And the Winner(s) of the March Literary Smackdown Is (Are)...

It is 18 minutes past midnight on the east coast, and voting is over. I know there's another 2 hours and 42 minutes left in March out on the west coast, but I think all the Smackdown readers out there who wanted to vote, already have. So, without further ado, the winner of the March Literary Smackdown is:

Me. Brian Crane.

Yeah, I know. What a schmuck. Of course the month I run the Smackdown I'm the guy who wins the thing, but there it is all the same. It was a very close thing, with the lead going back and forth in the final days, and the final averages separated by just tenths of decimal points, but in the end, I squeaked through. Thanks, er'rybody for all of your votes and comments.

Also, thanks to all the entrants and voters for their time and talent this month. For myself, reading all of these great entries and comments made the Smackdown yet one more fun thing for this unemployed blogger to do besides get a job. Awesome! But before I get too pompous and self-involved I'll get into the cold hard numbers I've been crunching.

The Top Ten Literary Smackdowners are:

1.) Brian Crane -- 7.217
2.) Shawn Harwell -- 7.1583
3.) Kris Baucom -- 7.05
4.) HM -- 6.96
5.) Jenna Garland Wells -- 6.7375
6.) Mystery Writer -- 6.631449075
7.) Nathan Hines -- 6.45333
8.) Abe Jacquot -- 6.199667
9.) Paul Papadeas -- 6.04444
10.) Zack Tyler Adams -- 5.644

(I'm fairly certain the numbers are good and correct, but as with anything involving me and numbers, there is the distinct possibility I made a mistake. If your average sounds off, please go back and double-check the math and let me know if there's a discrepancy. I will correct the record for posterity if warranted.)

And for some more fun numbers, Abe, HM, and Hinesy were the nicest graders on average this month, while anonymous's #2 and #3 were the least forgiving.

All right! March is done and April has begun, and there is more writer-blood to be shed! Let's keep the Smackdown train rolling right into next month! I leave you in the able (not to mention strong and masculine) hands of Nathan Hines.

In the Waning Days of March, a Final Entreaty for Score-Giving

Hola, Literary Smackdowners! As March draws to a close, and the limp-elbowed slap fight that is the Smackdown approaches its conclusion, I would like to quickly remind you guys that there are only three days left in the month, and then we've got to tally the votes and calculate the averages. Lots of you have weighed in and given scores to the combatants, (which is great), but a lot of entries remain relatively score-poor. If you can rate the stories you haven't gotten to yet in the next few days, awesome, if you can't, that's fine, too. Just want to have every voice heard if possible. This was a much better turn-out than I expected this month, and I'm hoping that April's Smackdown garners even more interest. It was great to read everyone's entry.

Also, in the comments section of this post, please post up any suggestions you might have on how the Smackdown goes next month, specifically as it relates to voting. If you have any comments on how it's run currently, or ideas for improvements in the coming months, please write in. If you love it love it love it, write that. All right. That's it.

Next post: the winners.

JG Wells: Writer, Blogger, World Traveller, and now, Smackdown Contender. Behold the 8th Entry! "Fertile Ground"

This is JG Wells. As you can tell from the photo, (a lake in Slovenia, she tells us), she's just killed someone. Any time you're caught standing near a lake, so this exercise has informed us, you're guilty of murder. Or at least manslaughter. Anyway, JG Wells is an old high-school friend of Hinesy's, and found Hinesy's lil' blog through newcomer Abe Jacquot's wife's blog (how many degrees is that?). She currently resides in the Netherlands with her fiance, and happens to run a blog herself (which you can visit here). Wow. The eighth entry. Can we make it nine before the end of March? (Craig?) Anyway, enough with my rambling preamble! Now, prepare yourself, for the EIGHTH entry in the March Literary Smackdown! (And, as an overly friendly note to those Smackdown participants who have not yet voted on the other entrants, you still have about two weeks before the end of the month to get those votes in. The mo' opinions the mo' better.) Okay. Now read and judge JG's "Fertile Ground".

