A middle aged moron.

He looked out of the window.
The window was right next to the front door. This had become a ritual for him ever since the day he had moved into the house. She was there. Pacing in her garden. She must have been around 45 years old. She looked older. The dark circles around her eyes had a story to tell. Her gray hair, although well arranged, gave away the little battles she fought with her bare hands, every day. For now, she paced around in the garden, looking through the little flowers which bloomed into the spring sun.

She knew that he was staring at her. He was the "new arrival". He had arrived a couple of weeks back. "A middle aged moron" she thought to herself. But her thoughts were still consumed by the sudden arrival of her son. He had dropped in the last Sunday. He looked broke. He was. Now that she thought about it, so was his father - her only companion till date. It had been twenty three years. Twenty three years since her life had changed. Since life had stopped and had put a gag on her mouth.

He was what one would call a dutiful husband. The only adventurous thing he ever did was to drive his son to a camping site a few miles away and have an overnight campfire with him. The kid was hardly ten when they used to do this. His day job was that of a cashier at a local bank. An uneventful job in a small town which housed hardly fifty families. He helped with the household chores in the evening, took the dog out for a walk at night, tucked the kid into the bed, kissed his wife a night and slept.

Everything was as it had been except on that one day. That day, things changed. He had the most eventful day of his life. That day, the sleepy town came alive.

Morning, he left for work, as usual.

2 hours later, the phone rang, "Hello?". That was the last she ever spoke. The day she was widowed.

The neighbor kept staring at her from the window. A crow flew by. He continued to stare at the lady. A middle aged moron she kept thinking.

The One Legged Man

He was not the best judge.
Looking around he realized that he was in fact, the only one available.
This was not a one time thing. He was the judge, the referee for most of the fights. He turned back, tried to see if there was someone he could appoint in the place of his. But then, he had known the answer well before he had turned back.
No one seemed to notice that he was a fighter himself. One of the best his era had ever seen. No one seemed to notice his powerfully built body. His flattened, thickened ears. His broken nose or even the missing incisors. For the whole batch, he was just the one legged man. Someone who hopped around and made himself useful by being the referee. Despite of the lack of respect for his own fighting skills, the respect for him as a referee was immense. For his voice was that of the kings. Majestic and strong. His eyes, they shone of justice. He was a man of justice and honesty in the eyes of the young lot. He was, The Judge.

But this time around, the situation was altered a bit. He didn't want to be The Judge. For one, he was tired; and then, the fight was no ordinary fight. This one was between the ones he called The Wolf and The Onion. Two of his favorites. The Wolf, the aggressive, the strongly built one. He must have been around 18 or 19. He looked an experienced fighter. A strong, dangerous one. Onion, he was the short stocky fellow who made others cry. He was a tough guy to the core. When he landed the punches, he meant it. His batchmates feared him. They knew he was destined for glory. For The Judge, they were two young kids who knew their weaknesses and strengths. They in someways reminded him of his own youth. He was a strong guy who fought his heart out. He was destined for glory, he had achieved it, almost.

A guy from the sidelines shouted for the match to begin. They were getting impatient. They were staring at him. The Judge. He had to start the fight. He adjusted the crutches, raised his right hand, "Fight".