“You gotta be careful with that acid on account of you can do it, and then, you could have a flashback like ten years could pass, twenty years could pass, and then, you get a flashback. So I thought...well that sounds like a good deal.” Norm Macdonald Flashback It’s Christmas five years ago. His wife isn’t there but he’s not alone. She called earlier in the day to let him know she’d come up the second the snow cleared. That was before the power went out. He’s staring outside his cabin window, staring at the cloud of snow, contemplating the worst possible outcomes. *** He wakes up in the middle of the night. He had a dream about that Christmas five years ago. Again, the snow has cut the power and blocked the roads. Again, he’s plagued with the same panic he felt that same night. Again, his chronic hyperventilation makes him gasp and grow hungry for air. Again, he feels like he has no control over anything. This time, however, his wife is by his side and his daughter sleeps in the other room. He feels strange. A strangeness all too similar to that regretful night. He feels like he’s hungover, but he didn’t drink last night. The ceiling looks like it’s a mile above his head. He looks down. He’s afraid the fall from his bed might kill him. *** The woman he’s with is fixing drinks in the kitchen. He needs to talk to her. To tell her this a mistake. That this can’t happen. His hand shakes. It takes him five tries to light his cigarette. He’s rehearsing the lines in his head. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. He hears the sound of sugar being muddled in an empty glass as the woman sings Baby, It’s Cold Outside softly to herself in the kitchen. *** He sits up straight and touches his bare feet to the cold hardwood floor. The feeling is painful at first, but quickly, his mind fixates onto new pains. He puts on his slippers and quietly, so to not wake his wife, slides his feet upon the wood panels to exit the room. He’s in the hallway. He flips the light switch. He remembers the power is out. He wonders why his legs feel so flimsy. Like the bones have slid right out of them. He grabs for anything on the walls to help support him as he makes his way towards the kitchen. *** The woman that isn’t his wife returns from the kitchen. She sets two drinks down on the living room coffee table. She sits herself down next to him and leans into his reluctant arms. “I’m sorry...but...this probably shouldn’t happen.” He’s ashamed that he just butchered his own lines. “You don’t expect me to leave...now...during a blizzard...do you?” “You can’t be here when my wife gets here.” She grabs his chin with her fingertips and gently turns his head to look at her. “I won’t be. I promise.” She reaches for the two glasses on the coffee table and hands him one. “Let’s just enjoy the night...shall we?” “What’s in it?” “Brandy...Seven Up...and lots of sugar.” He takes a drink. “Mmm...good.” *** He’s forgotten about his legs entirely. His unquenchable thirst is the only thing on his mind now. He’s making himself a drink in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what he’s pouring. Something brown. Something to take the edge off. Something to help him finally forget five years ago. It won’t work. Nothing ever has. As he pours, he contemplates the reasons why the torture is so much more unbearable tonight than all other nights. *** He finishes his drink and sets it on the table. He breaths a sigh of relief. His mind is clearer and in a better place now. “Feeling better?” the woman asks. “Much better. Thanks. I needed that.” “Well...you’ll be feeling a lot better in just a few minutes.” “Thanks...but...I’m sorry...but this shouldn’t...this should not happen!” “Not what I meant,” she says as she shakes her head sadistically. “What do you mean then?” “Well...let’s just say I put a little something extra in our drinks. Something to help take the edge off.” He stands up. His chronic hyperventilation sets in. His face goes flush from panic and anger. “What did you put in my drink?!” “Just a little LSD.” She grabs his trembling hand, “Don’t worry...you’ll thank me later. Let’s just sit back...relax...and enjoy the trip together.” He struggles for air like he’s breathing the last bit of oxygen on earth. No matter how long or how deep he inhales, his lungs stay deflated. He’s going to faint. Going to fall and bash his head against the corner of the coffee table and leave a pool of blood on the living room floor. A pool of evidence. Evidence of his infidelity. She lays him down on the couch to prevent the worst. He uses every last breath he can spare to shout out his wife’s name over and over again until he sails off into dream. *** He sits down in the living room chair with his drink in hand. He grabs the TV remote with his free hand and presses power. He remembers again that the power is out. He looks at the TV. Colors and people appear on the screen. He sees his wife standing in the corner of the living room. She’s watching her husband share a drink with a woman that’s not her. She bends down and her daughter appears by her side. She whispers in her daughter’s ear, “Daddy doesn’t love us anymore.” He falls to the floor crying silently. He’s trying to remember how to breath. *** He wakes up in the same place he had passed out the night before. He doesn’t see anyone else around. He finds his belt on the coffee table. He takes the belt in his hand. Bent in half, he squeezes it tight. The belt widens and then flattens as he presses his forehead into the crease. He sees a note just to the left of where the belt was. The note reads: Thanks for the great night! Hit me up whenever you’re back in town. You know where to find me. Love, Zoe He runs to the sink and throws up. He can’t remember anything. Not after passing out at least. He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse. He wipes the excess vomit off of his lips with his hand. His wedding ring reflects sunlight from the window and calls his attention. He stares at it. His thumb rotates it around the base of his finger. He recalls how the previous morning he looked upon the ring with pride. He walks over to the light switch. The power is still out. He checks the window. The roads are cleared. A blue SUV pulls into the driveway. It’s his wife and newborn daughter. He turns around and grabs the note from off of the coffee table. He crumples it up and discards it into his pocket. He puts his belt back on, missing a loop in the process. He goes to open the door for his wife and child. *** He’s hearing the words over and over again in his head. This time they’re spoken by his wife: I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. Did it happen? Did anything actually happen? For years he’s agonized over whether or not his paranoia was rooted in delusion. What if that night began and ended the second he passed out? It’s possible. Maybe likely even. He has to know for sure. He can’t go on like this. He pulls himself up off the ground. He grabs his hat and coat and walks to the door with nothing on his feet but his slippers. He remembers that Zoe’s house is only a few blocks down the road. He gave her a ride there during the blizzard five years ago when he saw her struggling in the snow. If only she had gotten out of the car when he dropped her off that night. If only she hadn’t convinced him to take her with him. That she couldn’t be alone for the night. Things would’ve been different. He promised himself he’d never talk to or see her again. He has to break that promise. It’s time to know the truth. He pushes the door open. He’s trudging through thick mounds of snow to reach the highway. He’s holding his hat down so a gust of wind doesn’t blow it off. His other hand shields his face from the snow. He trucks over a snowman he had made with this daughter earlier that day. It was covered to its waist in snow. He carries on. He’s at the road. He can tell its been plowed within the last couple of hours. The snow covering it is matted down and slippery. Nothing he’s never walked on before. He just has to be careful. He slides down it like he did in his curling days. One foot at a time. One ahead of the other. His legs are numb. They’ll be warm again soon. His feet are in the early stages of frostbite. He’s had worse. His face is flushed. His breathing tightens. He’s exhaling more than he’s inhaling. He stops. Hands on knees. Defeat. The wind rips his hat off his head. He sees it land about twenty feet up the road. He slides his feet towards it and slips on his way there. He army crawls the rest of the way. He reaches the hat and takes it in his hand. He sits up straight and beats the hat against his thigh to shake off the snow. He looks up ahead. He sees two yellow lights approaching in the distance. The lights illuminate a thick white cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. He jumps to his feet to get out of the way. He takes one step to the side of the road. He slips. The lights illuminate a red cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. The roads are cleared but the power remains out. *** His wife walks into the house carrying their daughter. He kisses both of them. “How was the drive?” he asks. “Good!” she says. “Really good. I think we picked a good area to buy this cabin. They don’t wait around to plow the roads here like they do back home.” “That’s great!”


