The morning fog clears paths for me. The dew that clings to the grass shakes as I take my flight. I am called Stillwing. It is not a name given to me by friends or family; it is one that I have picked. For generations my wings have fluttered and sent out small vibrations through the air that ripple and lightly shake the crisp leaves that clutter my space. I have been called a hummingbird by children of all sorts who have chased me through my woods over the years. I have seen beavers, squirrels, deer, and frogs make their homes and lose them in a span I would consider short, but that proves to be their lifetimes.

I am not god, nor am I beast.

I am Stillwing.

I have served as guide, as confidant, as surveyor of the wilds. Some would find the solitude in my longevity to be a tiresome burden, yet I find it rewarding. I drift, wiggle, and wobble through the branches and the brush. I spend my time observing the critters and the creeks. I have seen rivers carve their own graves and fill them again before the frogs learn to croak once again. Often enough, to prevent myself from lingering in the past, I tell myself a story. Of all of them that I have held onto, one in particular comes to the front time and time again. The one of the boy who spoke to the river.

Once, in my flight through the pines and the oaks, I came upon a small boy. Alone. He sat by the river’s edge and stared blankly at the soft currents that gently formed around his toes and again congealed on the other side of him. I first noticed him because the river was quiet. There was no rustle of brush that fought for the water. No singing frogs sharing their tones. No sound of the water he decided to briefly inhabit.

When I took flight to see what he might intend for my woods, I heard him speaking to the river.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

I thought it odd that a boy might call the simple river his mother, but I flew closer.

“Miss you,” he shared.

Again, an oddity. How might he miss what was already present?

“Dad doesn’t know I’m here, but this used to be your favorite place.”

If the river was his mom, was the tree his dad? I pondered the words of the boy. I had encountered children before, but historically I had been greeted by laughter or yells. Never had I felt like an intruder in my woods.

I flew closer. The boy noticed me.

“There’s a hummingbird here, Mom. I remember those were your favorite.”

He studied me.

“Is that you, Mom?”

I cut through the air around him in a pattern of vertical dashes.

“Thanks for coming, Mom,” the boy offered.

He looked to me, but I was above the river, and clearly not the mom he spoke to when he looked at the crisp, clear water. The river rippled when he spoke, but not from wind or pebbles that occasionally collapsed from the riverbed. The flowing statue of the woods answered, soft as breath, and I thought perhaps it knew his name.

The waters hummed.

“School starts soon.”

As he spoke, his breath hummed in the air like my own wings. We both echoed the waters below.

I had spent my existence in flight, but for some inexplicable reason I felt I should linger by the boy. I rarely felt compelled, yet the boy was different.

I heard a loud echo from outside my wood, and the boy ran from his mother. So I continued my routine flight of the woods.

The next day, to my surprise, the boy returned to Mother River. Again, I felt compelled to visit him. As I made my appearance, the boy said, “Hi, Mom,” toward me.

I thought maybe we were both confused now.

I flew lower to lead his eyes to the river.

“It is colder today, Mom. I guess fall is coming. You loved fall, right?”

He asked the river a question, but my attempt to lead his eyes to the water had failed. I flew quickly to see if his gaze might lose me. It did not.

I flew closer to him to try and leave his field of view so that he might focus on his mother. Instead, he looked down and held his hand over his shirt. He closed me into the small space between his chest and his hand. Another entity might have felt claustrophobic, but I am used to small spaces.

I am Stillwing.

My wings, ever present, faltered for a moment in their rhythm. I did not choose to break my consistent stride, but I was not mad that it had happened.

He looked down at me between his palms.

“You told me to keep moving, even when the water is cold. So you can stay by the river, and I will keep walking, Mom. That way we are both moving. I will come back when I am ready.”

He lifted his hand to let me fly away, but I did not take off immediately. When he stood, it briefly frightened me, but I hovered in the spot for a moment and watched him leave my woods.

I did not see the boy again for some time. Every so often he would reappear at the river, but never for long. One day, a day I did not know would be the last, he stopped coming altogether. The boy did not need Mother River any longer, so it seemed.

When I complete my rounds of the wood, I have since taken to lingering in the spot where the boy had sat. It hums back to me sometimes. We talk for a while. And I stop where the boy talked to the river, where the voice still lives in the water and whispers through the reeds.

Originally written for a Reedsy Prompts (“Include ‘I remember…’”) short story contest:

https://reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/328/

“See, here is the thing.”

I am being lectured by the stranger next to me at the blackjack table.

“You have to only bring what you are willing to lose.”

