He’d be glad to be done with the creche. It’d shave thirty minutes from his day once Matthew started school.

He was nearly back when he heard gunfire. A late-model car cruised slowly on the right. A trio of boys dashed in front. He slammed on the brakes—then realized his mistake. Another boy on the left, eye winking down the barrel of a gun.

He just needed to go, he just needed to go—but the piercing sting. He let go the wheel, looked down. Red on his shirt—why red? Red on his crisp white shirt. So much. He started to pant.

Not here. Not now. Who would pick up Matthew? Who would tell him? How would the boy know? How would he ever know how much he loved him? How impossibly big this love was.

How it was too big to even fit into this body any more.

—

151 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt click here.

Sadly, inspired by true events: http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/dad-shot-dead-after-dropping-child-at-cape-town-creche-20170622

As near as I can tell, a creche is a daycare, but I could have this wrong.

By the thirteenth day, the ancient face of the sea turtle seemed like a friend. She’d been following his capsized vessel for the better part of a week. She’d surface, her cloissone cheeks gleaming in this sun, her almond eyes seeming almost human. She’d blink wisely, then vanish into the depths for hours. Then, just as he’d give up all hope to see her, she’d reappear at the edge of his craft, like a cheerful neighbor bearing a gift.

When she was gone, he’d stare hard at all horizons, searching for land. Was he too far east? he wondered. Or perhaps west. Impossible to say.

Just then she appeared, her head breaking the calm. An instant later—gone, but back again further east next time. Then further still. As if she was trying to tell him something. As if she knew. He reached for his oar and began to paddle.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

“I’m telling you, he’s lost it.”

“Who?”

“The physicist. The one with the crazy eyes and the brushfire of beard.”

“Are you talking about Keith?”

“I don’t know his name, man. I just know he’s crazy. He wants to kill every last one of us.”

“Does this have anything to do the fact you watched The Shining last night?”

“I’m telling you. He means to murder us. If you want to know why—I think it’s the neutrinos. I think they passed through his brain. Made him crazy.”

“You know neutrinos pass through all of us? Like all the time.”

“You going to do something or not?”

“Okay, well it wouldn’t be the first time a cuber went mad during winterover. What exactly did Keith say?”

“It wasn’t what he said. It’s what he thought. I heard it. It came right through my skull—like radio waves, or those…whatchamacallits.”

“Um, neutrinos?”

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

—

In researching this story, I learned about the cubers, those hardy souls that endure six months of sunless skies and bottomless temperatures to overwinter in one of the most remote locations in the world. To learn more about the scientists, artists and other dedicated individuals who work at the IceCube South Pole Neutrino Observatory visit http://icecube.wisc.edu. Their weekly journal is fascinating: http://icecube.wisc.edu/news/current. Turns out watching The Shining is an overwinter tradition.

As always, thanks for reading!

Hombreamor pedaled on, whistling.

Mateo watched from the doorframe of the muffler shop, then turned to spit on the sidewalk. “El hombre esta loco,” he muttered as he turned back in.

Filipe looked up and caught sight of the flower seller as he vanished into the crowd. “People say that, it is true,” he said. “Why do you say it?”

Mateo’s mouth turned bitter. He tipped his head at the street. “A boy was murdered out there—just yesterday. Left in a pool of blood. And yet that man is smiling. Always smiling.”

Filipe nodded. It was said the boy picked the wrong pocket to pick. But it did not take much in Los Martires, where men were murdered, women raped, and children vanished. Such was life here. “Sufrimos. Es verdad.”

“So you agree then, the man is crazy.”

“No, my friend. He smiles, because even here—there is love.”

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.