The Bubble Man
They call me The Bubble Man.
By ‘they,’ I don’t mean everyone–just the aggrieved citizens. And by ‘me,’ I don’t mean the current me–I have no more bubbles to blow. I’ve blown nothing but stale air for at least two weeks, seeing as how my barrels of stock were kicked over on their sides and rolled into the river while my cabin was burned to its dirt-packed foundation.
The sheriff told me that though he didn’t make it before the vigilantes came, I ought to be satisfied that he arrived when he did. Even with a night as black as tar, I was sure I saw the eyes of his deputy through the holes of a hooded face–one blue, the other green–while someone else tied my hands, and while yet another person drew a rope through the nearest oak tree.
Even with the title no longer accurate, my home in ruins and my life’s work destroyed, they still call me The Bubble Man.
If you’d like to finish reading this story, along with many others, I’d be ecstatic if you’d consider purchasing one of my books.