Cynthia was unusually quiet as she and Millie walked home from school. They weren't neighbors, Millie live a couple streets over, but Millie always walked Cynthia home to make sure she got there safe. A while back Millie had asked why Cynthia walked home from school alone instead of taking the bus. Cynthia wouldn't say. Millie only wanted the best for her, and liked her company, so she offered to walk with her from then on. "Did your chemistry exam go ok, Cynth?" Millie asked as she kicked at some loose asphalt on the road. "Eh, it went alright." Cynthia replied solemnly, her backpack weighing down on her slouched shoulders. Millie brushed her chocolate brown bangs out of her eyes as the breeze tugged at them. She knew something was tugging at Cynthia's heart. She just didn't know what. "Did you get to talk to Tasha today about the history project?" Millie asked, trying to hear a glint of positivity in her friend's voice. "Mil, I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to her, I was studying in the music room." Cynthia replied a little forcefully, Her blue hair falling out of it's messy bun. Millie could tell that Cynthia was getting a little defensive. Millie remained quiet for a while as they got closer to Cynthia's house. As they walked up her porch steps, Millie stopped her friend. "Cynth, I'm really sorry if it felt like I was being controlling back there. I just want to make sure you're ok. Are you?" Millie looked at her friend with sympathy in her eyes. "No." Cynthia replied and dropped her backpack. Millie watched as she walked slowly to her porch swing and sat down. Millie followed. "Do you want to talk?" As she sat down on the swing, she noticed that the frown that played on Cynthia's face was becoming more common these days. "My life doesn't have meaning, Millie. I'm useless." Cynthia groaned. "Oh, Cynth, don't say that!" Millie gasped and grabbed Cynthia's hand. "I mean, no one cares about me. No one talks to me. I'm depressed." Cynthia muttered. She laid back on the porch swing made of cherry tree wood. "I care about you!" Millie exclaimed. Cynthia's blue hair fell into her eyes. Millie brushed it away. Cynthia crossed her arms. "You're not enough!" She whimpered. Millie wanted to take it personally, but she knew Cynthia's heart. "I'm not the only one who cares about you though." Millie sat back onto the swing. "My parents left me with my grandma who is too busy to care, no one but you talks to me, I can't do anything right, and no one cares if I stay or depart this planet! Who would care about someone like that?" Cynthia screeched. Millie was used to Cynthia's outbursts. It was hard to remain friends with someone so negative, but she remained. She knew she was a sweet girl inside. "Your Father cares." Millie replied as she pushed off of the concrete porch to make the swing go higher. "My father left me! He doesn't care whether I'm alive or not." Cynthia shouted. Millie shook her head. "Not that Father." "Oh, is this another one of your 'Jesus talks' ?" Cynthia's tone made Millie wince. "Cynthia, just listen. Your Heavenly Father created you and knew you before you were even born. He sculpted every detail- every part of you. He put you on this planet for a reason and He has a plan for you. He loves you. You are His child." Millie laid her hand on Cynthia's. Cynthia jerked her hand out from under Millie's. "Why would he do that? There is no plan. The plan is for me to live a painful life and die in vain. There is no God who loves me like you say." Cynthia huffed and turned away from Millie. "He-" Millie started. "He what?" Cynthia interrupted. "He doesn't care about how I live or what I do! I don't even believe there is a 'He' at all! If He loves me as much as you say, and He's in control of the whole world, why doesn't he give me some relief?" Tears started to slip down Cynthia's flushed cheeks. Millie knew her pain. She sympathized with her, and only wanted to help her. Only God could help her though. "I think you could relate to Jesus, Cynth. When God sent His Son to earth to be crucified for all of our sins, Jesus prayed and asked his Father to let the cup pass from Him. In other words if it was not necessary for Him to face this trial could God please save Him from it? But He also added at the end of His prayer, 'Not my will be done, but yours.' Because God did not let the cup pass, and Jesus was crucified and endured all that pain, the sins of the world are forgiven. And if you believe in your heart that Jesus is your Lord and Savior, and repent from your sins, you can go to heaven with Him when you die." Millie took a breath. Cynthia was silent. Millie knew she was listening. "God is using the pain you are going through to refine you, not reject you. Even if you were the only person on earth, God would have still sent His Son to die for you, and He still would have died on that cross." Millie squeezed Cynthia's arm lovingly. "You are forgiven, not forgotten. You are loved, not left behind. You are wanted, not wandering. You are chosen not forsaken. You don't know your worth, my friend. You are loved so much that God's Son died for you and me! Can you believe that?" Millie shook Cynthia's arm. "Can you believe that?" Cynthia looked up, tears dripping from her chin. "Really? He did that for me?" She asked shakily. "Yes, Cynthia, He did!" Millie smiled and wiped the tears from her dear friends face. "I believe." Cynthia whispered. Millie pulled her into a tight hug. Millie let her go and stood up. "Oh! You like reading right?" Millie asked. Cynthia nodded, confused. "Then you'll love The Book I'm about to show you."


