The kids were in bed. My husband was watching TV. I was doing some final kitchen cleaning and… well… let’s say I got inspired.

I had no legitimate business being in the freezer. Especially behind the stack of frozen peas, chicken breasts and fish fillets.

And it’s incorrect to say the half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream was hiding. That’s just where it ended up. Unopened.

It’s not like it was being saved for a birthday or special occasion. It was just… unaccounted for?

Lonely?

That seems right. It clearly needed company and my maternal instincts kicked in.

What didn’t seem right was eating the whole thing. That would be indecent. So I only ate half.

Before going to bed, my husband asked if I’d buy some ice cream next time I was at the store. I agreed. It slipped my mind to mention there was still some left.

The next afternoon, the kids were at practice, my husband was at work, and I was staring at the freezer.

If I left it there, my husband might find it. Pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t been solving might click together.

I couldn’t let him live with that kind of distress. I’m a caregiver at heart.

So, I grabbed a spoon, completed the work, and buried the carton in the recycling bin under some junk mail.

That evening, my husband walked into the kitchen carrying a grocery bag.

“Hey babe,” he pulled out a brand-new tub of mint chocolate chip. “I stopped by the store on the way home.”

I married well.

“I figured you’d need a refill after whatever happened to the first one.” He smiled.

I didn’t.

Then he gave me that conspiratorial-forgiving look. “I’ll get the spoons if you promise not to tell the kids.”

Parenthood is mostly sacrifice. Occasionally, it’s witness protection.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

The solution to being young and stupid is growing out of it. Well, at least the first part. And if Gardy thought turning eighteen would improve things, officially-sanctioned adulthood proved otherwise.

Despite graduating high school while on the verge of expulsion for perpetuating disruption more than pretending to academics, any lessons about going with the flow simply washed by.

In the same way his birthday fatality washed by his single mom who hadn’t heard from him in over a year.

The police notified her with the professional calm she and her son couldn’t when they hurled verbal violence at each other with the fury of two colliding tornadoes.

But that last time was different.

He never returned.

No more yelling.

No more rage.

All that remained was a perpetually aching agitation as the sole vestige of her younger self’s hope for a family.

When she closed the door on the departing police, she was embraced by a void that seemed more the fulfillment of an inevitability than any cliche of unreality.

How does one describe an extreme gut punch received in a vacuum?

Before, she could still envision a future fight.

Now, she was left with the only promise he finally kept.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

I’m not into boats. Nor fishing. Yet here I am, nursing nausea by myself below deck on a 63-foot chartered trawler while my office coworkers topside celebrate a banner sales year. Everyone else thought it a great idea to book the four a.m. outing. I was too inexperienced to think straight. Or think that four a.m. and/or the two a.m. wake-up are, in fact, times that exist in reality. (They shouldn’t).

Fortunately, the worst is over. My certainty, or desire, for immediate demise is lessening.

I climb the ladder back to the deck like a toddler discovering stairs. Although any actual toddler would be more confident. The Pacific has settled into a lazy gray roll under an overcast sky, as the Channel Islands on the horizon appear prehistoric and judgmental.

“Hey! Lazarus returns!” shouts Bryce from Accounting, a man who usually gets winded using a heavy stapler. He poses for a photo with something silver and unhappy dangling from his line.

Around the rail, everyone is catching fish. They erupt from the water every few minutes as if they had been offered a highly aggressive commission structure.

Sarah, who spent the entire boarding process complaining about the harbor smell, smiles for a selfie with a glistening, copper-colored, floppy thing.

Trevor, who once sliced his own thumb opening yogurt, brings in something large enough to require consultation.

Even Melissa from Legal, who earlier asked whether fish had unions, pulls one in while apologizing to it.

“Finally joined the living!” the Captain bellows, slapping a slimy hand onto my shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. Cody here’s been holding a rod for you all morning. White seabass are waiting to go home with you.”

Cody doesn’t just hand me the gear; he operates me like a marionette. He pins a live squid to the hook, casts the line with the grace of an Olympian, then stands behind guiding my hands on the reel.

“Just wait for the tug,” he says. “Everybody catches fish out here.”

An unfortunate promise.

I hold the fishing rod the way archaeologists might hold a cursed ceremonial staff. Around me, the cheering has settled into the satisfied murmur of those for whom success is now routine.

My own lack of the same reaches a point of statistical impossibility. A fish breaks the surface, looks directly at me, then dives straight for the hook of the person sitting three feet to my left.

Regardless, Cody dedicates himself to my success with missionary zeal. He changes hooks, locations, bait, depths, techniques. He repeats, with waning certainty, “Everyone catches fish.”

Apparently the sea and I have reached a mutual understanding. Nothing below intends to come up to me. And I have no intention of going down. We are at peace with this arrangement.

But not Cody, who stops offering encouragement and begins regarding me the way a priest attends to someone receiving last rites before abandoning me with a similar finality.

By the time we turn back toward the harbor, every cooler on the boat but one is well stocked.