Fertile Ground
by JG Wells

Jerome eased himself down on a flat, ochre-colored rock that jutted from the cliff-side, hovering over the lake’s edge. He let his dusty leather hiking boots dangle over the precipice, enjoying the cooling air circling around his sweaty, dirt-streaked calves. It had been an exertive hike around the lake that morning –one of the best in a long, long time. He spent a lot of time in the forest around Lake Merabet and knew the hiking trails and off-road paths, better than anyone. Although he lived in a typical, small-town house, with a well-manicured yard, Lake Merabet and its surrounding forest of towering trees felt more like home. Here, there was no yelling, only the whisper of the wind in the tree branches and chatter of birds and squirrels as they busied themselves overhead. Here, there was no pain and bruises (unless you made them yourself), only the caressing smoothness of silky water against your skin. Here, there were hardly ever people around. Jerome had developed an embarrassing stutter as a child and although he had better control of it now, he still felt more comfortable in the wilderness than with people.

The surface of the lake below him was as smooth as glass and a peaceful, restful green. This was his spot. He had found it several years ago. It was very private. You had to climb a steep, poorly marked path to get there. Most people just passed it by. Unlike the sandy beaches of Miami or southern California, the lake beach below him consisted of a multitude of rocks and pebbles in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. Some of the rocks were smooth, flat and round –perfect for skipping far across the lake’s surface. Others were jagged and sharp –treacherous to walk on. Often, Jerome would strip, swim in the velvety waters and walk across the beach with bare feet, heedless of the hazardous stones.

Jerome took off his 49ers cap, laid his back against the sun-drenched rock and spread his arms out onto the mossy, lime earth beside him. He closed his eyes and listened to the calming sound of the water’s edge lapping against the rocks below.

Before long, his skin began to prickle with gooseflesh and he felt the disturbance before he heard the group of voices headed in his direction. Jerome quickly retracted his feet and crawled backwards, crouching behind the trunk of a nearby redwood tree. The voices were coming from below him and to the left. A few minutes later, the owners of the voices emerged. Three boys, he recognized two of them from school –idiot jocks. He hoped they would pass by, but instead they stopped just below the rock outcropping where Jerome had been lying. He hated them –they were all the same with their swaggering and posturing. Now they were ruining his morning of triumph. This was his beach, his special place –they had no right to intrude with their plastic coolers of Coors and loud, obnoxious voices. Defeated, he listened for a few minutes to their braggart’s exploits of conquests and scoffed before retreating backwards into the safe concealment of the forest. For all their allegations of sexual prowess, they might as well be impotent. Jerome had discovered a pleasure a thousand times more exciting and rewarding than any post-cum release. And it was only here, in the peace of the redwood trees, where the fertile earth covered his secrets, where the viridian water reflected his pleasure that he could bask in it.

The Seventh Entry: Paul "Prolific" Papadeas Offers Up an Earthy "Lady of the Lake"

This is not Paul Papadeas. This is a drawing of a character Paul played in a little movie called "Incident at Sicuani". This isn't even a likeness. I drew this in a storyboard before I'd even cast Paul. "The Native" was his character name in the "script". I post this up because I have no photos of Paul, so this is going to have to do.

Paul's entry into this month's Smackdown has some interesting backstory: When the progenitor of this blog, Nathan Hines, first received this story, it was so audacious and in-your-face he thought for sure that "The Tear in the Canonazo" author, and resident harrasshole, Heath Michaels, had written it and stamped Paul's name on it for a laff (not a 'laugh' mind you, but a 'laff'. Huge difference.) Not so. Paul's the true author. So, with this, the seventh (and final?) entry in the March edition of Literary Smackdown, Paul Papadeas sets his boot into the ring. Seven entries! Records are being shattered everyday. Ready, set, JUDGE!

Lady of the Lake
By Paul Papadeas

Goddamn bitch. I remember this place. We used to come here to fuck. It was so damn humid and the gnats would just eat my eyeballs like they were a pig pickin’ cake. At times I’d be going at her with my stinging eyes closed.

