3 stories by david henson

You Became Time

You became time yesterday. Or tomorrow. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

~

The night we met, I said you reminded me of someone. You told me I always say that. 

~

I dreamt about the weekends we made omelettes together. When you cracked an egg and held it over the skillet, the yolk flowed back into the shell. I kissed three minutes from your mouth. 

~

I asked if we’re closer to the beginning or the end. You told me there’s no difference. 

~

We were walking in the park, the sun overhead. The sky darkened, unveiling the lion and the bear. A sudden hollowness yawned in my chest. When I gasped, your hand, cool as twilight, squeezed mine, and you assured me it happens sometimes.

~

When rain rose from the ground into the clouds, you said it’s always been that way. When I said your eyes resembled stars, you told me that was eons ago. 

~

You swore you had nothing to do with it. That sometimes hummingbirds fly backwards naturally. You admitted the cardinal was a different story.

~

When we kissed, I felt your tongue on my neck. When you worked your lips down my chest, I felt your tongue flicking in my mouth.

~

That last night, we drifted off holding each other. The next morning you said you were leaving. I asked if I’d ever see you again. You said I already had.

Fireball

As soon as the phone vibrates, he snatches it from the table. 

Sorry, Dillard. Judge says you have to sell it and split the proceeds. It’s—

Dillard slides the phone across the table, and lowers his chin to his chest. When the pulses in his ears become too loud, he goes to the mantle. 

The ball rests on a homemade pedestal. He imagines his grandfather’s hand as a boy stretching his fingers to grip a curve. He pictures his father’s fingers when too gnarled to even hold the heirloom. Dillard remembers touching the ball to his forehead, careful to not smear any of the autographs, for good luck before asking Suzy Spencer on a date. Maybe things would’ve been different if she’d’ve said yes.

What to do. What to do…Hide it at an offshore bank? They’d find it. Donate it to a museum? Not allowed. Make sure it goes to a family with a little leaguer? Highest bidder. 

The solution hits him like a heater popping a catcher’s mitt. 

Outside, he dangles and shakes his hand. Dismissing a running start, he stretches his arms above him, reaches back, lifts his leg, plants his foot and hurls the ball above the trees, watching it rise out of sight. 

At the kitchen table, a shot burns his throat. One more. The chair creaks when he leans back and smiles, eyes closed. He figures the ball will pass over his house twice a day. He hopes he’s still alive when his treasure finds its perfect end. Streaking like a meteor. A true fireball.  

The Violin Maker 

When Paul Jansen found himself with a glut of time on his hands, he decided to put it to good use. 

Do you get off on lying to us, Jansen? Detective Peterson slams the table with his fist. Are your panties all wet and gooey?

Paul had wanted to make a violin ever since watching his sister Pammy receive a standing ovation at her grade school piano recital. 

We’re so proud of you, Pammy, Paul’s father says.

Pammy turns toward her brother and smirks.

Paul wasn’t musically gifted like his sister, but had built coffee tables, wooden chairs, and the like in his workshop over the years. So maybe he could construct the one instrument that, in his opinion, made more beautiful music than a piano.

It’s a good severance package, Jansen, Mr. Willoughby says. You’ll have a comfortable retirement, even if it’s coming sooner than you expected or wanted. Paul stares at his boss and wishes he could burn holes in him.

Paul studies the instructions—splitting, joining, gluing, bending…Maybe he should make another chair. No, damn it, he’s going to make a violin if it’s the last thing he does.

Dr. Swanson, you promised us Laura was cancer-free. Paul squeezes his wife’s hand and stares at the doctor.

Paul buys a kit.

Paul’s daughter, Jennifer, bounces Krissie on her knee. I’m sorry we have to move so far away, Dad. But it’s a big promotion for Roger. 

You never should’ve married that asshole, Paul thinks.

After waiting on hold for 15 minutes, Paul is informed his call will be recorded for training purposes. “… I don’t understand where it says ‘Position willow strip A inside rib X and glue such that glue isn’t visible and plate T1 purfling and exterior arching is…” The customer service agent sighs and repeats the words more slowly. Paul wishes he could punch him in the face.

When Detective Peterson starts to speak, Detective Saunders stops him. What say we take a break, Saunders says. How ‘bout a cup of coffee, Jansen? 

So they really play good cop, bad cop, Paul thinks.

He did it! Hardly a Stradivarius, but that wasn’t the point. Looking at a sketch, Paul puts the instrument to his chin, positions his fingers, and draws the bow across the strings. Whoa! He’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure middle C isn’t supposed to sound as if he stepped on a cat’s tail.

I don’t need a lawyer, Paul says. I did nothing wrong.

“It does resemble a violin,” Pam says and chuckles. “You realize, Paul, I’m a pianist, not a violinist.”

“But you can play it a little right? So we can hear how it sounds?”

Paul’s sister shrugs and draws the bow across the strings. The cat shrieks again. She hands the violin back to her brother and laughs. “Don’t quit your day job.”

Paul’s knuckles whiten. He orders another kit.

You were boiling over with hate, weren’t you, Jansen?  Detective Peterson says.“You waited behind the shrubs until the car pulled into the garage, then you stepped in and fired four shots through the driver’s window.

I don’t even own a gun.

Detective Saunders slides a paper toward Paul. Look familiar? he says. It’s a copy of an online receipt.

Paul sweeps the paper aside. For a kit. I built a violin.

Detective Peterson laughs. Yeah, we found that one on your phone, too.

No comment, Paul says. A violin shrieks.

David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net and has appeared in various publications including Bottle Rocket Lit Mag, Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories,  His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.