particular Cat Woods, Mindy McGinnis, and R.C. Lewis. They have been key members of my brain trust from the beginning, and I appreciate their unwavering support for EBP and their uncanny ability to tactfully yet forcefully tell me when I'm wrong.
I must also express my sincere gratitude to Kieran Kern and Josh Risner, who contributed their copy-editing talents (or is that copyediting?) on roughly half the stories in Winter's Regret. And the beautiful cover was created by Charlee Hoffman. It's tough to come in on an established series, but I think the cover is captivating! I have no regrets about it, that's for sure.
In addition, I thank my wife, who proofread several of the stories. More than that, she has become a key member of the EBP team, for which I am forever grateful. Nothing I accomplish alone is as satisfying as when my wife is also involved.
I suppose all that's left is to thank you, our readers, for your support of EBP and of the writers themselves. One thing that has remained true to EBP from the beginning is our desire to help talented writers develop an audience. There's nothing wrong with writing for one's own enjoyment, but the road from writer to author is a lot more enjoyable because of the people we meet along the way.
Thank you all.
About the Authors
P.S. Carrillo
P.S. Carrillo is an attorney and writer of fiction for children and adults. Her published works include the YA novel, Desert Passage (Arte Publico Press) and short stories featured in the collections You Don't Have a Clue (Arte Publico Press), The Fall (Elephant's Bookshelf Press), and Summer's Double Edge (Elephant's Bookshelf Press). Her website is pscarrillo.com.
Liz Coley
Liz Coley has been writing long and short fiction for teens and adults for more than ten years. Her short fiction has appeared in Cosmos Magazine and several speculative fiction anthologies: The Last Man, More Scary Kisses, Strange Worlds, and Flights of Fiction. In 2013, psychological thriller Pretty Girl-13 was released by HarperCollins and HarperCollins UK in print, eBook, and audiobook editions. Foreign translations have been published in French, Spanish, German, Portuguese, Swedish, Russian, Czech, Slovakian, and Complex Chinese (Taiwan). Liz lives in Ohio, where she is surrounded by a fantastic community of writers, beaten regularly by better tennis players, uplifted by her choir, supported by her husband, teased by her teenage daughter, cheered from afar by her two older sons, and adorned with hair by her cats Tiger, Pippin, and Merry. Liz invites you to follow her @LizColeyBooks on Twitter, like Liz Coley Books on Facebook, and visit her website at lizcoley.com, where you can watch the book trailer, download editing tips, and read her confessional blog postings "Scenes from a Life."
Sakura Q. Eries
Once upon a time, Sakura Q. Eries was an engineer who wrote dry technical reports. Then one day, she discovered anime fanfiction and has been writing fiction ever since. "One Hundred Nights" is her fourth published short story and her second with Elephant's Bookshelf Press. She also contributes book and manga reviews for The Fandom Post website. Currently, she's hard at work on a manuscript about the first woman to win the ancient Olympics. For more about her and her writerly research, drop by her blog: sqeries.wordpress.com.
Morgan George
Morgan George was born and raised on one of the few still-existent family farms in rural Delaware County, New York. The farm is still in operation and she resides there today, doing what she loves while at the same time pursuing her MA in English/Creative Writing through Southern New Hampshire University. This is her first published short story and is part of a collection of stories about life in rural N.Y. that she hopes to publish within the next few years. More of Ms. George's writing can be found on her blog, The Fox Fire Life, at thefoxfirelife.wordpress.com.
Michelle Hauck
Michelle Hauck lives in the bustling metropolis of northern Indiana with her hubby and two teenagers. Besides working with special needs children by day, she writes all sorts of fantasy, giving her imagination free range. A book worm, she passes up the darker vices in favor of chocolate and looks for any excuse to reward herself. Bio finished? Time for a sweet snack. Her epic fantasy, Kindar's Cure, was published by Divertir Publishing in 2013. Her short story, "Frost and Fog," was published by Elephant's Bookshelf Press in Summer's Double Edge. She's represented by Sarah Negovetich of Corvisiero Literary. Find out more about her on her blog, www.Michelle4Laughs.blogspot.com or on twitter, @Michelle4Laughs.