So peaceful out here though – nobody would bother us that’s for sure – she’d scream bloody murder and the only thing that you’d hear in return was a bullfrog’s rancid belch. One time I slipped onto a colony of ants. Damn critters stung my cock and turned it into a swollen water balloon.

She laughed at me. She always laughed at me. But never with me. That seems to be a recurring theme of my life.

Wow. It’s in pretty good shape. But the water still looks like somebody dumped a truckload of Jack Daniels in there. She wouldn’t mind though. She would wash off by taking a swim. Man, that turned me on more than the bangin’. I liked the way she moved the current against here skin. She was white as a ghost and it sure made a nice contrast.

Yeah, but it’s a perfect place for casting one off too. Bet you there’s some nice catch in there. Gotta try it sometime soon – whenever I can break free from my so-called busy schedule.

She never let me eat any of the fish either. Always said it was because there were too many bones, but I know she was really one of them bleeding heart types. Always in love with the cold blooded.

Damn. If I only had a red and white sandwich and a portable radio about now. Would love to know the score. I think its Sunday. There’s always a game.

Never a soul out here but me and the trees. Ever. I feel like I’m trapped in the rib cage of a giant. They say that this little piece of freedom still belongs to the Potter’s. But I don’t see their house in the clearing. Maybe they tore it down or sold it off to the city. Who really gives a shit?

This place is surely forgotten now. Maybe I’ll just lay out here for tonight. Just for old time’s sake.

Mystery Writer Leaps from the Turnbuckle and Dives Into the Middle of the Literary Smackdown!

One more entry folks. This writer wishes to remain anonymous, so this person won't require much in the way of introduction. Without further ado, Mystery Writer jumps into the fray that is the Literary Smackdown! Don't worry about pulling your punches. This writer can take it. So sharpen your 1-10 scales and judge lest ye be judged!

Untitled
by Anonymous

Daniel pushed through the brush, his breath more difficult with each step. Thin, whip-like branches slashed back into his face and arms, leaving momentary weals, each more painful than the next. His black army boots were becoming caked with a second layer of dark black mud. Daniel raised his forearm again protecting his eyes from the swift whip return of the branch as he pushed aside another thick, thorn-covered bramble, living barbed wire still clinging to the recent black rain. He wiped water from his eyes, desperate to see farther into the woods. The path was lost, in the fading light and the darkening gray ceiling. The lake was somewhere in front, of that he was sure, he had been there a hundred times, maybe a thousand. It could only be a few more steps. His boot sunk into the soft ground kicking up forest floor decay. His blue jeans clung wet with mud and rain, a new weight for each step. The proud leather jacket forever ruined, sodden and heavy on his back. Each step closer, each step more hurried, more desperate.

He never saw it, a jagged time-worn stump, only a foot high, moss and forest trash hiding it from view. His boot crushed into and through the rotted stump. He could feel the soft wood collapse and he fell.

The fall was unprotected, sudden, and violent. There was no warning, he was not even able to utter a sound, his arms useless and offering no defense. His face slammed through the hard thorn covered wires, each strand, each hard thorn, pierced and then sliced, through his unprotected skin. He hit the ground with terrible force. The forest heard the breaking of branches and then a dull thud, and then stillness. A horrible empty stillness; nothing. It started to rain again.

Daniel first tasted dirt, then blood. He lay there with his face in the cold earth, his arm useless beside him, broken, something else hidden beneath him pressed into his chest. The gray ceiling gone, replaced by a ceiling lower and now a shade of black, darkened, it pressed Daniel harder into the ground. He waited, soon he could move again, but now he just needed to close his eyes and rest.

He could smell the lake. He wondered why he could smell it now, perhaps it was because he was closer to the ground. He knew it had rained more and then stopped and perhaps started again, he thought it might be raining now. He knew he was close. Rotting water they had called it, a time each year when the lake, its water heated by the summer sun, exchanged places with deeper cooler water, the thermal layers equalizing. The deep water stilled and, not having moved during the summer months, was pulled from the depths, bringing with it bottom decay, rot and a smell, both familiar and safe. It was a time of year the lake belonged only to him.

