Sample Chapters
Smile for Me | A Novella for the Modern Existentialist
0 | The Locket
Blood pounded in my ears. A knot twisted tight in my gut.
I stood before a jeering crowd, watching a man burn alive.
A cold sweat broke in the small of my back. My hands shook like mad. My eyes were fixed open—riveted in place.
I couldn’t look away.
The crowd whooped and hollered, laughed and cheered—men, women, and children all. They’d gathered together to watch and to witness. To revel in the death of their enemy.
The burning man wailed, his stoic face long-gone. His screams gushed forth—a haunting howl, washing across the square.
I watched those flames—watched them lick and dance and climb.
Higher. Taller. They grew and they swelled, taking his feet—his legs, his bound, helpless hands. His chest, his neck, the very crown of his head. His clothes burnt away, that handsome uniform now gone. In its place was only charred flesh; black and red.
And then, it was gone—the screaming. The wailing.
Only the smell remained.
I felt a strange chill wash over me then. As I stared deep into that smoldering flame, I couldn’t help but wonder:
Had he been a good man, this burning man? Was he a kind man—or a devil, like they’d said?
Was he a patriot? A hero? Or just another soldier?
Was he a father? A brother? Someone’s son…?
Someone’s friend?
A soft thump, and a skid. Something landed at my feet. It was small and shiny; a pretty brass locket, gleaming in the light. A pretty brass locket, soot-blackened by the flame.
It was hot to the touch—burning my fingers. I dropped it, grimacing slightly. It sprang wide open as it fell on the cobbles, clinking as it settled face-down. I reached into my waistband, pulling out a handkerchief, and gathered the locket up inside.
There was a picture inside it—a small, black-and-white photo—framed stark against the brass backing. It was tattered and faded, its edges singed slightly—but still, as I peered deep into that locket, a tiny face returned my gaze.
It was a girl. Some girl—
A pretty girl, who I would never have the chance to know. But when I looked at her—when I stared into that smiling face…
All I could see was my own instead, resting in its place.
My breath grew quick. Heavy. Hot tears welled in my eyes. I felt my stomach lurch and turn, the whole world spinning in tight circles. I turned quickly and fled that wide-open square, dashing madly down toward the wharf. I clawed at the railing, gripping it tight—
I threw up over the side.
1 | When You were Here
When I was sad, Jepson would sit with me. When I was about to cry, he’d put his arm around my shoulder and just… stay. I never figured out how he knew. I’d always try my best to hide it—to not let anyone see. But it never really mattered what I tried, because… well—
Because he always just kind of knew anyway.
When I was a kid, I had a dog named Holly. She was my best friend in the whole wide world. She’d follow me everywhere, yipping and panting—running happy circles around my feet…
When she died, I cried my eyes out. Jepson sat with me then, too. He put his arm around my shoulder, and he took my hand.
“My pa always tells me,” He said. “That the tide still comes in. Even if it feels like this is it—like the world’s gonna end… tonight, the tide’ll still come in. And then, it’ll wash back out again.”
When he said it, I thought it was stupid. Cute, sure—but stupid. It wasn’t until years later that I finally understood that that was his way of telling me that everything was gonna be okay. That I’d be okay, and we’d all be okay. That everything would be fine again soon…
No matter what.
We sat up on our hill that fine spring afternoon. The tall one with the gentle slope that looked out over the harbor—just Palmer, Jepson, and me. There was this old, gnarled willow that grew way up at the very top. We used to just… lay there, in the grass beneath the shade, passing time away. Watching the boats as they’d sail across the harbor. Listening to the blare of foghorns; the cry of the gulls riding high on the breeze.
That day, the sun shone bright. The air was cool and clear. Jepson sat with his back up against the old willow tree. His eyes were closed, his ears wide open, taking in all the sounds of the world: of the wind and the sky and the sea. Palmer lay sprawled out on the grass—his head resting on his arms, eyes watching the clouds intently. They shifted and swelled against the sky, meandering along—drifting lazily upon the breeze.
“Say.” He began.
“Mm?” I replied.
“Why do you think birds fly?” He asked.
“…’Cause that’s what they were born to do,” I replied. “Right?”
Palmer blinked. He smiled slightly.
“Hm.”
A pair of young jays darted to and fro up in the branches of the old willow tree. They were building a nest—their brand-new home, nestled neatly among the twigs and the leaves.
“But couldn’t it be the other way around?” He asked.
“…Huh?”