Hell yeah. I love *Groundhog Day*. *The clock switches to 6:00 AM. “I Got You Babe” plays. Sonny & Cher.* Classic song. *Phil slowly rises from his bed. “It’s groundhog day!”* Classic line. Who voiced the radio guys? I should Google that. Every year I watch *Groundhog Day* on February 12. Ten days after Groundhog Day the holiday, but right on the release date of *Groundhog Day* the movie. I love Harold Ramis’s direction. People don’t appreciate him. Revolutionized the comedy-fantasy. Funny yet poignant. Seriously, A+ work. Neil, my roommate, says *Palm Springs* handles the time loop-gender politics better than *Groundhog Day*, but I don’t care. I just love *Groundhog Day*. “Want anything from the store?” Neil shouts from down the hall. “Nah.” No distractions today. I turn off my phone. Ned Ryerson’s intro scene is on. ---------- *Finally free from his time loop, Phil wakes in bed with Rita.* Perfect ending, perfect movie. I watch through the credits. I bet IMDb trivia had something on the radio guys. I hit the red X to close Netflix and-- *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”. Phil Connors is doing the weather.* Weird. I’m still in my bedroom, but it feels like something jolted me. For some reason, Netflix is playing Groundhog Day again. I close out-- *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* It’s like I’ve been thrown back in my chair. An intense feeling of deja vu. Holy shit. Hand shaking, I move the mouse to the the red X.... *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* “HELL yeah! YES!” Noise in the hall. Neil knocks on my door. “Everything okay?” “Better than ok! I’m in a Groundhog Day!” Neil walks in, laughing. “You’re in a time loop? Or what? You think there’ll be two more weeks of winter?” “The time loop one.” “Sure. Prove it.” “You need to go the store later.” “I guess. To get what?” “Dunno. Didn’t ask. Tell me now, what do you need?” “Uh, eggs, vegetable oil, and, uh Greek yogurt.” “That’s enough!” I close my laptop-- *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* I’m alone in my room again. The clock’s gone back two minutes. “Neil!” ---------- Neil is lying on my bed. I usually don’t like dirty clothes on my sheets, but it’ll clean itself on the next loop. “What’s the quickest way to prove to someone you’re in a time loop?” I turn. “Oh, like ways to show that I’m not crazy and I’m really in a time loop?” “Yeah, exactly. How long did it take to get enough info to prove it to me?” “Like, 6 or 7 loops. You really wouldn’t believe me.” “Why would I? I still don’t, really. It’s insane.” “Fair point.” I think for a moment. “Saying what they ate for breakfast?” “That could just mean you’re stalking them.” “Hm. Street they grew up on? Childhood pet?” “Are you stealing their credit card? Stupid.” “Dream from last night?” “Not everyone dreams.” Neil and I think for a moment. I clap. “Saying something’s gonna happen, just a moment before it does.” “Yes. *Yes*. That’s fucking it.” Neil sits up. “I’m checking through Twitter now.” “Find the biggest news stories and celebrity tweets. One for every one hundred and one minutes of Groundhog Day. For anyone I meet.” Neil puts his phone down. I’m confused. “Neil? C’mon. Start researching.” Neil leaps up and walks over to me. “It’s your time loop. Do the research yourself.” Before I can stop him, Neil grabs my laptop and closes it-- *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* Alone again. “Shit.” As *Groundhog Day* plays, I start scrolling. This’ll take a while. “Hey, Neil! Buddy! Can you help me with something? ---------- I’m alone in my room again. *Groundhog Day* plays as I try read a book. I found I can’t turn the volume off all the way, or I loop back to the start. Pausing also makes me loop back. If I keep the noise but hide the video? Nope, loop back again. Leave the room as the video plays? Loop. Fully turn away? Loop. *Groundhog Day* is an hour and forty-one minutes long. Proving I’m in a time loop to Neil takes me nine minutes, at the fastest. He’s pretty stubborn about believing in linear time. On one loop, through some unfortunate-but-necessary violence, I made him tell me a secret. Revealing that secret saves me three minutes a loop, but’s it’s always an awkward conversation, so I avoid it when I can. Exploring the outside world was hard, since I have to carry my laptop with me, and our wifi craps out once I’m past the door. But Neil, always creative, thought of something. If I downloaded Groundhog Day on my phone and timed it exactly with the laptop, I could switch to the phone. Time loop on the go. With our wifi, downloading Groundhog Day to my phone takes four minutes and eleven seconds. My last-gen iPhone dies after playing fifty-five minutes of Groundhog Day, which I think is planned obsolescence. If I charge my portable charger for fifteen minutes, that’s enough charge to keep my phone alive for the full movie. I shouldn’t have started watching the movie during rush hour. Driving downtown takes a while, especially on a route where no cops pull me over for watching Groundhog Day and driving. That means I have to rush visiting museums and seeing segments of movies. By the way, I’ve noticed no one likes the guy in the theater who’s also watching Groundhog Day on his phone. ---------- But you’ve seen all the time loop stories, you get the gist of what I did. Ate all the best food in the area. Did all the drugs. Learned a few instruments. Well, tried to, but I’m not made of time. The cello is a bit of a headache. I talked to my mom a lot. Funny enough, she’s been watching *Russian Doll*. She’s says it’s a pretty tight time loop story, and that Natasha Lyonne is a “revelation”. I checked out *Russian Doll*. Gave me the idea to look for other time loopers. Couldn’t find any. I even found a group of people who started watching *Groundhog Day* the same time as me, but none of them were loopers. They were pretty impressed though. I hooked up with one of them. It wasn’t great. I never tried Groundhog Day’s “kill yourself to escape” method. But I mean, it’s hard to kill yourself while still watching Groundhog Day. Also, what am I getting from it? A world where I’m dead? Seems like a major hassle. Trying to escape with time loop story methods didn’t help as much as you’d think. In *Edge of Tomorrow*, Tom Cruise gets time looping from alien blood. The loop ends because he... gets a blood transfusion. I think? Well I got a blood transfusion. Still looping. Other time loop stories end when you fix something - solve a murder, end a war, find love. Problem is, there was no murder. I can’t end a war in an hour-forty. And I broke up with my girlfriend a couple weeks ago. I’m happy I did! Plus, using time loops to find love seems a little creepy. And maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I like that everyone lives the same kind of life, growing older while changing nothing, and I get to do something different. I don’t have to grow old. I don’t have to move on. I don’t have to like new things. I can do whatever I want. As long as I’m watching *Groundhog Day*.