Daniel rolled to the side, and tried to sit up, he could move his arm so perhaps it was not really broken, just sprained. It was good not to taste dirt any longer, but he spit mucus-thick blood for some time.

He did not remember even rolling over, or sitting up but he stood now, the lake before him. The dull black surface unable to reflect, the water barely moved even close to the knotted, ragged-cut roots and ended before the roots could touch the twice fetid waters. How many summers did he sit just here, listening to the distant gleeful sounds wishing for his alone time. His time to laugh at trees.

Shawn Harwell Wants to Give You a "Tweak"

This is Shawn Harwell. He lives in Cincinatti, Ohio with his wife Gretchen. There, in the land of the closely-contested election, he writes screenplays, fiction, graphic novels, and whatever else comes to mind. Fresh to the Smackdown, Shawn has written a bit of short fiction entitled "Tweak" for this month's Smackdown challenge. Five, count them FIVE entries for the month of March! Yet another new record. The bar has been set highly for April. We may yet get another entry before the end of the month, who knows? Anyway, on to Harwell's story "Tweak" which comes from the so-subtle-you-gotta-read-it-twice school of fiction writing. Enjoy, and then lay the hammer down. Or should I say ... smackdown?

Tweak
by Shawn Harwell

Tweak stood with her hands in her pockets while her husband cleaned the fish he'd caught. He was on one knee and he'd had to steady himself a few times in the slippery clay that gave way to the lake. The clay was bright red from the rain and the blood from the fish made her think the two things belonged together, the dirt and the blood, the way babies belonged to their mommas once they were pushed out of the womb. Robin cut the head of the fish off and tossed it into the water. It wasn't big enough to make a splash and she knew he'd have to catch three more before they'd begin to feel like they'd ate. Still, it was something and there'd been days now when they'd gone without. For that Tweak reckoned she was grateful.

"We need dry wood to cook this with." Robin wiped the knife blade against his pants leg and held the handle out for Tweak. He didn't look at her. His other hand was busy spreading the bulk of the fish out flat so she'd be able to pierce it with a stick to cook. Tweak took the knife and it was warm with sweat and effort. She started off through the weeds to a scratch of woods that bordered the lake just below the hills where the old house sat atop like it was watching everything. There was no one in it now, she knew.

As she walked across the clearing, Tweak felt the summer rain soak from the grass and through the hole in her canvas shoes. Once, Robin had suggested she paint something on her shoes because it was something like she'd be good at. She never did and now they weren't suitable for painting; they weren't white, they weren't even a color. Her shoes were muddy and wet, and the one with the hole made her foot seem like it was shriveling inside. She entered the space with the trees and was greeted by shade and a swarm of gnats. The bugs were called out by the rain and they answered in numbers. Tweak moved a strand of hair from her mouth so she could breathe better. The air was less humid in the trees and it didn't have the same taste there. She moved past the cloud of gnats and something on the ground stabbed her foot through the hole in her shoe but she kept walking.

When she could see nothing but trees, Tweak thought she heard the sound of Robin casting his line once again into the lake. He'd stolen the rod from a shed and she'd watched him do it from behind a rusted out tractor that had snakes sitting in the well of a tire. Now he was catching her lunch with it and she would be responsible for the cooking. All around her were the remnants of limbs broken from trees after a heavy snow that came late, almost on Easter Sunday. She picked up one here and there and stepped on another to break it in half. The wood was dry. It would burn and they would eat.

She heard the sound of the line again and Tweak turned back to the direction of the lake. She could no longer see the water and imagined it as he saw it. Robin would look at the water and not see the muddy bottom that kicked around in wide swaths spurred up by the rain. He wouldn't see the water bugs take in the sun or the turtle on its back, just at the shoreline, waiting to die and be eaten. He wouldn't notice the fox panting down the hill hungry for frog eggs congealed at the surface. He wouldn't see the sun escape on the water in a reflection that looked like something she'd paint on a shoe. He wouldn't see any of it, Tweak knew. Instead, he'd see a fish, a meal, and then he'd see them run real far off toward a dream he'd had that he'd swore would one day come true. For her part, she'd believed him then.