“‘Cause birds aren’t born flying.” He continued. “They grow into it. You can see them take their first steps—watch baby birds learn how to fly. You don’t think that, maybe… they fly ‘cause they want to fly? ‘Cause they choose to fly?”
The wind picked up for a moment. Branches swayed overhead, the twitter of birdsong drowned out by the shifting whisper of rustling leaves.
Jepson sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose.
“Are you an idiot?” He asked, squinting.
I snorted. Palmer scowled.
“Don’t call him that!” I cried.
“You laughed!” Jepson replied.
“I—” I began, trying to hold back a giggle. “I did not!”
“Did too!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
Palmer sat up, watching us squabble back and forth for a while; a quiet smirk working its way steadily across his face. Then, sighing, he laid back down on the grass once again, closing his eyes.
“…You’re both idiots.” He said, shaking his head.
“What?!” I cried. “What did I do?!”
2 | Because You’re You
Every morning, when it was just about lunchtime, old man Foeger would leave his house, lugging this rickety old cart up the street. He'd set that cart down right up next to the wharf, where he knew traffic would be the busiest. He’d dust his hands off, put on his apron, and pull out this crusty old headband, tying it tight around his forehead. Then, he’d run down the street and come back up again, heaving this great big bag of fresh fish. He’d reach down into his cart and turn on the gas, and he’d strike a match over the stove. Then, he’d flip his sign—GRILLED FISH, 10 PENCE—and he’d close his eyes and take this big, deep breath.
And then, he’d just stand there… waiting for the lunch rush to come in.
Old man Foeger would always smile when he saw us. He’d give us kids a discount—that is, if we promised that we’d tell everyone about him. To this day, Foeger’s was the best grill I’ve ever had. The meat was still juicy and tender inside, the skin crispy and crunchy and only just a bit charred. It was painted with a mix of flavors from home, but with just a hint of something unique. Some curious spice—or a mix, perhaps—from someplace across that wide-open sea.
Palmer, Jepson, and I would always try to beat the rush if we could. We’d sit just at the edge of the pier, our legs dangling out over the ends of the planks, munching on our delicious haul as we watched the dockers come in on their break.
But, that day, Palmer didn’t show.
We watched as the lunch hour passed us by, the lively crowd gathered around Foeger’s cart steadily beginning to thin. The men drifted off in groups and pairs, their bellies full and smiles bright, ready to return to their work. Soon, there was no one—just the old man left, scrubbing his grill out into the surf.
“Where d’you think he’s gotten off to?” I asked.
Jepson shrugged in reply.
“He’s missing lunch.” I continued. “He never misses lunch.”
Jepson shrugged again. He stripped the last bit of meat from his skewer, tossing what was left into the sea.
In my memory, Attica had always been a good-sized city. Not too quiet, but not too busy. It was home to the smallest of the three busiest ports strewn out all across the country—a gently-thrumming shipping lane not too far out from the Capitol, nestled right up against the quiet coast of the Norden Sea. It was the town where I’d grown up; the place in which I’d always belonged.
It was peaceful. Mundane.
It had that special kind of mellow bustle which clung just to the morning air. That hustling feeling you’d get when you’d walk through an eyes-up, feet-forward kind of space—a head-down, hands-hard-at-work, keep-yourself-busy sort of place.
I’d always thought that, even though it could be a little boring sometimes, it was still a nice place to be.
It was still my city, after all.
It was still my home.
As we made our way down Harbor Street, past one pier after the next, my heart drifted freely along, flitting from house to home to old storefront—tumbling down the narrow side-streets cast in the shadow of tall buildings.
The scent of industry, clinging to the breeze. The sound of waves washing up on the beach. The cracks between cobblestones, big and small. Tiny stores and towering warehouses, lining the sides of the street.
All of a sudden, Jepson stopped. He stood stock still, staring intently up a little back-alley. It was quiet and narrow, cutting through between houses as it wound its way up along the hillside—up and off toward the old Redding Manor. Some distance up that slender lane—in the shadow between tall buildings—a small group of boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder, huddled tightly and facing the wall, laughing and jeering at some sort of game.
“Jepson?” I asked, tugging at his sleeve. “What’s wr—”
But then, he was gone—flying swiftly along up the middle of that narrow side-street. His feet pounded the cobbles as he dashed headlong—but those boys didn’t seem to see him coming.
“Jepson—!” I cried. “JEPSON!”
I followed quickly after him, calling out again and again—but, he wouldn’t hear me.
With a hop and skip, he leapt up high into the air, sailing—soaring, his hand curling tight into a fist—cleaving down with a mighty crack, straight into the back of one boy’s neck.
