Eric looked at the hammer in his hand. It felt like an extension of his arm. Like a part of him in denial, all hard, accurate, and deadly in purpose.
 
He dug into his pouch and pulled out another three-and-a-half inch phosphor-coated nail. Twenty-two ounces of steel flashed as the hammer came down on the nail head driving cleanly two inches. The hammer flashed again leaving only the head centered in a wooden dimple. Eric barely noticed.
 
A bead of sweat collected on his nose, fell on the clean white aspen plank he was kneeling on. In time with his breathing he pulled out another nail, placed, and drove. Like a machine.
 
As he exhaled he felt enigmatic words tumble from his lips and spread over the canvas, mix with his sweat, pinned down by nail after nail. The sun filled the world and sweet summer wind seethed around and through him.
 
The tinkle of ice cubes on glass brought him back. The cup was in front of him, attached to a hand, attached to his wife. She smiled.
 
"You making another one?"
 
Eric grunted. He accepted the cup with his nail hand unable to contemplate handling the cup with his hammer. Afraid to look down he kept his eyes on his wife. "What is it this time?"
 
"Mary, again, I think." She folded her hands on her hips and studied the figure outlined in nail-heads. She whispered, "I think she's crying."  

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about the author:
Craig Chantree is a thirty-something self-employed semi-aware man in a small town nestled in the armpits of the Rocky Mountains. He has a degree in Marketing and is working on completing an on-line power engineering certificate so he can sit around all day and learn how to write properly.  

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