Robin said something in the distance that made Tweak drop the wood she'd collected. Unburdened, her arms felt free and long. Behind her Robin yelled again. The gnats had followed her now and made noise in her ear. She swatted at them but knew they wouldn't stop until the sun went down. Behind her the lake was invisible in Robin's eyes. In front of her the woods held steady to the earth. Tweak would walk. Then, maybe, she would run.

Abe Jacquot, Currently Laying the Smackdown in Iraq, Stoops to Conquer a New Theater of War: The Literary Smackdown

This is Abe Jacquot. He's an old friend of Literary Smackdown founder and proprietor, Nathan Hines, frequent commenter on this blog, and, up 'till today, a non-combatant in our month-old "literary" battling. Currently serving our country in Iraq, Abe has decided to show that his pen is as mighty as his sword by penning his own entry for this month's Smackdown. Entitled "Cold Feet", Abe introduces us to yet another young man who's dealing with the hard facts of murder while looking at a lake. Who wouldn't head down to the lake after offing someone? I mean, really? At any rate, this makes four, count 'em FOUR entries for the March Smackdown. A new record. Maybe next month it'll be five. Enough blather. On with the show. (PS: I would have cropped the photo but Photoshop wouldn't let me on account of the file type. I think it's interesting anyway: a writer in his natural environment. On to "Cold Feet".)

Cold Feet
by Abraham Jacquot

Why is it that this lake seems so different to me now? Has it changed or have I? Maybe I am seeing it through a different man’s eyes. Maybe I am losing my mind. Is this what it feels like to lose one's mind? They say that if you think that you might be going crazy, it is a good sign that you are sane. What the fuck do they know? I’m not crazy.

Did I clean behind the toilet? Did I mail off that check for the parking ticket? I know she never went in the bathroom but … aw shit my feet are wet. You must have gotten lost for a minute there and wandered into the water. Lost! That’s funny. Lost in thought. Pull it together Jake. You are knee deep in this fucking lake and people are going to start staring soon. What people? There are no people. You have all your clothes on for Christ sake. Do sane people wade around, knee deep in a lake in the middle of February? No they don’t!

Damn it’s cold. Where are all the ducks? Where is that goose? The one that steals all of the bread you tried to give to the ducks. They are all gone dummy. It’s fucking February! Remember? Remember what? Oh, the lake. What was I looking for? Looking… for? Would you look at that? The way the water laps at the shore. The sun lies on the water like it was meant to be there. What happens to the water when the sun goes down? Does it still lap at the shore like that? Do the leaves still float like that? Does the wind still blow when the sun is gone?

What the hell do you expect to find at the bottom of this lake anyway? Salvation? That ship has sailed buddy. No lake, no childhood pleasantries can undo what has been done. This lake may have been a place of comfort once but not anymore. Memories of those warm summer days swinging from the tire swing can’t erase nothin’. Did you expect to find some kind of solace in the past? You can’t take it back! This place will not protect you! But it can make it better. Do the right thing Jake. Let’s take a swim. What’d ya say?

Who Will Win the March Smackdown? Brian "The Scarecrow" Crane Throws His Hat Into the Sparsely Populated Ring

This is me, Brian Crane.

The challenge for this month's Literary Smackdown came from the late novelist and esteemed creative writing teacher, John Gardner. In his book, The Art of Fiction, he provides exercises for creative writing students to do. One of them, the Smackdown's challenge this month, is to "describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed murder. Do not mention the murder." This was kind of challenging. HM and Hinesy both went the full-on story route with this exercise. I went for a simpler option and did only the description of the lake as seen by a murderer, as I imagine it might appear in a story about someone who's killed someone. Hope you like it. Time to judge, gentlemen.