His thick black mustache, Southern drawl, and flannel jacket contrast with his weathered face and thinning hairline.

“Until you are good enough to win. Y’all have to be prepared to lose.”

He is winning.

Again.

Annoyingly.

And if it is routine, he shows a twenty.

It is my turn now, and I show an unfortunate four.

I tap my finger on the table twice.

Six.

Tap. Tap.

One.

Tap. Tap.

Eight.

The cards give a subtle shock to my fingertips. I offer the dealer a begrudging wave, and let out a quiet sigh. My eye softly twitches. When I make the wrong move at the table, my body knows it and irks me.

My Southern friend notices, “You will get ’em next time, buddy.” He laughs as the dealer waltzes into a twenty-two.

I cannot wait for him to break.

“Golly that was close, right? The cards smile at me, do they not? Bills be gone!” He laughs and the sound feels like old creaking joints. Something for me to be aware of.

When he breaks, I will feast.

The dealer smiles at him.

My pile dwindles and his expands. But, he does not know what I know.

Since I could gamble, I felt connected to a deck of cards. I do not count them. That would be illegal. But I do have a sense for what the deck intends to do next. When I want to hedge my bets, I let myself lose, get my opponent confident, and then take everything. Does it always work? No. I have been caught if the opponent is smart enough to leave the table. But, my Southern friend does not seem to be that type. My stomach lets me know I need food. But, I do not require the sort that the casino bar can provide. I need more. My addiction needs more.

He mentioned bills. If I feel like he is about to leave, I have never been above trash talk. Anger can be just as useful as overconfidence when trying to keep someone at the table. And, he gave me an in. A button.

A hit that satiates my boredom. When I gamble, I am the hunter and whoever is next to me is the prey. Truthfully, I do it because I must. My addiction to the hunt, to the next card, is too great to ignore. The next round starts. Mr. Roll Tide, as he has ambitiously nicknamed himself, shows a ten. My first card reveals itself to be a King. It acknowledges me. The King.

The dealer shows his card and my quarry draws a four. I look to see if he has a tell. If he will hit on fourteen and test his luck. Then, my second card shows to be a two; thirteen, perfect. It is back to Mr. Tide: a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and I see his shoulders tense. The lights feel as if they dim and the air becomes dense. My eyes narrow on him. My pulse is strong and steady. Measured. Mechanical. I will win.

He gives the table a deep thud with his finger.

Six.

He releases the breath he was having.

“Would you look at that,” he says before the dealer asks for my decision.

I put my hand over the cards without touching them. They radiate a dull heat. “Hit,” I say.

Seven.

The cards warm beneath me. Any normal card player would stay at twenty. I am not them. “Hit.” The cards and I have an agreement. They know me. They move in rhythm when I am at the table.

The dealer double confirms and I nod.

“You sure about that, buddy? Losing got your math all messed up?” he laughs.

I notice a pulsing vein in his neck that seems strained.

The lights hum in the stale air and it feels like even the table is watching me. Questioning me. But, I am right.

My card slides across the table slowly.

One.

I try to hide my smirk.

“Dang, well-done, son!”

“Do not call me that.”

My stack starts to grow and I feel as if I am being watched beyond my table. Not by security, or the eyes-in-the-sky, something greater. Something that says it should be revered and acknowledged. Borderline feared. The lights, the ventilation, the alcohol. It all watches me. Waits for me to make my next pounce onto my target. There is no movement around our table; onlookers dare not enter the hunting grounds. The casino is my own coliseum. It is the one my wife left me over. I have ruined friendships and broken promises in the hunt for relief. Pressure builds behind my eye. I must keep winning. The casino is a deity in its own regard. One that judges me. I must show that I am worthy. I must ensure the bravado of the Southern man is crushed. His entire being reminds me of my Father-in-Law, and I cannot wait to destroy him. I ended him when my wife chose to host a poker night. He called me dangerous. Unhinged. He was prey.

The space begins to fall increasingly silent as my overseer waits to see what happens next. A puff of air releases from the automatic refresher above me and signals the dealer to begin. It is a quick round. He operates to a measure of foolhardiness and nearly hits twenty-five. The round is mine. And the lights above me quietly flicker. I would like to forget about my Father-in-Law. I do not regret it. Yet, his anguish remains in my mind like a deck’s joker: seldom useful, always prevalent. I look to my opponent. His leg begins to shake under the table and he buries his head between his palms. His shoulders rest on the table. He needs to win. But his will is not as strong as my skill. When players get nervous, they mess up. When they mess up, the hunt is all but over. I will indulge.