“It was me!” Jim exclaims as soon as he sees what is piled on the Deans desk. He knows what he’s saying, knows the consequences even before the words leave his mouth. There is no moment of disbelief or doubt in his mind. There is no question that Jim is going to do this. He will take the fall for this because if he doesn’t, the consequences will be unbearable. His friends stop shuffling in front of the Dean and freeze in shades of confusion and guilt as the prefects shove them to attention in their pyjamas. Adam turns his head to look at him out of the corner of his eyes, face pale in shock. Dave trips over his own foot, coordination a pipe dream in old joggers and a tee, no shoes on his sock-clad feat. He almost pulls Ian down with him as he tips over. He might or might not have done better fully dressed and in daylight, though Jim can't judge. The Dean misses none of this, her clear dark eyes flowing over them with barely hidden derision as Dave and Ian manage to get back to their feet. Her eyebrow and her lip quirk as the two teens struggle to keep each other on an even keel. She gives them a moment to collect their barely extant dignity before turning her attention to him. “ You are at fault?” The Dean asks, her tone doubtful. She crosses her sweater-clad arms and tilts her head, just so, and he knows she doesn’t believe him. Even in her casual clothes and bare face, she sees right through him. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter that she is right to disbelieve him. Who’s going to prove otherwise? Adam was his first friend here, the first that hadn’t laughed at him, hadn’t called him by a girl's name. Dave and Ian, on account of no longer being the only queer kids, had declared him one of them. Friendship had come after solidarity, after shared slurs in the halls and the odd threat at recess. None of them have his academic standing, and he can't bear to know what would happen if Ian's parents found out about this. “Yes, Ma’am. This is all my fault.” Jim reiterates, absolute in his conviction. He meets Adam's eyes past the Dean's shoulder and tries his best to indicate that he should back him up. Adam frowns. Dave and Ian share a look, though only Ian seems to understand what he is trying to do. “Don’t be stupid, Jimmy,” Ian interjects. “You had nothing to do with this.” The Dean releases a frustrated huff as Adam and Dave look at Ian in disbelief. Jim looks from Ian to the Dean and to the scene of the crime, then back to Ian. Jim may have been lying, but claiming that he wasn’t involved at all was stretching the bounds of credulity. It might have helped if Ian hadn’t slurred his words. One of the prefects snorts inelegantly. Jim turns and glares at the boy, then remembers that pissing off a prefect probably won't help the situation at all. “Shut it,” he hisses at Ian instead, who hisses back wordlessly and rolls his eyes. “Are you boys quite done?” The Dean states, clearly indicating that they are, even if they disagree. Jim and Ian disengage their staring contest to look at the ground at the Dean's feet instead, chiming in with Adam and Dave when they reply in the affirmative. “Frankly, this is the stupidest waste of an evening I have been subjected to, and I don’t really care that much who did this.” She says, indicating the incriminating pile on her desk. “I understand that you are teenagers, and I understand that a certain amount of mischief is to be expected, but there are limits.” Jim isn’t sure how far past the Dean's limits a few ‘suggestive’ zines are, never mind that he is pretty sure they are on loan from Adam’s mom. Mrs Ghetty claimed that they were age appropriate when Jim’s dad had called her with his concerns. The Dean picks up the top copy, a relatively low-quality print of a pencil drawing, depicting two men holding hands under a black and white rainbow. She leans against the desk as she thumbs through the yellowed paper, then throws it back on the pile. “This is nothing.” The Dean says, tone stern and suddenly Jim realizes that she isn’t looking at them this time. She is looking at the prefects, Thomson and Frank, two boys a year up, assigned to patrol the boys' dormitory. They had burst into the room Adam shares with Ian and crowed at finding the four of them together, Jim not in his assigned single room, well past curfew and reading ‘illicit’ and ‘inappropriate’ materials. Thomson frowns in confusion from behind Ian, then strides forward and grabs a zine off of the pile. “But it’s porn!” he exclaims, not bothering to open it, just thrusting the paper at the Dean, barely holding on to it as if it might infect him with prolonged contact. The Dean turns an unimpressed eye on him, takes the paper from his hands and opens it. Inside there are pictures of queer couples, yes, but none of them are naked. The most contact they have is on page five. One man hugged another from behind in an intimate embrace, both fully clothed. They are standing in front of a house that looks like it might be in the countryside, and smiling. It is a good picture. Dave had needed to wipe at his eyes when he had seen it, had given it a long and still look, had turned and held Ian’s hand tightly, as they read the accompanying text. “ ‘The Queer Guide to Queer History; We’re still Here’,” she reads off the title page, then flips it back on the table. The Prefects shuffle behind them, suddenly unsure of the situation. Jim shares another look with Ian, equally bewildered. “You four,” she starts, pointing at the pajamaed boys with a wave of her hand, “can’t be meeting past curfew like this. Detention for all of you, and don’t do this again. Come see me in the morning for the particulars, and to pick up these zines once I’ve reviewed their appropriateness.” The Dean says in a clear dismissal, then rounds on the prefects as Jim grabs Adam and follows Dave and Ian out of the office. “Now, you two, on the other hand...” is all Jim hears as the door closes behind them.


When, late at night, I heard commotion from my son's room, I thought I'd find him jumping on the bed again. My telling him off never did seem to stick. What I did not expect to find as I swung open the door was the Tooth Fairy, standing on the bookshelf near my son's bed, holding the Elf on the Shelf that normally resided on said bookshelf in a vicious headlock. In the Elf's hands was clutched a tooth, the same one my son Carlos had shown me with so much excitement during the day. "Oh my God," I said. "It's happening again." The Fairy had the Elf in a headlock with one arm, the other was clamped over his mouth. "Sshhh," the Tooth Fairy hissed. She nodded to where Carlos was fast asleep. "As soon as I let go he screams," she said. The Elf grunted, as if to say, *damn right*! "Okay," I said, thinking fast. "Okay, here." In one swift motion, I stepped across the bedroom to where the Tooth Fairy and the Elf struggled and gingerly scooped up the pair. The Fairy's wings, like that of a gossamer butterfly, shimmered with what I knew to be anger. "Well what else am I supposed to do?" I whispered. I took them to the living room and set them down on the coffee table. "One sec," I said. I popped over to the kitchen and grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard. Then it was over to the fridge, where I filled it to the brim with cold water. "Elf," I said, approaching the coffee table, glass in hand. "mmpph!" the Elf said, struggling feebly against the strength of the Fairy. "If you scream," I gestured to the water. "You get dunked. You feel me?" The Elf gave