As consolation, Carl from Shipping thanks me for helping him win an impromptu betting pool on my being the only person to catch nothing.

I ask how he knew.

“I didn’t.” He chuckles. “But I know you.”

At least the nausea is gone.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

“Make it well done.” Harold barked the order in his routine irritable fashion.

His wife flashed a weak smile at the waiter and then returned to her husband. “Harold, you know you can’t order steak well-done here.”

“This place is expensive enough that I should be able to have it however I want.”

Marianne clasped her hands, observing her one-appeal limit for brick walls.

The waiter remained poised and offered a peace token. “Sir, today we have some excellent sea bass.”

Before he could explode, Marianne resolved a brand-new tack, albeit one that had been simmering for some time. Rather than endure another dinner listening to a barely suppressed tirade, she opted to upend it. “We need to talk about divorce.”

Harold’s face, transitioning from red to rage before she spoke, now froze with such shock, it was as if the entire restaurant stopped in unison.

Marianne herself reacted in disbelief recognizing she spoke the words aloud. But instead of dismay, she sat straighter.

Her awareness expanded.

A strange clarity washed over.

She somehow knew the couple to her left were celebrating that husband’s promotion.

She glanced at another couple. Although she couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, she perceived with certainty it was a birthday date.

The hostess was leading a foursome near their table. Although the hostess was poised, Marianne could feel her remorse over the recent loss of her mom. Was Marianne making this up?

She glanced back at the waiter, standing speechless with wide-eyed uncertainty and then back at her husband stilled in time. “Harold, your unreasonable stubbornness has distanced our friends, estranged our children, and turned you into a cranky old curmudgeon who has lost all connection to common sense.”

Harold remained paralyzed. Then looked to the waiter, standing at attention between the worlds of anywhere and nowhere. Harold gazed back at his wife, as if terrorized by a force for which he had no defense.

Marianne continued. “I’m willing to listen to any reasonable declaration of change, but since that’s unlikely, let’s talk about splitting our assets.”

All the color drained from Harold’s face. He looked up at the waiter again. “Please,” he whispered, “make it medium.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

Randy summed up his complaints. “I don’t want to go back.”

There was a pause, as if to ensure the protests were exhausted. “You don’t have to.” Although the response came off with the practiced patience you might expect from a DMV employee, a postal clerk, or any bureaucrat who has heard it all, Randy finally calmed.

“But you might change your mind later.” There was a brief glance at the line before returning to Randy. “Some say it’s like an irresistible amusement park ride.”

Randy suppressed any agreement. “Except it kills you.”

A hint of deja vu prevailed. “Some rides are better, some worse. But despite everything, folks still line up.”

Randy looked down. “I rode one. Once. I threw up and my neck hurt for three days.”

“That happens.” Silence stretched. “But you don’t need me to tell you there can be good times.” A beat passed. Composed. Understanding. “Look, you’ve got to decide for yourself. But you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested.” The silence expanded as an expectant vacuum. “Even so, like any roller coaster, there are usually lines.”

“That’s just another reason not to go back.”

“True. That’s why some people get in line and put off any decision until they get to the front. And by the way, some people decide to go back just because they want to see if they can do it better.”

Randy looked up. “Whatever. But I don’t get why there’s such a long line, anyway.”

“Supply and demand. There’s a lot of old people. But there’s a lot fewer younger people having kids.”

Randy took a breath. Resisting the inevitable. “What if I mess up again?”

A softer pause this time. “That’s a common concern.” The energy between them seemed to pulse. “They still get in line.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

“I heard you and Patricia broke up again.”

“It was mutual.”

“Actually, I heard she called the police to throw you out.”

“Well, it was more like they came to calm her down.”

“Didn’t you smash the window?”

“That’s what she said. But I told the police if they go outside and take fingerprints off the vodka bottle, they would only find hers.”

“She said you hit her?”

“When I mentioned a bedroom video of her begging for a spanking and then yelling that I was insufficiently enthusiastic, she withdrew her accusation and told the police she was drunk at the time.”

“So, you didn’t spend the night in jail?”

“It was late and I was too tired to go anywhere else, so I asked if I could. But they declined.”

[pause]

“Why do you keep getting back together?”

“A complete lack of common sense.”

“So… she called yet?”

“Twice.”

“You know, there are better ways to ruin your life?”

“Sure, but most of them don’t involve make-up sex.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

On a good day, only one of the washing machines would be out of order. But today, only one wasn’t. How the hell are seven broken at the same time?

Although I didn’t know her, I recognized a neighbor reading a novel near the lone machine fulfilling its life purpose.

Normally, I’d leave and try again later. But today, my schedule was tight. More critically, I was out of clean socks. And, even if I may be accused of not being overly concerned about how I dress or look, clean socks are a necessity for me to cast an illusion upon the world (and myself) that I’m civilized. Now, if you’re anything like me (and we both hope you’re not), you don’t like to be disturbed while reading. But since I was wearing flip flops, I wasn’t constrained by the construct of polite society. “Do you know why they’re broken?”

