KJ Hannah Greenberg
Wesley looked at the razor he held in his extended hand. With one swipe, he could end his misery.
Just one pull against his skin with that knife-edge would finish, forever, his being an office recluse by day and his being a club loner at night. He would no longer suffer pejorative looks from his co-workers or experience disdain from girls posturing on the community dance floor.
The man regarded himself in the mirror in front of him. He had positioned himself so that everything would fall into the bathroom sink. Again, he looked at his blade.
Counting slowly, backwards, from one hundred, he rethought his decision. The dogs in the park didn’t care about his difference. The tulips still bloomed whether or not he resembled all of the other young adults. No bird stopped singing because of his social awkwardness.
Wesley put the razor down. Let people gawk. Let them stare. Let them make comments. There was no way that he was going to shave off his beard.
KJ Hannah Greenberg,
an evergreen inventor of printed possibilities, fashions lively texts and watches dust bunnies breed beneath her sofa. Her eclectic works are dedicated to lovers of slipstream fiction and to oboe players who never got past the second orchestral chair. She's been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature, once for The Best of the Net, and helps out as an Associate Editor at Bewildering Stories
Her newest book, Friends and Rabid Hedgehogs
(Bards & Sages Publishing), just launched in June.