“JEPSON!”
The boy fell with a squeal. His friends scrambled, crying out in alarm. In the chaos Jepson lashed out again, whipping out a swift left hook—raking another one square across the jaw. The boy spun and fell, sprawling flat on his face. Panic swirled in his eyes as he scrabbled to his feet.
The boys began to flee in confusion—and it was then that I finally saw him.
It was Palmer—my Palmer, curled up against the wall, huddled in the place where those boys had stood just a moment before. His lip was split, his arms battered and bruised. Two fat cuts ran sharp across his brow.
Rage boiled in my chest; hot wrath, like I’d never felt before. I grabbed a craggy brick from the roadside, winding up—slinging with all my might. It soared, sailing high up through the air, coming down, and down—just missing the tail of the last-fleeing boy. A loud crack echoed up and down the alleyway—the brick, bursting on the cobbles.
“ASS-HOOOOLES!” I screamed after them.
It was then that that slowest boy turned his head—for a moment, his gaze meeting mine. It was then that I realized, all of a sudden, that I already knew his face.
His name was Alfonse—Lord Alfonse Redding. The youngest son of the esteemed Lord Redding, and fifth in line to be Baronet of Port Attica.
My eyes went wide. A chill shot up my spine—a split second of fear like I’d never felt before. But I pushed it down, baring my teeth—pulling my lips into the angriest snarl I’d ever made before.
And, to this day, I can’t say for certain that it wasn’t just my imagination… but in that moment I could’ve sworn that I saw that little lordlet’s head shrink a couple inches down into his chest.
We walked together, now—Palmer, Jepson, and I.
A little way down past the end of the docks, Harbor Street was split in two by the mouth a quiet, slow-moving river. A small stone bridge spanned across the running water, leading us toward the little dirt path which ran along the other side. We turned here, making our way slowly along beside the river-canal.
Grass grew tall upon the sloping banks.
Cool. Clear.
The water drifted lazily along, shimmering in the sun. We kept to the path, walking together for a little while longer.
“…Palmer.” I began.
“Hm?”
“Are you… okay?” I asked.
“…Yeah.” He replied, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”
“…Used… to it?"
Palmer stopped for a moment. He leaned down, picking up a large tree branch. He stood, inspecting it for a moment—looking it up and down.
Then, he flung it out into the stream.
“I mean,” He continued. “I can handle it.”
“…Does this happen a lot?” I asked.
“Well… yeah.”
“But you never said anything.” Jepson replied.
Palmer looked away. He stared intently down at the water, trying his best to avoid Jepson’s gaze.
“You should stand up for yourself.” Jepson said. “It’s not hard.”
Palmer scoffed.
“For you, maybe.” He replied. “For you, standing up to someone just means punching them in the face. For me, it’s different.”
“It’s not.” Jepson said. “Standing up to strangers is easy. You just gotta make ‘em respect you. Then, they’ll go away. It’s way harder to stand up to people you like.”
“Why?” I asked. “Isn’t it easier to talk to someone if you like them?”
“Yeah,” Jepson replied. “But it’s harder ‘cause you don’t want them to go away.”
We walked along the riverbank for a little while longer. A pair of young sparrows darted on ahead, twittering their happy song.
Palmer sighed.
“It’s okay.” He said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Being the bakers’ daughter has always had its ups and downs. On one hand, there’s always some really good bread lying around the house. But what a baker will never tell you about their job is just how much flour you can really get in your hair—especially if you’re only just about as tall as the tables that your parents work on.
Since before I could remember, I’d always lived just down the road from Palmer. That was how we met. That was how we became friends. Our parents were neighbors—and friends, too. Our fathers went out drinking together. Our mothers traded recipes. We brought them bread; they fixed our shoes. It’s that kind of give-and-take you get between good people where you just give and take and give and take and, eventually, the thought of how much anything would’ve cost just kind of… slips everyone’s mind.
That very next day, Mama asked me to walk a batch of fresh-baked brioches over to the Shoemaker house. Tucked firmly beneath my arm, the breadbasket and I made our way happily down toward Palmer’s place.
Lora was a sweetheart—the nicest girl that anyone knew. She was a little tall, and her hair was beautiful; long and brown and fine. I always thought she had a really pretty face.
She was Palmer’s sister—some five-odd years older than us both, which would’ve made her about… sixteen at the time. Every time I’d knock at their door, I’d hear without fail the sound of Mrs. Shoemaker yelling Lora’s name across the house. And, every time, without fail, the door would swing open and she’d be standing there again—the softest, brightest smile framed lightly against her slender face.