She looked up, lowered her spectacles, and inspected me from head to toe. I felt a bit self conscious in my cut-off-at-the-knees sweat pants that should have been retired in the 90s, along with my Winnie-the-Pooh pajama top that was a parting gift from an ex as a comment on my maturity. In my defense, my attire was more a testament to an urgency for clean laundry than a deliberate fashion statement. And if I felt any vindication observing the illustration on her novel that featured a tall, tawny pirate with a look of questionable intent, holding a damsel at an impossible angle, under the title “Forbidden Fruit,” it was only because I assessed neither of us held the high ground in any judgemental standoff. Nevertheless, she won the showdown with her response, “They are in need of sledgehammer maintenance.”

I instantly liked her.

A lot.

Although she was twice my age I considered asking if she was single. Instead, I opted for the sensible approach. “I’ll grab a hammer.”

She blinked, as if recalibrating her morning expectations. Then, slowly, she marked her page, closed the book, and stood to look directly at me. “You’ll want something with conviction.”

I paused, both of us pretending this was a normal escalation. The lone functioning washer churned beside us, oblivious to the fate being discussed for its delinquent brethren. “Or, I could wait until your clothes are done.”

A man entered the laundry room carrying a basket of what can only be described as aggressive beige. He glanced across all the out-of-order signs, sighed the sigh of a man whose spirit had been eroded over decades, and left without saying a word.

“Or,” she continued, lowering her voice slightly, “assert the power of displeasure.”

We stood together, co-conspirators against an uncaring, derelict apartment management, reflected in a row of guilty machines awaiting their comeuppance. For the first time in far too long, bolstered by the promise of questionable decisions, I felt something dangerously close to optimism.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

The man slapped the folder onto the metal table. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t have it and we’re running out of time.”

The woman was carefully refolding a damp cloth, pressing each corner with the precision of someone setting a dinner napkin. “He’s just disciplined.”

“He’s been out for twenty minutes, Claire.”

She glanced at the slumped figure, drool trailing from his chin. “That,” she said, “is resistance.”

Daniel leaned in. “We’re not getting anything because there’s nothing to get.”

Claire crossed her arms. “Once again, you’re giving up too easily. Usually because you’re tired.”

“I’m being reasonable.”

“You yawned during phase three.”

“I yawned because you spent forever explaining questions before asking.”

“It’s called psychological framing.”

“It’s called boring him — and me — to death until he passed out!”

Claire flung the cloth down. “So now this is my fault?” She stepped closer, voice low. “Maybe if someone hadn’t gone off-script…”

“Improvisation is the job!”

They glared. Behind them, a faint wet snore punctuated the instant.

Claire’s eyes flicked to the blinking red camera light. “We are not doing this on tape.”

Daniel exhaled through his teeth. “Fine. Outside.”

They paused at the door. Claire pointed back to the person in the chair. “Do not touch anything.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “He’s asleep.”

“I’m setting boundaries.”

The door clicked shut. Silence.

Fingers twitched. Eyes fluttered open, glassy, unfocused.

“…mmh.”

A whisper.

“…the Wi-Fi password…”

His head lolled.

“…same as your anniversary.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

“God told me to.”

“God told you…?”

“Well, he would have told me if we were back on speaking terms. But I’m not listening because I think he’s been more irresponsible than usual.”

“So, he told you… but you didn’t actually hear him, because you’re ignoring him?”

“Yeah, you know, he’s gotten to be kinda like my nagging wife. You don’t need to hear what she’s saying, because she’s been saying it for too long — it’s not like she’s saying something I don’t already know.”

“Your wife…?”

“Jeez, you’ve become an awfully pedantic mechanic. I mean, when she was around.”

Fred lowered his clipboard and looked curiously at his long-time customer. “Look, Mr. Parry, I don’t care if it’s a divine mandate or a marital metaphor. I cannot install a surface-to-air missile launcher on a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. It’s a liability issue.”

Mr. Parry waved a dismissive hand. “Liability is just a word humans invented to excuse their lack of vision. Besides, it’s for the pigeons. They’ve been congregating on my roof with a level of organization that can only be described as ‘militant.’”

“And God… didn’t tell you to do this?”

“Exactly! His silence is a clear indicator of his negligence. If He’s not going to protect my shingles from the feathered menace, then I have to take the initiative. It’s basic theology, Fred. If the Big Guy goes on strike, the middle management—that’s me—has to step up.”

Fred rubbed his temples. “Sir, even if I wanted to help, I’m a mechanic. I do brakes, tune-ups, and oil changes. I don’t do ballistics.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t.” Mr. Parry reached into his trench coat and pulled out a crumpled blueprint that appeared to be drawn in orange crayon. “Now, I’ve done some calculations. If we remove the trunk lid and reinforce the rear axle with some of those heavy-duty springs you keep in the back…”

“Mr. Parry,” Fred interrupted, his voice dropping to a weary whisper. “Is this really about pigeons? Didn’t you mention you were going to get even with God?”