My coliseum’s temperature begins to drop. It judges my intent. Every casino has their own personality. This one tends to be harsh.

Cruel.

The lights flicker again and the next round begins.

Mr. Tide’s breathing has become irregular. He ends his turn at sixteen. The prey has become restless. I am precocious. I win the round after the cards decide what I do through warmth and shock. The pressure beneath my eyes starts to fade.

“Welp, I best stop while I have some winnings,” he starts to stand.

It cannot end like this.

The air falls thick. The pressure returns. I am not done winning. A puff from the refresher falls from the ceiling. It critiques me. I need more.

“Sit. Down.” I growl at him.

He looks at me puzzled. My eyes narrow.

He complies. I can tell my pupils have dilated.

My opponent sees the true me. The one my Father-in-Law saw. The hunter. The one he thought would be dangerous around his daughter. I loathe him.

The dealer freezes for a moment before the next round. He is a pillar in the coliseum, not a participant. My breathing becomes heavy and I feel the aura of fear around the Southern man. He will not look at me. He knows what will happen next and he cannot stop it. The dealer pauses for longer than necessary. Now, it’s my opponent’s turn.

“Hit,” he says. His voice cracks. The cool resolve of Mr. Roll Tide has vanished. He tries to tap the table and his finger trembles on the short journey.

This is what I was made for, I think.

His mustache flattens from the sweat that now covers his face.

“Mr. Roll Tide,” I say stoically, “do you know what the difference is between obsession and addiction?”

He looks at me in an awkward mixture of curiosity and fear. There is no answer to break the thick silence.

“Obsession leaves you in a dangerous spot. There is nothing you would not do to get what you are obsessed over. Addiction is something you cannot do without.”

I watch as the words land on his shoulders as if they hold the weight of the world. He turns his head slowly to the dealer but there is no help. He has already been caught in my sight.

“Do you understand?”

He shakes his head imperceptibly slowly, as if something quick would capture the attention of his predator. He does not know that he has already been caught.

“I am not obsessed with winning, friend,” I pause for a moment as a card is dealt to me. “I am addicted to you losing.” My hand hovers over the card. The warmth has increased. It now feels like a stove’s burner set to low.

Tap. Tap.

Judgment comes for a repetitive flicker of the light. The room feels as if it has shrunk. It is not a casino. It is my opponent, my benefactor, myself and the cards. My eye pulses quickly as if it is communicating through Morse code.

“You think you came here to gamble? To make money?” I say, “No. You came here for me. You just were not aware.”

The Southerner’s throat bobs up and down like a buoy. His breath wavers and he still will not look at me. I win the round again, and he starts to rise from his chair.

A feeble attempt.

“You can leave. But can you really say you have enough for your bills?”

It works.

He returns and his breathing quickens.

“Are you willing to lose or hoping to win?”

There is no answer.

None ever comes as the dealer begins the next round. His hand hovers over the deck as if he is waiting for permission from the overseer. I wonder if he hears from the cards too. The cards wait another moment. I stare at the dealer with my eyebrows furrowed. I do not blink.

“I cannot do this,” he says.

A card slides to him face down.

“Too late, friend. The cards are dealt,” I pause. “They always have been.”

He moves his chair slightly away from me and prepares to gather his things. His eyes are wide: arms shaking, brow sweating, lip quivering. Behind the dealer, I see the guards of the coliseum approaching. The acolytes of the judge walk steadily. They will not interrupt my hunt. My cause is too great. Do they not know I work to appease their deity? I question their purpose.

The pressure behind my eye increases, and it feels like it is about to pop like a balloon. The arena goes silent. I hear no dealer, card slide, or meaningless conversation. Security steps closer to the table. The dealer slides a card to me. It takes longer than it should and then it appears to nearly jump into my quarters. It knows me. It sharpens in my sight and then softens.

The guards flank the table.

They cannot stop me.

They stand behind me.

The Southerner has no more chips to play.

He is mine.

It has chosen a winner.

One of their hands lands on my shoulder.

I hear my name: from them, or the dealer, or the deity. I cannot tell anymore.

My hand hovers over the last card. But my vision blurs.

Originally written for a Reedsy Prompts (“Make a character’s addiction or obsession an important element of your story.”) short story contest.

There were no words to be had.

None that could accurately and completely describe the true depths to which my heart had been inflicted with their disappearance. They did not come home.

I was alone, and it was my new reality. It settled over me with the slow certainty of something that would not lift. Something that I did not choose but was thrust onto me with little regard for how irrevocable orphanhood was.