A Description of a Lake
by Brian Crane

A cold gust of wind thundered past his ears and across the water’s surface. The gust, which he imagined as a kind of invisible comet complete with a cold massless head and a long tail, rushed past and departed gradually. The breeze it interrupted was gone, replaced by a strong pushing against his back. The lake, placid for hours, became restless. On the far side of the water, down low against the exposed red banks, brown water surged against the earth, then retreated, each time nearly touching the lower boughs of the nightdark pines. The white noise of wind and water roared like a massive chemical reaction: crackly and dangerous. The whole miserable lake was a choppy mess for a time, leaping and dipping, alive and vigorous. He sensed in the lake an exhaustion; a willingness to relent. He felt it himself. After a time, the pushing subsided, the roaring in his ears quieted, and the water lapped at the banks with less passion. Relations normalized. And as the night grew to fullness around him, the wind fled, and the clouds that hid the moon skated across a glass-smooth surface.

A Writer Names Nathan Hines Gets a Little "Swimmy"

This is Nathan Hines photographed at the very moment of a nuclear detonation. Thus the light.

Married and expecting a child with his lovely wife, Chu-Yun Wei, Nathan (known throughout the world as "Hinesy") lives in Taiwan, teaches English (and whatever else he can think of) to the unwitting Taiwanese, writes novels, screenplays, and now he can add Descriptions of Lakes to his writing resume. On this, the 8th day of March, 2006, he gives us the 2nd entry in this month's Literary Smackdown, a longish piece the author calls, albeit reluctantly, "swimmy". He may have just called it that because he needed something to name the file, but there it is anyway. Swimmy. Get your smackdown on readers.

Swimmy
by Nathan Hines

My face looks all swimmy in the water. But that’s just because I dropped a pebble in a second ago. It was smooth as a mirror, before. The rest of the lake still is. Smooth, quiet and glistening. The morning air is crisp and full of dew. So much so, that my nostrils actually feel moist after I suck in a lungful. I guess you could say it smells “clean” but to me it just smells like nothing. Fuck, I hate the country.

The trees on the opposite shore are in that awkward in-between stage. They’re turning towards autumn but it’s not the explosions of yellows, browns and purples that you see in postcards yet. They won’t be snapping those photos for another few weeks. Just now they’re still green with growing patches of brown that just make them seem mud spattered and dirty. They don’t look too far away, actually. I wonder if I could swim it.

Without taking my eyes off of the tree line in the distance, I squat down and let my fingers fumble around until they find a nice sized rock. The perfect throwing rock is just a little bigger than a golf ball. If you can get it, egg-shaped is always nice because it fits so well between your thumb and forefingers. The one I found is just such a rock. Smooth. Small but heavy. A good lake rock. I stand up, pull back and hurl it as far as I can. As I let go, I expect it will get pretty close to the middle.

It doesn’t. Not even a tenth. Maybe a not twentieth. Anyway, a fraction too small to bother figuring out. Those must be some big fucking trees on the other side of this lake, because they don’t look that far away. It looks like you could doggie paddle to the other side in ten minutes but it’d probably more than an hour.

A ring of ripples is radiating outwards from where the rock had landed with a “KER-PLUMP”. Perfect circles expanding, one after the other.

A couple of purple cloud wisps are floating slowly by overhead, so there must be a breeze. I don’t feel shit though. This air is just sitting on me like a blanket. My hands are damp and I try to wipe them off on my jeans, but it doesn’t do any good because they’re damp too. Everything is. Morning dew always gets mixed in with images of clean healthy livin’, and it looks real good on TV and all, but in person it just makes me wish I had a towel. Not that it would do much good. The towel would probably be damp too.

The ring of ripples is still growing. The outer ring looks like it would be pushing past the sidelines of a football field by now. All from one little pebble. It looks like someone has drawn a big target on the middle of the lake. I throw another rock out and break the image up.

I hear something. Not a bird or frog or some fucking fish making a splash. Something. It sounds like a helicopter, but softer. And lower. Lower to the ground, I mean. The sound, would actually be higher, I guess. Pitch-wise.

A small boat comes puttering around the bend of the lake. It’s one of those little flat boats with no motor in the back. Just a dinky little thing in the front that pulls it along at like, 2 miles per hour. There’s an old man sitting in it. Really, he could be 30. I can’t tell because he’s so far out, but he’s looking at me. Either me or something directly behind me, and there’s NOTHING behind me except a bunch of trees. And they look exactly like every other tree on the lake so I can’t think of what else he would be looking at. And the old (or maybe young) fucker just keeps on looking at me a long, long time.