Mr. Parry froze, his eyes darting skyward, as if checking for celestial eavesdroppers. He leaned in close, smelling faintly of pastrami and peppermint. “Fred, you can’t get even with God by shooting missiles at him. I just want Him to know I’ve not forgotten.”

Fred said nothing.

Mr. Parry’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. So, if you’re going to keep being pedantic, just give me the oil change instead. But between you and me, if God keeps ignoring the pigeons and won’t let Martha at least send a message to help me find the TV remote, I’m the only one trying to keep these relationships running.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

She was 4 going on forever. And the only one who didn’t know she wouldn’t see adulthood.

Maya didn’t just walk; she vibrated through the world. While her mother, Sarah, spent her days ticking with an anxiety born from doctor appointments, insurance calls, and the heavy, silent march of time.

But Maya remained focused on the essential. “Mom, see that?” She pointed to a pigeon in a puddle. “That bird is wearing a rainbow necklace.”

Sarah checked her watch as they got into the car, mentally calculating the drive time and sighed. “It’s just oil, baby. We’re going to be late.”

Maya tilted her head, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose. “Look at it for ten seconds, mom. It’s magic.”

Sarah looked again. This time the oil slick turned into a kaleidoscope. That was Maya’s gift: a tiny, relentless anchor to the present tense. She spent her days “interviewing” the garden ladybugs about their favorite colors and explaining to the mailman that his mustache made him look like a very friendly walrus.

In the crowded hospital waiting room, Maya was coloring a sun with purple crayons because “yellow is too predictable.”

An elderly man sat beside her, his own face a roadmap of long-term worries. He watched this vibrant, chattering girl with a thin wristband and a scarf tied over her hair. “You’re a very busy little lady.” He smiled, his voice raspy. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Maya didn’t miss a beat. She beamed at the man with a gaze that traveled well beyond her age. “I’m just gonna keep loving my mom until she feels better.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

It wasn’t like the exhaustion from three straight fourteen-hour days just to get the corn in. It wasn’t the same mental fatigue as toiling through too many bills and realizing – once again – the medical expenses would be impossible to pay.

No.

This made him yearn for those. At least they were ultimately remedied with enough sleep.

Now, no amount of rest yielded any sense of recovery. He was exhausted when he closed his eyes and exhausted when he awoke. And to make things worse, he wasn’t even in his own bed – the sheets stiff, the air faintly antiseptic. He’d been more comfortable napping in the back of a livestock trailer; that company didn’t ask how he was feeling.

Family and friends drifted in and out of consciousness as he fought to determine who were the hospital visitors and who were in the dreams and hallucinations that passed for current awareness. At least the hallucinations weren’t resigned.

No.

This was the kind from which there was only one resolution.

In the end, he still wasn’t sure if it was the cancer or the treatment that brought it about.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

“It’s hot as a sauna in here.” At 85, Wilbur tottered into the sauna with the heart of a teenager and the body of someone living his final days. Even though some were tired of the joke, all but one politely chuckled.

He looked frail but content, dropping unsteadily onto a bench, still leaning on his cane, catching his breath. “Folks,” his eyes twinkling, “nothing like a good sweat to remind you you’re still breathing—barely, in my case.”

A younger man leaned forward. “Haven’t seen you in a bit?”

“I still come every chance I get. Heat reminds me I’m still alive. Cold just makes me suspicious.” Wilbur smiled. “Besides, it’s better than arguing with my daughter.”

He shifted to a woman draped in a towel, leaning against the cedar slats. “And Elena, dear, how is that grandson of yours? Has he learned to use a spoon, or is he still treating his face like a canvas for mashed peas?”

She laughed. “He’s graduated to forks. Though the peas still end up everywhere but his mouth.”

“Standard procedure,” Wilbur nodded. “I’m back to the same stage myself. Circle of life.”

Then he looked over at the quiet one. Young, maybe twenty-five, staring at the floor with his elbows on his knees and the turned-in posture of someone carrying something heavy. He hadn’t looked up once.

Wilbur watched him a moment, then said quietly, almost to himself, “You know, I used to think the hard times were the ones happening to me.” He paused for a breath. “Took me most of my life to figure out they were mostly happening for me.”

The young man lifted his head and stared at the wall across from him as if the cedar grain had formed a map.

Wilbur didn’t watch him anymore. He didn’t need to. He pressed his palms lightly against the bench, gathering himself. “Got to go while I still can call it leaving.” He smiled and struggled to stand. “Any longer and it becomes a rescue operation.”

When he stepped out, he left the rest a little warmer than before.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

Charlotte was sitting alone in the living room at her cousin’s tenth birthday party while everyone else was crammed in the kitchen. Uncle Luke spotted her and approached. “Spring is coming.”

“I hate spring.”

“Didn’t you used to like it?”

“It’s rainy, windy and like today, still cold.”

“Seems you’re in poor spirits, Charlotte. Is something else bothering you?”

She paused. Her eyes filled. “Jeremy broke up with me.”

“Oh dear.” Uncle Luke’s eyebrows lifted as he sat down. “Should I have him killed?”

