Shawn looked up at him, at his rumpled and stained white button-down shirt, at the shadow of stubble that darkened his jaw, at the inextricable nature of the situation. He glanced down at his breakfast, a plate of toast and eggs that leaked yolk in an obscene, yellow smear. Shawn didn’t know if he should ignore him and hope he’d wander off or call for a manager, a waiter-anyone-to intercede.

When next he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. The man glanced over his shoulder, then back at Shawn. The conversation at nearby tables stuttered, and contemptuous looks flitted in their direction. “They’re watching you,” he said again, louder this time, the words hissing between clenched teeth. He looked down at the man’s splayed fingers, black crescents of dirt beneath the nails. The man leaned forward and placed his palms on the digital tabletop, where a haphazard scattering of apps displayed the latest headlines, Wall Street projections, and videos of pundits debating current events. He looked like a man at the gallows with a noose around his neck, waiting for the floor to drop away beneath his feet. His hair was plastered to his forehead in disheveled tangles, and his eyes were rimmed with red and framed by dark circles. The stranger’s bedraggled appearance clashed with the hardwood floors and impressionist decor of the Café del Mar, and sweat gleamed on his face beneath the subdued lights of the restaurant’s chandeliers. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?Ī Midsummer Night’s Dream, William ShakespeareĪt the sound of the words, Shawn Jaffe jerked his head up from his breakfast to find a man standing across the restaurant table from him. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915706 Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.įor more information about special discount for bulk purchases, please contact the author at the email address above.įirst Obsidian Dawn softcover edition March 2016.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. For more information, contact Joseph John at is a work of fiction. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this short story or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

The eighth day joseph john