a big shudder, then nodded. "Okay," I said. "Let him go, Sienna." The Fairy gave me a long look, then stepped back from the Elf. The Elf dropped the tooth, then fell to his knees, gasping. Rather melodramatically, I thought. Fucking *Elves*. "So," Sienna said. "You remember me." I did. And she looked much the same. A tiny, beautiful ballerina with shimmering wings that glowed blue. She was clad from head to toe in black clothing, complete with a hood. A tiny ballerina moonlighting as a ninja. "Of course I remember you," I said. "I mean, of course." Her response was unexpected. Her wings flushed from light blue to a light pink that climbed near to the edges, and she flit across the table away from me. "Right, of course," she said, and I couldn't see her face. "Some don't, that's all." The Elf took this moment as his time to bolt. He scrambled across the table and dove over the edge. I caught him easily. "You!" the Elf cried. "You sick, sick man! I'll take your teeth! Every last one!" He clawed wildly at the air as if to make good on his threat. I dunked him in the water. \~\~\~ "So," I said. "They're coming for Carlos now." I sat on the couch, leaning against the armrest. I'd fetched a blanket, and coffee brewed in the kitchen. I figured I wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. "Yes," Sienna said. She sat on the back of the couch, her eyes on the coffee table. The Elf lay there, his face and hands duct taped, a pool of water having formed beneath him. He seemed to be playing dead. *Elves*. "I should've known better than to get one," I said, nodding towards the Elf. "I just thought...well I thought it was over." "It's never over," she said bitterly. "The Elven King will never stop seeking the teeth of children." *The Elven King*. I remembered, and shuddered. "But, that's why you're here, isn't it?" I asked. "To do as you did with me. To take Carlos down the Fae Path to face that bastard." Sienna was silent. From the kitchen, I heard the coffee brewer finish. "Hold on," I said, and left her there, returning with two mugs. One, the regular size you'd see in anybody's kitchen. The other, a miniature, the size of a thimble. Both steaming with hot coffee. "Look," I said excitedly. "It's your size." Sienna looked surprised, then her expression morphed into something I didn't understand. She looked away again. I set both mugs on the coffee table. That startled the Elf, but after taking in his surroundings again, he flopped back onto the glass to continue playing dead. "No," Sienna said softly. "No?" I asked. "I'm not here for Carlos," she said. "We got a tip. Elf activity in this area. And I...recognized the name." "Oh," I said. Then, touched. "You came for me?" No response. "Sienna, that means so much. Thank you." I was smiling, I couldn't help myself. I lay back against the couch and sipped my coffee. "You know, after you left, I told everybody I knew about you." Sienna scoffed. "As if they'd believe you." "They didn't, of course. I remember being so frustrated. As if they'd never been a kid. Like, don't any of you remember not being believed? Anyway. That didn't stop me from talking about you. I told everyone stories about my new 'imaginary friend'." "Really?" Sienna said, and I heard the ghost of a smile in her words. "What kind of stories?" "Oh, you know," I said. "How Sienna and I faced the Tremor Queen in the Whittlewood. How we rode eagles over the Lake of Myth. Stories." "I remember," Sienna said. She lay back to stare at the ceiling. Doing so made her hood fall, and white hair spilled out over the back of the couch. "Did I ever take you to see the Star Sea?" she asked. "No," I said. "I don't think so." "It's beautiful," she said. "I wish we'd gone." "We saw plenty," I said. "And I saw...enough, I think. Thank you." Sienna was silent for a long while. I finished my coffee and set down my mug. "You could take Carlos," I said. Sienna sighed. "I was afraid...you'd ask that." "It's what you need, isn't it? The Elven King, he wants their teeth. But the realm. It just needs to see their wonder." "I just..." she trailed off. "You really don't remember, do you?" "Remember what?" "It wasn't all adventure and wonder for you. You got hurt. Remember?" And then I did. How had I forgotten? I'd had to learn how to use crutches. The kids at school had made fun of me. My mother had been feverishly overprotective for years after, terrified that her boy would wander off again and come back with broken legs, or worse. "Yeah, I do now," I said. "It's funny the things you forget." Sienna sat up, looking pensive. Her wings glowed violet. "I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to risk it again." I was confused. "It's been years, Sienna. Surely you've taken other kids?" Sienna paused, then shook her head. "I see," I said. "I failed," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "I couldn't protect you." "I barely remember," I said, smiling. "It was just pain. I didn't die." "What's that supposed to mean?" she said, and her wings flushed red. "You didn't die? Are you serious?" "Kids get hurt, Sienna," I said. "And you protected me from worse. You were amazing." "Are you kidding me?" Sienna said. "You should be furious. You could've--" "I didn't," I said. "I'm right here, talking to you. And I'm grateful." "You're grateful," she said flatly. "I am," I said. She scoffed and flew off the couch, settling onto the coffee table next to the Elf. "I've got to get this idiot down to processing," she said. She dug around in a dark satchel at her waist and pulled out the tooth she'd wrested from the Elf. She examined it, then pulled from the satchel a ten dollar bill, which she set on the table. "My regards to your son," she said. "Sienna," I said, ignoring the fact that she'd just set *ten dollars* on the table, a standard for tooth exchange that I'd simply never be able to live up to. She paused, then turned around, arms folded, wings extended, pulsing blue and red. It was an intimidating sight, even if she was six inches tall. "I would do it again," I said. "I'd do it all over again." "Then you're an idiot too," she said. "And still quite possibly a child." "That's not fair," I said. "You'd put your own son in danger? You'd risk everything?" "I'd put him in your care," I said. "And I'd trust you to protect him." Sienna stared at me, then slumped, looking exasperated. "Why?" she said. "Because you showed me a wonderful, wonderful world," I said. "And you were my best friend when I needed it most." The Tooth Fairy wavered. The red faded from her wings. "You got hurt," she said. "Because of me." "I am who I am because of you," I said. "You loved me and you helped me grow up. That's all we can ask of anybody." Sienna sank to her knees, and lay her hands upon the glass on either side of her. With her hair falling on either side, and her wings glowing blue, she looked exactly as I remembered her. Ethereal, like a little angel, sent to protect me against the night. "He'll have to face the Elven King," she said. "As all mortal children do." "I know," I said. "And you'll show him how to win." Sienna tilted her head back, staring through space. Then she looked back at me, and her face broke into a smile. "If he's anything like you, I'll have my work cut out for me," she said. I laughed. "Don't worry, he inherited all my worst qualities." The Tooth Fairy stood, and her wings fluttered. "I'll take this Elf in," she said, as if preparing a mental checklist. "And then..." "You'll show my son the Star Sea," I said. "And you'll keep him safe.