Finally he waves and after a few minutes, he’s puttered his way around the next bend and disappears from sight. A couple of minutes after that, the sound is gone completely and I’m sitting, again, in tomblike silence. All this suffocating space and empty, tasteless air.

I look down at the water at my feet. It’s calm again. Clear and smooth and there I am looking back up at me. Quickly a tap my foot on the reflection and, immediately, my face looks all swimmy again.

HM Steps Up to the Plate with a Short Story/Description of A Lake Called "The Tear in the Canonazo"

This is HM. He lives in Los Angeles and writes screenplays in his spare time. Last month he was the first entrant in the inaugural Literary Smackdown. This month is no different as Heath needed just 6 days to come up with his Smackdown offering. So, without further ado, I give you the literary stylings of HM, and his attempt to describe, as dictated by John Gardner's Art of Fiction's end-of-book exercise, "a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed murder, without mentioning the murder." Brush off those 1-10 scales and prepare to judge, and judge justly. DING DING DING! Commence the Smackdown!

The Tear in the Canonazo
By HM

Tender was his nickname to the boys at The Hotel Cohiba, which wasn’t a hotel at all, but a tumbledown bar feebly disguised as a prestigious cigar lounge to elude indoor smoking laws and some of the more stringent sin-taxes. Tender didn’t mind his nickname so much, at least not so much in the recent years, but when the boys at ‘Cohiba’ started calling him that, he wanted to show them who was tender and who wasn’t.

Tender had a soft ankle. The bone was pliable, mainly around the joint, from a bad spell of gout three years back that nearly took his entire foot. On most days he had a terrible time walking without the aid of a cane.

But today, he was having a fairly better day than most. The medication was doing a fine job of stiffening the weak sinew around his ankle; enough so for him to make a single rotation about the lake beneath the hill at ‘Cohiba’ before the dull throb set in. Tender briskly rubbed his hands along each arm, trying to warm himself. The evening air was getting nippy, cutting through his daytime clothing and chilling him to the bone.

The water danced like someone he thought of only briefly. The setting sun turned the water crimson, and he had no choice but to think of that someone just a little bit longer. At some points, the waters rolled just right turning purple and even black, creating large circles of darkness. The shaded, peaty edges of the lake seemed muddy at times as the ducks hid their beaks into their feathers, readying for a cold night. Greenish-yellow specks twinkled above their heads, welcoming the coming hours. The crickets sang a cadenced lullaby to all who would listen.

All but a swan, elegant and poised, with the privileged intention of slicing through the wafting crimson to the deepest part of the lake: the very center. Tender’s attention followed the swan, casting his glances back and to small, round, shiny, black duck eyes, glistening by the marsh, following her as she passed with a quiet faintness too sweet for the ducks, too sweet for Tender, and his rosy lips bended around his teeth amassing great folds around his neck and brow. That large bulbous beak, cinder in color, draining into those large black patches around the eyes, and eventually melting into the white, fluffy flounce surrounding them. The crimson danced in their black, shiny duck eyes; ever staring, ever watching, like the boys at ‘Cohiba’.

He imagined the purple and black circles in the water widening until there was no water left, consuming nature’s perfect adornment.

He imagined the fish floating up from the hole, their round, swollen eyes too worried to notice the swan as she deteriorated, her feathers wilting like petals in the cold evening air, and sank deeper into the wet chasm, the fluffy down soaked in the crimson waters. He imagined the wake smacking the marsh and the ducks, urging them absent.

Then he stopped imagining. The swan was gone.

He pulled a Cuban stogie from his pocket. A Canonazo. Brown, triple-fermented tobacco flowered out from a tear in the bronzed leaf wrapping. The tip was dented and limp. He mashed the leaf with his cold, numb fingers, trying to correct the tear and straighten the bend, but the cigar had already been smashed.