Hatchet
Oscar reached past Dr. Paulsen’s wife and daughter and plucked a glass paperweight off of the coffee table.
“They shouldn’t be here for this,” said Oscar. He tossed and caught the amber-colored orb like a baseball. Dr. Paulsen’s eyes followed the paperweight’s transit through the air. Up down. Up down. Malissa edged away from Oscar on the couch and hugged her daughter to her chest. Little Mal struggled to free herself from the embrace, which only tightened with every toss.
“On the contrary — ” began Dr. Paulsen, who bolted from his armchair and pawed at the paperweight mid-flight, knocking it out of its original descent and bringing it down with unintended force onto his daughter’s forehead.
Little Mal’s features crumpled. A porcine bellow broke from her throat as a lump the size and color of a plum bloomed at her hairline. Mother Malissa scooped the girl up in her arms and squawked, “Get a real office!” before storming out the front door in her flannel pajamas.
Dr. Paulsen ran to the door and shouted, “This is my library!” but the squeal of tire on asphalt killed his retort.