I wrote this in 2019 and haven't touched it since. Let me know what you all think. I haven't came up with a title yet either. Chapter One In the beginning there were a few jobs that you did, you either worked in the mill, logged in the woods, or were in the transportation business. Let me tell you everyone was struggling. Healthcare and most stores were ran by the government, and the stores that weren’t were owned by the timber company. Prices of everything were through the roof and wages were low despite the prospering export prices of plywood and lumber. By the time you got your paycheck it was mostly pennies due to having such a big account at the local store and gas station. That was okay for the most part since housing was provided by the timber company or government and as long as you worked housing was free. No one was particularly happy with the way things were going, but we all woke up and did our jobs. But it’s been that was since shit hit the fan in 2020. Things were really heating up in big government between the Republicans and the Democrats. We all knew whoever one there would be trouble. That was 8 years ago, but it feels like yesterday. Let me explain to you what happened in the shortest way that I can. We were watching the voting come to an end on Fox news when the screen went blank briefly then this lady came on air, she said “due to the way things are heading with government we are taking control of America”. Then the screen and power went out. Cell service diminished. Everything was black and cold. Now I always thought the government was just a big puppet show ran by a higher power and now it seems I was right. In the coming weeks power came back on and troops of some sort in all black uniforms moved into the city. A curfew was enacted and you couldn’t go anywhere without permission. People were dying and those that survived, including myself, were about to start living in hell. America was then divided into areas by what was produced the west coast, Alaska, Washington, Idaho, Oregon, and northern California were the timber producers all owned by operated by one company. The southern half of California along with Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Montana, and New Mexico were all for testing, what they were testing no one knew. Texas, Oklahoma, the Dakota’s, Wyoming, Louisiana, Alabama, and Georgia were cattle and oil. The Midwest states were farming areas. The rest of the states either fell or were used for God knows what. It came to be know that most everything we knew as Americans was a façade and was owned by an elite group of people. That group of people only had one thing on their mind and that was money. We all worked for pennies while they padded their pockets and lived well in DC, we were all required to watch a programming at the beginning of every shift that outlined how well our economy was doing. It angered everyone, but we took care of business and did what we needed to do to care for our families. Chapter Two It was a Tuesday morning, I started my morning routine as I always do, poured a cup of coffee, let my dogs out, and went sit in my lazy boy. I pulled out my book as I started going through my plan, there were about 5 of us who were planning a rebellion. We planned this out during our hunting trips we took once a month. We were all tight knit as we ran the big boilers that powered the West Coast Lumber mill. We knew we could bring it to it’s knees if we shut the steam valves and caused an explosion. We knew that if we tripped the fire alarm, then told people to run we could get everyone out of there before the whole thing hit the critical blowing point. So that is the plan we enacted. I triple checked my list as I laced up my boots, I pulled the pistol from it’s hiding spot and tucked it into my waist band, today was the day. I kissed my wife good bye and knelt down and petted my dogs and told em I would see them later. God only knew if I’d make it home. I walked out the front gate and threw my lunch box inside and fired up that old truck. As I backed out of the driveway I was praying that this plan would go right, and that no innocent people would get hurt. We had already spread the word for many people not to show up and hoped they would listen. The mill should be mostly deserted anyway since it was a maintenance day and only the boilers would be running. I stopped by John’s house and picked him up, we didn’t say much as we knew what needed to be done. 9:15 A.M I walked over to main steam valve and started closing it, the plan was in place and this was the first step. Brad was walking around silently telling everyone to walk out, get in their rigs and leave. It would be a big blast. Brad came to me around 9:45 and told me the place was deserted, we knew at 10A.M some big wigs that controlled everything would be in a meeting 100 yards from the boiler building, those 10 people were the only lives that would be lost that day. We were sending a message to the corporate Giants that we wouldn’t live this way any longer. I told John, Brad, Dave, and Harold to get out and I’d over pressurize the boiler, as soon as I knew it was ready to blow I’d meet them at the cabin where our families were waiting. 10:15 A.M the boilers were hissing so that was my queue to leave, I locked out the controls and high tailed it to my pickup at the bottom of the stairwell, I looked over at the office building and said a silent prayer for what was about to happen to the assholes in that room. I fired the truck up and pulled out of the complex. 20 miles away from the top of the ridge I watched as WCL exploded in a firery mess. The deed was done and the 5 of us would soon be wanted men.


(WP) Evil Lives Here When the Gavindales lost their oldest child, a young woman named Diana, the neighborhood banded together to find her, her parents and brothers praying that they would find her alive, unharmed. The search for one of the community’s brightest stars continued for more than a year, and eventually, everyone lost interest, distracted by the latest instance of scandal. But the family had never healed from their loss; Mrs. Gavindale held a press conference, begging whoever had taken her little girl to return her to where she belonged. Milk cartons, a special on the local news station, radio talks; everything they’d tried hadn’t worked. But still, they refused to give up. “I know Diana is out there, alive. I don’t know how to explain it,” Alicia murmured to her friends, still a beauty even after two years had passed. “She will return to us, I know it.” \*\* Mrs. Gavindale was on the porch, indulging in her after-dinner cigarette, when a police car pulled up in front of the house, lights painting the young woman’s face blue and red. An officer in uniform stepped out of the car, and a shadow followed, hidden by the man’s bulk. “Good evening, ma’am. Is this the house of the Gavindale family?” “Yes, officer,” The housewife replied, her face obscured by a thick, gray cloud of fragrant smoke. “Is everything all right?” “I bring your family good news, ma’am. It’s your daughter, Diana. I’ve come to give her back to you. The poor thing was as cold as death, and we fed her a meal and had her take a shower before she came home.” Diana stepped into the light, silent, staring at Mrs. Gavindale. “Mom... I’m home.” \*\* The silence of my night was shattered by the sound of the front door closing with a bang; I was engrossed in a book I was reading, and dropped it on my bed. “Heather! Heather, your sister’s home!” My mother’s joyful shriek hung in the air, and it took me a moment to process what she said. Diana? Diana was home? After two years of God knew what? I didn’t know what to think. “Heather, come down here!” “I’m coming, Mom!” I called back, exiting my room and walking down the stairs. There was no denying it, now that we were face to face. This was indeed my sister, the one I’d worshipped and admired my whole life. But when she looked up at me, her eyes were holes boring in my face, and her dark hair was in a long, sleek braid, her olive skin bruised around the wrists. When she noticed I was looking, she anxiously pulled down the sleeve of the thin jacket she was wearing, despite the cold. Mom, meanwhile, was busy brushing tears from her face, smiling benevolently. “I always knew you would come home to us. Where have you been all this time, Diana? Why didn’t you call us? We... We thought you were dead!” “I... I met someone,” Diana replied, and she smiled at our mother; her eyes darted to me, and they flashed bright red. “And I got distracted.” “We can talk about where you’ve been later.” Mom said, brushing away the weak excuses like she was swatting at a particularly bothersome fly. The night seemed to pass in a blur; though Diana had eaten already, and had said as much, Mom insisted on cooking dinner for us, and she refused to let either of us out of her sight until close to bedtime. Diana snuck out of her room and stood at the threshold of mine, peering in with eyes that were curious, even hungry. “Long time no see, sis,” She said, smirking at me. “How have you been doing these past couple years? Got a job, a boyfriend?” “You’re the one who decided to run off to God knows where without telling anyone, Di,” I replied, on my guard. I wasn’t sure why, but this was not my sister; an impostor, somehow, but I didn’t dare say it, not until I had more proof. Diana shrugged. “So a girl isn’t allowed to grow up? Come on, Heather.” Her sleeve slipped upwards again, and she frowned, her brow knitting. Before she could grab her sleeve, I spotted a bright green four-leaf clover on her wrist. “Do you have a tattoo?” I asked her, incredulous. That cemented it in my mind; this was not my sister. Diana had always hated tattoos, and hadn’t been shy about making it known, either. “It’s none of your business, Heather. You’re a kid. You wouldn’t understand.” “You’re so full of shit, Di. You may have fooled Mom, but you can’t fool me.” “Not exactly the warmest welcome, little sister. I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me.” “I would be, if you were really my sister.” I shot back, walking over to her and looking down at her; I felt a bit of spiteful pride, that I was a few inches taller than she was. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but you’re not Diana. My sister hates tattoos.” There was a tense, pregnant pause, and then the thing taking my sister’s body for a ride smirked so widely that her eyes became mere slits. “What do you know? A human who actually pays attention. Messing with you will be fun.” I’d never believed in things like angels, demons, or God; they were distant, arbitrary ideas that had little to do with me; our family was not religious. But for the first time, a dark, cold flame was born in my heart, turning my blood to ice. “Well, good night, little sis. And remember... This is our little secret.” The monster put my sister’s hand to her lips, and my throat closed up; I was unable to speak.