“What?!” Her glistening eyes widened. “No!” Her voice cracked. “Uncle Luke, he’s a senior in high school!” She waited for a punchline that didn’t come. “Are you insane?!”

“Anyone who would upset my niece doesn’t deserve to live.”

Charlotte stared intently at him. “You can’t say things like that.”

“I won’t do anything, of course. Probably.”

“Probably?“

“Ninety percent. Very good odds.”

Charlotte pressed her fingers to her temples. In the kitchen, she could hear the birthday song starting up, her little cousin shrieking with delight.

“He said I was too intense,” she muttered.

Uncle Luke was quiet for a moment. Then, gravely: “I’ll make it sixty-forty.”

“Uncle Luke!“

“Fine, fine.” He stood and briefly held out a hand in surrender. “He lives. This time.” He nodded toward the kitchen, extending his arm with the rigid formality of a royal guard. “Come. There’s cake. Cake is better than Jeremy.”

Charlotte sat for a moment longer, realizing that while Jeremy didn’t want her “intensity,” her uncle considered it worth defending.

Beyond the window, winter refused to go quietly. Inside, the cake was chocolate.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

Dave just wanted his loan repaid, but listened sympathetically to Jason’s woes. “That’s some bad luck.”

“That’s right. And I’ve got it like a disease that keeps spreading.” Jason kept darting glances over his shoulder, as if expecting fate to sneak up on him with a crowbar.

“Let’s hope it’s not really contagious.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s how bad my luck is!”

Dave got to the point. “Does that mean you’re not paying back my five bucks?”

“I’m saying if I do pay you back, the universe is gonna notice I finally did something right. And then it’s gonna correct the imbalance by dropping a piano on your head or something.”

“That’s not how luck works.”

“That’s how mine works. It leaks. It seeps. It spreads to whoever’s standing too close when I try to do something responsible.”

Dave folded his arms. “So you’re telling me if you pay back my five bucks it will curse me?”

Jason looked directly at Dave. “I’m telling you it’s risky—for you, for me, for the general public. Money moves around. Germs move around. Bad luck moves around.”

“So, if I forgive the loan, I won’t get your bad luck?”

“Too late for that. You’re already too close. You’re already catching the edges of it. You can feel it, can’t you?”

“I feel like I’m not getting my five dollars back.”

“Dude, you’re still not getting the picture. What’s it worth to not get the full extent of what I got?”

“You’re serious? This some kind of shakedown?”

“Call it insurance. Pay me twenty to keep my distance, and we’ll consider that five bucks settled. No bad luck transfer. Win-win.”

Dave rubbed his chin. He’d had a string of good days lately—promotion at work, lottery scratch-off win, new girlfriend. “Fine. Ten bucks. That’s it. And don’t come near me anymore.”

“It’s a bargain. You keep your good fortune. Everyone walks away a winner.”

“Except you.”

“I’m already a loser. I win by not getting any worse.”

Dave stared at Jason for a long moment, then reached into his wallet and slowly handed over a ten.

“You’re a good man.” Jason pocketed the money solemnly before walking away. “A smart one, too.”

Dave watched until he was half a block down the street before relaxing. Then he checked the sky for pianos.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

The pause was long. Tayu-Mor weighed three generations of terror, loss, and suffering against the Old Way—the sacred code that governed not only how to treat a fallen foe, but how to treat oneself—and all others.

None of the youngest had known a sky free of wicked wings hunting human prey. This justice would mark the end of an age.

His own hunger for revenge had dulled as his leadership neared its end. His legacy would be forged here, in light and shadow, guiding the hands that followed. He was the only one who could alter the inevitable.

“Keepers of the Hearth,” he redirected his focus to the gathered circle. “The capture of the winged Huarac ends an era of blood.” He knew no words would sway hearts today. “I will support your tokens. I will not cast the Still-Stone to silence your will.”

Surprise flickered among the elders; relief among the young.

“Yet I urge respect for the Old Way, even though our ancestors never faced a cruelty so relentless.” He met every face in the Plaza of Echoes—one hundred clan leaders from the Twelve Valleys—then stepped down from the speaking stone. It was the shortest address of his years.

The Warden of the Urn hurried forward. “Mark your tokens. Drop them at the Great Arch. Return when the sun reaches the center-mark.”

The plaza emptied slowly. Whispers trailed Tayu-Mor like smoke down the stone walkway. He did not look back.

Late morning sun anointed the mountain steps. Below the assembly ground, the Huarac lay chained in the pit beneath a lattice of charred Ironwood beams—thick as a man’s waist, weighted with heavy stones.

Tayu-Mor descended the narrow stairs alone. Guards parted, feathered mantles rustling. He stopped at the pit’s edge, ringed by tiered sandalwood, dry cedar, resin-wood, oil-soaked brush. At the corners stood vessels of black bitumen.

The creature’s hide—once a living shadow over the valleys—cracked and wept where obsidian spears had struck. It no longer thrashed. It only watched.

For a long moment, an old leader and a broken monster regarded each other in silence, punctuated by shallow, labored breaths.