Palmer’s house was always a little messy. Mrs. Shoemaker was always just a little too busy chasing the kids around the house—too busy cooking, cleaning, and teaching the kids their reading and math—to keep up with the endless trail of carnage that those little fiends would leave in their wake. She’d yell for Lora to bring me into the kitchen, where she’d trade me a healthy snack for the breadbasket before sending me on my way.
Mr. Shoemaker was always hard at work. He’d sit in the far corner of the next room over, bent low over his desk, squinting hard through that big magnifying glass that he’d mounted to the tabletop. I think for a while Papa actually managed to convince me that the man never spoke. Whenever I’d go to say hi to him, Mr. Shoemaker would look up from his desk and just kind of… grunt… in reply. Then he’d return quickly to his work; adjusting the stitching of a new leather boot.
The little brothers and sisters of the Shoemaker family were all pretty rough and rowdy. They laughed and screamed, calling each another names—chasing each other round and round in circles as Lora led me by. When we came finally to the back door, she pulled it open and waved me through with a shallow nod and a smile. Then, she made her way back down the hall, disappearing around the bend.
The world was bright. The sun shone high overhead.
The Shoemakers’ backyard was a small, loamy plot, penned in by a tall wooden fence. Toward its edge grew a number of lush berry bushes, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old fig tree. In one corner, up against the house, a little garden stood sprouting full with hearty, leafy greens.
Since the very first time I’d seen it, I’d been in love with that little vegetable patch. It was tidy… and quaint. They grew tomatoes and celery, potatoes and onions—carrots, and beets, and turnips. Just enough of a little bit of everything that anyone could ever need.
Palmer sat beside the garden, perched upon a low stump. His head was leaned back, his jaw hanging slack—his eyes gazing up at the drifting clouds. His bruises were a little purpler today. A thin scab had formed on his lip. A pair of white plasters were stuck to his forehead, bridging the width of the cuts.
“Hey.” I said.
He blinked, then nodded in reply. I sat down beside him, tucking my hands securely beneath my thighs.
“Slacking off?” I asked, smiling bright.
He smirked.
“It’s a nice day.” He replied.
Mrs. Shoemaker used to be out here in the garden all the time. She’d be hauling water, clipping leaves—mixing in the old food scraps that she kept in the bucket by the fence. But, when Jody—the fifth Shoemaker kid—was born… well, there was no way she’d be able to manage to keep doing everything herself. And that was how Palmer got stuck with the job of tending the family garden—
On top of making shoes, of course.
“…How’re you doing?” I asked.
Palmer frowned. He took a long breath—sighing deeply.
“See,” He began. “This is why I never said anything. ’Cause I knew it’d just make you guys worry.”
“Palmer—"
“I wish you wouldn’t worry about me.” He continued. “I know I’m small. I know I’m weak, but I don’t—”
He stopped. The back door squealed as it swung slowly open. Lora stepped out into the yard, holding a tall glass in each hand.
“Grape juice.” She said, smiling. “Chilled, too. Courtesy of the Port Authority.”
Lora made her way over, stepping gingerly across the soft, loamy earth. Bending down beside me, she leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“We fixed their boots.” She said, giving me a wink.
Palmer took his cup without a word. He turned away, his eyes wandering back up toward the sky.
Lora leaned into my ear again.
“Thanks, Rose.” She whispered, placing the other cup in my hand.
Lora made her way back inside, shutting the door gently behind her. Palmer sighed, putting his cup down.
“…I don’t want to make things hard for anybody.” He said. “I don’t want… you to hate me.”
I blinked.
“Why would I hate you?” I asked.
“Because I’m not strong.” He replied.
“…So?”
“Because you think I can’t take care of myself. Because I’d have to rely on you— …on Jepson… to protect me. I don’t want to be someone that needs to be taken care of.”
Palmer hugged his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knees.
“I don’t want to be a burden.” He mumbled.
And suddenly, I realized that they weren’t new—all these cuts and scrapes on Palmer’s arms. That I’d seen these little nicks and bruises and scabbed-over bits before, from time to time. But he’d always just told us that he was just clumsy. That he fell again… or he’d hurt himself working out in the garden. But, all along…
All this time—
“I don’t… really care about that.” I said, looking away. “About you being weak, or anything.”
I rubbed my neck.
“And I know Jepson doesn’t either.” I continued. “We like you ‘cause you’re… you. ‘Cause you’re Palmer. All that other stuff? Well… I don’t think it really matters.”
Palmer blinked.
He smiled.