Hestia and her young neighbor slide the oak sapling into the gaping hole dug in the earth. “Hold it straight, now,” Hestia says gruffly as she shovels dirt around the root ball. “I can do this part, if you want? I’m younger and, uh,” the neighbor trails off as Hestia gives her best scathing look. They finish the task in silence. --- 40 Hours Ago Hestia opens another Diet Coke, the crack and fizzle a welcome sound to her ears. She knows it will be the death of her, but it is her vice of choice, and she will gladly take it to the grave. When the acidic bite of the first sip fades, she raises the binoculars with one gnarled old hand and peers Westward between the cracked blinds of her bedroom window. It is a good window, an upper story window that faces her back yard and more importantly, her neighbors back yards. She pays a neighborhood boy to haul his 10-foot ladder over and clean it from the outside once a week. Nearly a year ago, while on a walk with her dog, Peanut, she had seen him cleaning out gutters. Now, she gives him 2 dollars a week for the single window. The others she can do for herself, as they are all on the first floor. Once, he’d tried to dicker with her, but she'd whopped him on the back of the head and told him to respect his elders. He’d glared at her then but nodded, and the deal was struck. She needs the binoculars to see the house two down from her, number 17. A family lives there, a nice one if you didn’t know any better; a couple, two small children with angelic blonde hair, and a big dumb dog. As it is, the dog likes to chase poor Peanut and the kids cause an awful ruckus when they play out back. Plus, children are not interesting. She’d written them a very pointed letter where she suggested a shorter outside play time and a shorter leash for their menacing mutt. Yet, the Heathens ignored her letter, and the snot-nosed brats continue to do whatever they please, to Hell with everyone else. The new generation is doomed, she is sure of it. Hestia had then spent several satisfying weeks tipping over their trashcan until she noticed that the tell-tale red light of a security camera had appeared on their front porch, and now she is forced to consider alternative methods of punishment. Currently, their yard is empty, and their windows are dark. She belches loudly and turns to yell for Peanut, who either can’t hear her or ignores her. He is getting old, 14 or 15, so she can’t tell if he is hard of hearing or is being purposely disrespectful. She narrows her eyes, mutters, and turns back to the window. The house sandwiched between the Heathens house and her own, number 18, is quite boring. An old man lives there. He is older than her, single, and he has no discernible family or friends. No one ever visits, and rarely does he leave. His groceries are delivered to his front porch once a week- very new age of him . His name is Arthur, but she calls him Humpty because he looks like an egg. Humpty likes gardening, and more than once she’d had a go at him for letting his rose bushes creep between the cracks of the fence that separated their properties. Honestly, she doesn’t care much about it but wants to see him riled up. He is, unfortunately, unflappable. She spends the least amount of time watching Humpty and hopes he will die soon so that someone else will move in. She takes another gulp of Diet Coke and calls again for Peanut. This time, the elderly chihuahua pads into the room and lays down on the threadbare dog bed near her feet. She croons to him softly and nudges the bowl of Old Roy’s towards him which he sniffs, unimpressed, and lays his head down. Hestia rolls her neck several times, finishes her drink, and tosses it in a white trashcan overflowing with identical cans. She peers out the window at her own back yard. It is overgrown and unkempt. Her husband, may he rot in Hell, had been crazy about the lawn. He’d worn spiked shoes when walking on it, lest he leave any footprints, and he forbade her from ever stepping foot on it. He would often go out just to prune a single branch and then come back inside and stare out into the back yard as if willing everything to grow just so . After he died, she’d taken great pleasure in watching the yard become wild and unruly. The dickering window boy had offered his services for that as well, which she’d declined acidly. She lifts the binoculars and peers Easterly to the house two doors down in the other direction, number 21. It is a vacant house which has been on the market for eight months. Hestia concludes that the woman who is selling it mustn’t be desperate for money since she has been too stubborn to lower the outrageous asking price. So, the place has fallen into disrepair during its lengthy inoccupancy. The yard is cut once a month by persons unknown, but as it is summer, it often looks as wild as her own. Finally, she turns to her most interesting neighbors, number 20. A young couple moved in a year ago and things were quiet at first. She guessed they were 30 or 35 years old. The woman has bright red hair and likes to read on the back porch when the sun is low in the sky. The man has a dark complexion and looks foreign -- Serbian? Columbian? -- she doesn’t know, all foreigners look the same to her. She calls them Jack and Diane. Diane occasionally waves at her from the front porch when their comings and goings coincided. Hestia appreciates the neighborliness and decides, magnanimously, not to send them a letter about parking their car so cattywampus. They don’t play loud music and they don’t have kids or dogs. The man keeps the lawn short and the bushes meticulously trimmed and shaped. But no one knows better than she the darkness that hides behind the costume of a carefully manicured lawn. Eventually, the fights began; huge blow outs that spilled through the screen door where she can clearly hear them when she cracks her window. The general flow of these goes like this: Diane, who seems generally quiet and reserved, will argue whatever point she is trying to make. Then, Jack will inevitably start yelling over her, and Diane will take it for a while until eventually her composure is lost and she starts screaming in this high-pitched psychotic tone where Hestia can barely understand what she is saying. Sometimes, there is the sound of breaking glass or slamming doors. Occasionally, the sound of a car door, an engine revving, and a car speeding away from the house. Those are becoming more common place, so Hestia greedily watches number 20 whenever she can. Hestia hopes Diane gives as good as she gets. There had been a particularly nasty argument about money earlier, but all is quiet now. When nothing happens for several long minutes, Hestia sighs and resigns herself to another lonesome night watching CSI with Peanut. She makes her way downstairs to the kitchen and retrieves a frozen dinner from the icebox and heats it up. She settles into the dingy couch in her living room and watches reruns while she finishes her dinner and promptly falls asleep as the sun retreats beneath the horizon. --- She dreams that her dead husband is alive and standing at the foot of her bed holding his beloved hedge trimmers, a dark substance dripping off their sharpened tips. She awakes sometime later startled and disoriented. Peanut is snoring lightly beside her, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth where several of his teeth are missing. She listens intently, but the only other sound is the quiet tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. She can’t fathom what time it is, but it seems preternaturally dark. She groans from standing and makes her way up the stairs to her bedroom. She peers outside and sees that the moon is barely a sliver in the sky. A glance at the bright red numbers on her bedside clock tells her that it is 2:59 AM. Her neck is stiff, and she gingerly turns her head this way and that to try to ease the ache she knows will still be there in the morning. Clink She jumps, still on edge from her nightmare. She brings one hand to her racing heart and wills it to slow. Clink She edges towards the window and waits for her eyes to adjust to the nearly moonless night. There. She sees the vague outline of a hooded figure in the yard at number 20. They are near the edge of the property line