“You did not know the Old Way,” Tayu-Mor said quietly, “and so we have forgotten how to walk it.”

The Huarac’s eyes—once desert coals—were dull now, almost human in their exhaustion. It made no reply.

Tayu-Mor turned away.

That afternoon the tally was announced.

The next day the pyre was lit. Black smoke rose straight into a windless sky, carrying scorched scale and ancient resin. Children who had never slept without a blade beneath their mats stood silent at the pit’s rim.

Tayu-Mor did not attend the burning. He remained in his chamber, staring at the empty stone seat he would soon leave forever. Even there, the scent of resin reached him.

Later, when the Knot-Keeper asked what to record in the sacred strings, Tayu-Mor answered:

“Record it as a good day, for the terror has passed. Record it as a bad day, for we have embraced what we long refused.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

“You’re in the right place to replace those jeans.” Mrs. McGillicutty was helping her nine-year-old pick out pants and couldn’t help but comment to the teenager in the same aisle.

Ray looked up from a stack of folded denim. “I do need another pair, but I’m not getting rid of the ones I’m wearing.” He smiled broadly. “They took a while to get so comfortable and torn in all the right places.”

Mrs. McGillicutty led her son away without further comment, as if distancing from something contagious.

Later, after Mrs. McGillicutty paid for her purchases, they stepped out into the busy Saturday afternoon parking lot. As she was juggling her keys and the oversized shopping bag by her car, a massive SUV behind her backed out of its space. The driver, distracted by a phone, didn’t see the petite woman or boy.

“WHOA! HEY! STOP!” Ray was leaving the store and waved his arms frantically while rushing toward the vehicle to get the driver’s attention. The SUV screeched to a halt, missing Mrs. McGillicutty and her son by inches.

The wide-eyed driver waved an apologetic hand behind the tinted glass and slowly pulled away.

“You guys okay?” Ray quickly glanced around for any other wayward vehicles.

Mrs. McGillicutty stood frozen for a moment before responding, “Yes. Thank you. Truly.”

“No problem. Have a good one.” Ray turned and headed toward a beat-up sedan, his worn-out jeans and Pink Floyd T-shirt moving fluidly with every step. Her father would appreciate the shirt.

As they buckled in, a heavy silence filled the car. She didn't start the engine but gripped the steering wheel and let the tension ease. She looked down at her son, who was staring intently at a small, faded grass stain on his knee, tracing the worn fabric with his thumb.

“Mom?” he asked softly. “Can I keep wearing these? Even if they’re old? They’re my favorite.”

Mrs. McGillicutty glanced out the window at the disappearing teenager.

“Well,” she hesitated briefly, “maybe a little character isn’t such a bad thing.” She paused, “But don’t wear them to school.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

"Honestly, I don't remember many dreams." Troy was more interested in his croissant.

“Not even nightmares?” Amber was intent.

“I don’t have nightmares. I mean, I had them as a kid, but not since.” He took another sip of coffee.

“For me, sometimes they’re like premonitions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, last night I had a dream that we’d talk about dreams.”

“That’s not much of a premonition since you brought it up.”

“Sure, but it wasn’t just that.” Amber leaned back, studying him like a puzzle. “In the dream, you said ‘I don’t have nightmares.’ Word for word. And you dropped a croissant.”

Troy froze mid‑bite. “Okay, well… I don’t usually drop what I’m eating.”

“No. You don’t.”

“Amber, I think you’re… well, you’re a lot.” He mentally added her to the list of quirky exes -- the “white witch,” the astrologer. “And why are you so focused on nightmares?”

She leaned forward, her voice softer now. “In the dream, you told me you used to have one. The same one. Over and over.”

He blinked. “I never said that.”

“True.” She studied him for another long moment.

Troy opened his mouth to change the subject, but for a split second he slightly shuddered as a flicker of something forgotten from years past flashed by. A sense of unease settled over him. He glanced around the coffee shop -- mostly other college kids -- before lowering his voice and gaze. “Well, I used to have a recurring dream that I was being watched by some big eye.” He looked back up to Amber. “There was nothing scary about it. But I used to wake up freaked out.”

Amber leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “Troy… in my dream, when you finally remembered, that’s when things started to change.”

“What are you talking about?” He took his last bite, which wasn’t as good as when he started.

“Things get better.” She placed her uneaten croissant back into the bag. “But something bad might happen first.”

“Bad?” Troy chuckled. “Like dropping a croissant that didn’t happen?”

Amber smiled.

“Let’s go.” He stood up, gathered the paper bag and unfinished coffee. “Enough dream talk.”

They walked to the door. Troy used his shoulder to push it open for Amber, balancing coffee in one hand, and the small bag in his other. The bag slipped, falling outside with a soft thud. Amber retrieved and held it for him as they continued down the sidewalk.

Above, a cloud briefly drifted into the shape of an unblinking eye before reforming.

Amber grabbed his hand with a slight squeeze. “You’ll be fine.”

