Backhanded

She told him to pack his things and go-

The morning after, she stood on the porch, her right hand buried wrist deep in a pocket of her favorite oversized parka, her left clutching the white ceramic handle of an employee of the month coffee mug. Steam rose from it, along with the scent of hot apple cider, the remains of a pot she made for her son before he left for school. She anticipated the first sickly sweet taste, how the liquid would slightly scald the tip of her tongue. The winter wind slipped across her face, lingering a bit longer on her right cheek, as if caressing the bruise that stretched from the corner of her mouth up to her eye.

Four-perfect-fingers-his talent. His superpower.

She heard him stumbling about in the kitchen. He’d finally woken up. Turning the cup upside down, she watched the cider as it fell in a mesmerizing, evolving and shifting shape. Almost soundless, It splashed on the ground, leaving a dark puddle that could be mistaken for water or something more sinister. Her resolve returned.

A storm was brewing.

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About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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