I needed them.

And, they were taken from me.

When I entered our home for the first time since they left me, it all felt… off. The home that was large enough to host all our family turned into a house barely big enough for the weight of my frustration. I was old enough to be considered an adult. But I did not feel old enough to handle the adiposity of my lack of comprehension. Why did this happen? My thoughts repeated like a broken cassette tape. My thoughts felt clogged the same way the air did. Crammed. Lethargic. Every inhale felt like I had to wade through a thick syrup with a strong undercurrent that pushed me away. It made me aware of my own breathing in a way I never had been, like my body had to convince itself to keep going. I tried to grab the banister as if it might help my understanding. But the unmoving mass did not care how dazed I was.

I froze on the steps and was not even sure I wanted to climb them to the empty rooms of calamity. I had no desire to enter my own. There was no need to close the door to my sanctuary and await a patient knock. It might as well have become a crypt, and I considered locking myself in and dissipating into the loss. The few posters that hung in my room seemed to watch on with pity as I sat on my once comfortable bed. The room felt claustrophobic, but I had always been more of a minimalist. I could feel the palpitations in my chest quicken. A bead of cold sweat descended down my forehead and trapped itself in my brow. I needed to pack some things to live with my grandparents until college. But there was nothing here that felt worth taking. Nothing that would serve as anything but a reminder of a former life that I realized had always been as fragile as Mom’s porcelain collectibles. When I managed to stand on wobbly legs, I moved across the wall.

I grasped the doorknob to my parents’ room. And, for what felt like an eternity, I waited. Waited to wake up, or for them to open the door for me, or chime from my phone that they would be back soon. The metal was cold, as if the room itself had already sealed itself off from the world. It felt like touching the edge of sacredness and ruin.

Nothing came.

Subconsciously, I knew nothing ever would.

I could not bring myself to enter.

So, I walked down the hall on the second floor to the guest room. It was empty, but perfectly designed. Mom had a knack for leaving places in a state of awkward fulfillment for the random instance that someone might inhabit the spare room. I could not remember the last time someone had. And, there was nothing for me here. I knew there would not be. But, in a weird way, I just wanted to bid the spare room adieu.

From the bathroom, I expeditiously grabbed the few things that were purely necessary until I could afford replacements. Only toiletries: a toothbrush, deodorant, hair brush, and a few nearly empty containers of makeup. Survival items. Not mementos.

Then, I braved the stairs once more. Methodically. My only goal was not to trip over my own feet on the descent. I contemplated letting it happen. For a moment, I thought about what might happen if I let myself fall and hit the wall on the other side. Maybe I would see them again if that played out.

I strongly considered the act.

The thought didn’t frighten me as much as the silence that followed it.

But that is not what they would want.

So, I grasped the banister again.

And I forced it to accept me one last time.

It felt like the last fragile connection between who I had been and who I was about to be forced to become.

When my feet planted themselves on the first floor again, I took momentary solace in what I, nearly unwilling, considered a minor victory in itself. It was strange how survival could appear like a task I had not realized I had been signed up for. I knew there was not much for me here, but I walked the floor anyway.

It was all perfectly corrupted. Every room held a version of us that would be forever kept in a state of mid-breath. It felt as if the second floor could collapse on me in an instant, and I simply would not care.

In the kitchen, I found a framed photo of the three of us. Mom, Dad, and I on our last vacation.

We were happy.

We would never be happy again.

Not truly.

Not together.

The finality of it settled into my bones before I wanted to admit it.

I pressed the photo to my heart and sighed. I looked down at it again, and a few tears smacked across the glass of the frame. They smudged across Mom and Dad’s faces like a form of erasure that the world already deemed necessary. I held the photo a beat longer and toyed with the consequences of taking it. I took a picture of it with my phone and placed it back on the counter. An immutable bastion of joy now ended. The last thing that would be in this house. A small apostasy against the emptiness that now threatened to become all-consuming. I left the house for the last time and turned to stare at it from the sidewalk.

It appeared fragile.

Feeble.

I forced a smirk of ascendancy against it, but deep down, I knew it was the one who beat me. The gesture felt borrowed from someone stronger than I could have ever been. It was free to shatter as my own world had. And it could do so without an onlooker. That freedom felt nearly insulting. Then, I turned toward my car.

I wanted to look back.

Desperately.

But I felt like doing so would be an acknowledgement of what I was still avoiding.

It would have made the loss real in a way I was not ready to survive.