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

The sun rose meekly above the winter horizon into the overcast sky and light snowfall. A dim, gray lantern, apologetic, once again, that today’s highs would not exceed zero. Any real warmth would need to be generated by imagination. At least until sunset and the next campfire.

But he wasn’t using his imagination for warmth. He would need it for a more fundamental purpose.

As for the cold, he kept it at bay by continuously walking. Mostly on the unused highway. The only danger was stopping for more than a few minutes.

With a final snack-bar bite, he adjusted his pack, kicked snow over last night’s embers and started back toward the road. Even in winter, when others were rare, he camped far enough away to avoid being noticed.

Only the forest observed his movement. Without interest.

The earliest steps of the day were his favorite. The next one wasn’t.

Instantly, the world spun for a moment and he couldn’t tell up from down. After a breath, he laughed quietly while righting himself, and then kept walking. With each step, he assessed every muscle for damage. He was pleased that nothing hurt. Even the pack felt lighter.

His crunching boots found their usual rhythm. Movement meant life. He imagined the road ahead bending gently. Safe. He imagined the reassurance of knowing where he was.

Snowy guardrails came into view. He recalled driving along the road when he was younger. That past was now a memory as distant as what used to pass as normal living. Although the road had not seen vehicles since then, it was still a predictable path, particularly appreciated for a long journey.

Back on the pavement, walking was easier. Even if the asphalt was buried under a foot of snow, the solidity was bolstering.

He imagined that summer trip with his family. Driving was as pleasant as the destination. He imagined other vacationers stopping to take family photos against the mountains, streams, historical points of interest, or any place they could park.

Back then he didn’t pay much attention to the mile markers. Now they were milestones of certainty, confirming where he was.

He imagined the smell of coffee so vividly he could taste it. Black, but not too hot. All good. Detail meant focus. Focus meant he was still moving, even if he was already thinking he was ready for a break. But it was too early for that.

Yet, the crunch of his boots seemed farther away, as if someone else were making the sound. And his motions had become...too easy.

He even felt taller.

Except, far below, half-hidden in the snow, a body lay twisted where it had fallen. A boot was missing. The pack lay open, its contents scattered.

Breath became shallow.

But in his mind, he walked on.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

The linoleum floor of “Willy’s Wine & Spirits” was cold. In contrast to the burning pellets residing in my left shoulder.

I pulled myself partially up and leaned my good shoulder against the bottom of the magazine rack. It was a relief to trade my worm’s eye view for a marginally better one.

Ahead and closer to the counter, Gary was sprawled out like a discarded marionette. And just as quiet and unmoving. Honestly, knowing his level of accountability, he’d probably rather be dead than ‘fess up to the bad plan.

“Great thinking, Gary,” I wheezed, tasting copper and floor wax. “‘Let’s park right in front of the big window, blocking the glass door, with our masks already on.’”

The owner was waiting with a shotgun that looked like it belonged in a museum, or a pirate ship. One boom for Gary, one boom for me, and then the guy just… left. Through the back door. Like he’d done this too many times before. Leaving us to entertain the approaching sirens.

I considered my pistol, clenched for dear life. Incredulous that I landed in this predicament with one bullet. Only one. On our way over, I finally checked and was too embarrassed to reveal such to Gary, who had just admitted he didn’t even have a real gun. No one was going to accuse us of being strategic over-thinkers.

As the police started singing, “Come out with your hands up!” I recognized that my criminal career never looked so unpromising. And that’s not saying much since I already served ninety days for driving while intoxicated and crashing into a liquor store. A different one. I think. Regardless, I promised myself I was never going back.

The refrain, “Come out with your hands up!” echoed through the store again. It was especially jarring since I really needed some quiet time – and inspiration. Everything hurt. Even if some of it was masked by shock.

In search of inspiration, I dragged myself toward the whiskey section, leaving a trail like a wounded snail. I grabbed the closest bourbon and knocked back a few shots, ever so glad for one working arm.

The “inspiration” suffused through what little sensibility I had left leaving me more hopeful.

The megaphone goaded again, but at least it was less annoying.

It occurred to me that my lack of conversation might be deemed disrespectful, since I had disrupted their day. “WE NEED AN AMBULANCE!” It hurt even more to yell. I took another shot of bourbon. “ALSO… CAN I TURN THE CAR OFF?”

A pause. “WHAT?”

“THE ENGINE!

IT’S IDLING!

I DON’T WANT TO BE WASTEFUL!”

There was a muffled consultation outside. “FINE. COME OUT SLOWLY AND TURN IT OFF.”

The car was right there, purring expectantly. I crawled out the store’s front door, gaining first hand appreciation that I preferred linoleum over parking lot pebbles. With a few grunts and curses, I pulled myself into the passenger side, then over to the driver’s side, keeping my head below the window. I slammed it into drive, and floored it.

POP-POP-POP-POP! The immediacy of the firepower suggested I was the only one surprised.

The tires collapsed and the car slumped onto its rims with the grace of a large baby sitting on a balloon. I barely made it past the handicap parking.