Kelly Heinen
Kelly Heinen, from Fort Dodge, Iowa, won an essay contest in second grade and has been writing in some form ever since. She loves Avenged Sevenfold and writing, and has been a bookworm since she was young. She has a BA in English from Buena Vista University in Storm Lake, Iowa, and is working toward an AS in broadcasting from Iowa Central Community College. She has a cat, Hamlet, and a boyfriend, and she blogs at aightball.wordpress.com. Kelly is dedicating her story to the memory of her grandmothers and Jimmy Sullivan.
Amanda Hill
Amanda Hill grew up in the mountain desert of southwestern Wyoming. With a library right out her back gate it was easy to fulfill her love of reading. She attended Brigham Young University where she earned her Bachelor's degree in chemistry. While there, she also got her MRS degree when she married Rob, the man who understood her chemistry-loving heart. Over the last six years she has lived everywhere from Omaha, to the Appalachians, to the biggest little city, and now central California. Amanda loves reading, writing, music, crafting, gardening, and spending all day with her beautiful children.
Precy Larkins
Precy Larkins grew up in the Philippines, lives in Utah with her husband and three kids, and wishes she could travel to Italy someday. She's a Young Adult writer with a penchant for fantastical things. She tweets as @precylarkins and occasionally blogs at readywritego.blogspot.com.
Robert Wayne McCoy
Robert Wayne McCoy likes making things up. He has published a variety of short stories including "Changing of the Guard," which appeared in the Avon Eos anthology Lord of the Fantastic: A Tribute to Roger Zelazny, and in December of 2013, in Voluted Tales Magazine, a story called "Lady of the Owl Colored Eyes," which is a nod to Kafka angst with a side order of gods and migraines. He published his first novel The King of Ice Cream, which was a tale of faith, horror, and strawberry ice cream. Please visit his Facebook page or find him on Twitter (@RobertwMccoy). Originally from Maryland, he now lives in New York state with his wife and two children. His new n
ovel, The Game of Five, is a contemporary novel of darkness with some hopeful light of redemption throughout, due out in 2014.
Mindy McGinnis
Mindy McGinnis is a YA author and librarian. Her debut, Not a Drop to Drink, was published in September 2013 by Katherine Tegen/HarperCollins. In a Handful of Dust, a companion novel to "Drink," will be available September 23, 2014. Mindy runs a blog for aspiring writers at Writer, Writer, Pants on Fire and contributes to the group blogs From the Write Angle, The Lucky 13s, Friday the Thirteeners, Book Pregnant, and The Class of 2k13. Mindy also serves as a moderator at AgentQuery Connect under the screen name BigBlackCat97 and tweets from @MindyMcGinnis. She has stories in EBP's anthologies Spring Fevers, The Fall, and Summer's Double Edge.
A.T. O'Connor
A.T. O'Connor's debut novel, Whispering Minds was released in November, 2013. Her writing has a basis in the equally fascinating and terrifying world of psychology where human nature and experience collide. When she's not plotting her next psychological thriller, she is neck deep in other people's divorces. As an advocate for children, she helps parents navigate the treacherous waters of parenting time and child custody. Visit her at atoconnor.com for a peek inside her mind and her life.
Jeff O'Handley
Jeff O'Handley has been bitten by a bobcat, footed by a great horned owl, and vomited upon by a turkey vulture. He considers writing biographical sketches worse than any of that. An environmental educator from upstate New York, he was previously published in Summer's Double Edge. He is represented by Carrie Pestritto of Prospect Agency.
Paul Parisi
Paul Parisi is not your ordinary superhero. He spends his daylight hours fighting crime and the night hours writing about it. He is an accomplished criminal trial attorney who has been published in legal journals. He blogs about his life as a crime fighter at prosecutorsdiscretion.blogspot.com.
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