How will I ever live this down? “Well,” I whispered to the steering wheel, “this is it. The big finish.”

I raised my pistol, closed my eyes, thought of something poetic – the lyrics to a fast-food jingle – and pulled the trigger.

BANG. (Except, very loud).

“OWWWW! SON OF A…” The bullet hadn’t found my brain; instead it deleted my right earlobe. I just can’t get anything right today.

Before they could pummel me with the annoying megaphone and monotonous lyrics, I decided to call it a day. “I’M COMING OUT!” Then I rolled out the door, holding my now-shredded ear, and showing my bleeding shoulder, intending to signal that I wasn’t a threat.

But I don’t think they were in the mood for theater. The police closed in barking unfriendly noises while both my good and bad ears continued to ring as the bourbon-colored haze dimmed the disharmony.

I croaked as I was rolled over for a second taste of parking lot pebbles, this time with a boot pressed into my back. “HEY!” I took a breath. “Please be kind, I’m feeling emotional.” And then I got to the heart of the matter. “Am I gonna get charged for DWI?” I offered further explanation. “I can’t afford to lose my license. I need it for work.”

Although I didn’t get an answer, not too much later, they brought Gary out on a gurney who was mumbling to the paramedics not to tell his mom, or he’d get into trouble.

I can’t believe I left the bourbon in the store.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now

Latecomers lined the walls; the seats had filled during the break. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to present the behind-the-scenes genius of so many iconic campaigns. Our final speaker needs no introduction.” Attendants hastily set up microphones in the aisles. “He will forego a presentation and jump right into audience questions. Please join me in welcoming, Mr. Robert Doubleton.”

The loudest applause of the weekend accompanied the speaker to the lectern. Mr. Doubleton stood tall in his charcoal suit, grey hair, and a broad smile. “Be easy on me. I may be newly retired, but the company I founded is still a thriving operation, so I can’t divulge anything too telling.”

The audience chuckled. The first question came from aisle four. “Mr. Doubleton, is there one trait you could summarize as the foundation of your success?”

“Creative lying.”

The audience laughed.

“Whether in business, government, or nonprofits,” he continued, “you need to establish your own truth and tell it loud enough to cut through the noise.” He pointed to aisle two. “Go ahead, ma’am.”

“Mr. Doubleton, how do you balance client demands versus social responsibility?”

“Client demands always win.” He pointed to aisle three.

“Sir, you famously counseled clients to create charities as conduits for campaigns.” The questioner looked down to read from his phone. “For the pharmaceutical industry you created ‘Pharma-Equity: Drug Addicts for Free Drugs.’ For the gambling industry you were behind ‘Futurists for Predictive Wealth.’ And for some anonymous donor, you conceived...umm... ‘Traffickers for Teenagers.’” He looked back to the stage. “My question is, do you ever draw a line on what messages should be amplified in society?”

“The third was an exercise in absurdism. There is no such nonprofit or campaign,” Doubleton responded smoothly. “But to answer in general: the news cycle is a deliberate mosaic. The ‘facts’ are often contrived to ensure the public is steadily uncertain. Much of the public accepts truth filtered by politics or cultural identity so there’s a built-in gullibility factor. At my company, we endeavored to craft forthright stories. Our clients have big budgets, so we enjoy a disproportionate opportunity to shift perception. That is what clients pay for.” He pointed to aisle one. “Next question.”

“Mr. Doubleton, do you have any regrets?”

Doubleton paused. “Client regrets?”

“About anything.”

Doubleton lowered his head. Then looked out at the sea of PR executives, communications directors, and marketing consultants. “As you already know, mainstream media is dying.” The room chatter quieted. “Yet, ‘new media’ is an even greater cesspool of divisiveness. Despite that, authentic, independent voices are emerging - journalists funded by grassroots donors who hold no editorial sway. Audiences are finding them.”

He shifted his gaze back to aisle one. “I regret capitalizing on the noise to such an extent that I helped bring us here. The public is so jaded they are simply looking away. To reach them now - at least those who venture beyond their bubble - you must respect their intelligence. If I were in the game today, I’d partner with these emerging voices. Not to tell them what to run, but to offer data they can verify. Even if we can’t craft the message, we can ensure our side is represented.”

The man in aisle one didn’t move. “So, your regret isn’t moral, Mr. Doubleton. It’s tactical. You regret that the old lies stopped working.”

The room held its breath. Doubleton leaned into the microphone, his voice dropping to a low gravel. “Son, morality is for those who aren’t paying the bill.” Scattered chuckling. “In this business, the only sin is irrelevance. I regret that I spent forty years perfecting a megaphone people eventually learned to tune out. I built a cathedral with the largest-ever chorus, only to find the congregation moved to the street corners.”

He studied the audience one last time, taking in the unease like a man reading a room before a close. “I also regret not charging more.”

Laughter erupted.

He smiled, nodded once, and stepped away as the applause surged.

The MC hurried back onstage, thanking the speaker, the sponsors, and reminding everyone to complete their feedback surveys.

by George Alger

Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.

Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.

Subscribe now