where carefully tended grass meets suburban woods. What are they doing? Is it Jack or Diane? It is impossible to tell. Clink Hestia’s hand flies to her mouth in sudden realization. Her eyes are fully adjusted to the scant light now and she can see that they are digging, the metallic glint of the shovel appearing and disappearing beneath the earth with each successive clink . Now, why would someone be digging a hole at this hour? There is only one reason she can think of, and it isn’t to get a leg up on the gardening before the summer heat rolls in. She knows it instinctively, not just because of the couple’s explosive fights, but also because she herself has thought about doing the same thing to her husband a million times before the scoundrel had the gall to drop dead of his own accord. The real question is which one of them is doing the digging? Hestia watches, transfixed, as the person continues to dig. An hour passes, then two, then three. She nods off in her chair twice only to snap awake moments later, unable to stop watching the crime unfold. It takes much longer to dig a grave than I thought, she thinks . And then, what a stupid place to bury someone. Just before dawn, the figure walks back towards the house and disappears for several long minutes. When they return, they are dragging a misshapen bundle slowly towards the too-shallow pit. When the figure reaches the grave, the hood of their jacket slips back revealing red hair so vivid that it is impossible to miss even in the darkness. Not realizing she has been holding her breath, Hestia lets out a gasp of delight. “You naughty girl,” she says, a Cheshire grin spreading across her face. It is unfamiliar, the smile, and she realizes it is the first one in a long while. She lets her mind wander into a daydream where she is the one doing the digging. The grin slides off her face, however, when she realizes that Diane is sure to get caught. One didn’t report a person missing and get away with a fresh mound of dirt in the back yard, did they? But perhaps Diane wouldn’t report her husband missing. No, she quickly casts that idea aside. Hestia knows that Jack’s mother stops by regularly - she drives a horrible little minivan that backfires obscenely--and she occasionally joins her son in casting noisy aspersions at poor Diane. The woman would unquestionably look for her son, no doubt about it. Diane’s goose is as good as cooked. Unless... The rusty cogs in Hestia’s mind turn more quickly now. Unless someone else intervened. --- By 3 PM the next day, Hestia’s yard is looking more like it did in its previous life. The hedges are trimmed, the grass is cut and watered, flowering shrubs are planted, and one dickering neighbor boy is $100 richer. Hestia complains aloud to Peanut but is secretly quite satisfied at her progress. Like clockwork, Diane’s car rolls into the short driveway of number 20 at 3:45 PM. This pleases Hestia, who had been worried that Diane may have done a runner when her car pulled out of her driveway at 7 am. Based on the time, Hestia concludes that she must have gone to work to keep up appearances. Smart girl. Now that she is certain that Diane will be around to appreciate her thoughtful plan, she collects her notebook and makes a draft of what she will say to the police. --- That night, Hestia creeps into the silent back yard of Number 20 and digs up Jack’s poorly concealed body and drags it back to her own. She rolls it into the deep hole she had the neighbor boy dig and covers it with a layer of dirt and then a layer of manure, leaving a foot of unfilled space which she will address the following morning. --- The redhead hands her strange old neighbor her spare suitcase. “Here. Where did you say you were going again?” “Florida. Airport broke my old luggage,” Hestia says, waving a hand. “And now you want me to help you plant a tree?” Diane asks slowly, trying to understand. She has never spoken more than a quick greeting to her neighbor in the entire year that she’s lived next door. Hestia thinks Diane looks like Hell has swallowed her and spat her back out. She has a cut lip and a black eye and Hestia speculates if she went to work after all. The redhead’s eyes are dull and her clothes are a wrinkled mess. Hestia has no doubt that if Diane was her usual self, she would be more suspicious. “I’m an old woman,” Hestia says by way of explanation. She is, in fact, quite sore from the previous night’s activities. “Er, I’m a little busy,” Diane says. “It’ll only take a minute. I just need someone to hold the tree steady.” “Okay,” Diane says reluctantly. Minutes later, Hestia and her young neighbor slide the oak sapling into the gaping hole dug in the earth. “Hold it straight, now,” Hestia says gruffly as she shovels dirt around the root ball. “I can do this part, if you want? I’m younger and, uh,” the neighbor trails off as Hestia gives her best scathing look. They finish the task in silence. When they return to the front yard and Diane turns towards her house, Hestia quickly offers to make some fresh lemonade -well, the powdered kind, anyway - to thank her for her help. Diane shrugs noncommittally. “Great!” Hestia says a little too loudly and quickly makes her way to her kitchen, stashes the luggage in the hall closet, and promptly phones the police. She makes the lemonade slowly and comes outside just as two police cruisers park in front of Number 20. Balancing the tray with lemonade and a stack of plastic cups, she shuffles over to Diane, who looks like she is going to be sick as the police officers exit their vehicles. Hestia leans closer to her neighbor, imagining that she is in one of her favorite crime dramas. “Listen to me. Get a lawyer, say nothing. Follow my lead,” she mutters under her breath, barely moving her lips. Despite her apparent terror, Diane turns to look at her shrewdly, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Good morning officers,” Hestia says brightly, wondering if she sounds as fake to their ears as she does her own. “Would you like some lemonade?” “Ma’am. Miss,” one of the officers says, nodding his head. “No thank you, we’re here on official business.” He turns towards Diane. “Do you live at this residence? Number 20?” Diane nods, not trusting herself to speak. The second officer turns to Hestia and says, “Ma’am, this is a private matter. I’ll ask that you return home now, please.” Ah, so you’re the Bad Cop, then. “Well, you see, I’m the one who phoned you, actually,” Hestia says sheepishly. Diane looks at her, one eye wide, one eye swollen half shut. “Is that so...?” Bad Cop sends Good Cop a conspicuous look. “We’ll talk to you both separately, then. Ma’am, would you kindly lead me to your place of residence?” Hestia catches Diane’s gaze one final time, makes a subtle zipper motion over her lips, and allows the officers to lead them in separate directions. This isn’t exactly the way she had planned for things to go. She thought she’d make a big stink of things in front of Diane, explaining that Jack was abusive, and Hestia couldn’t take the fights and didn’t want poor Diane to get hurt anymore. That Jack had run off on foot and she had seen him with a suitcase walking that way ( the direction of the bus station). But now they are separated and there is no time to get their stories straight. Hestia bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and hopes that Diane doesn’t incriminate herself or all of Hestia’s careful planning will be for naught. --- In the end, something Diane says or does is suspicious enough that she is labeled a person of interest and carted off to the police station. Later, more officers appear and search the premises of Number 20 where they find blood, but it is almost all Diane’s. They also find the freshly churned dirt in the back yard and a team is sent with an excavator to dig it up, where they turn up nothing but worms. After two days, the authorities are forced to release her due to insufficient evidence, much to her confusion. In time, the tiny sapling in Hestia’s backyard grows into a beautiful Oak tree and no one is the wiser, not even Diane, as to what lay beneath.


When I loved you, I loved you deeply. I poured so much of my being into you, that there was nothing left to fill the mold of who I was supposed to be, so I depended on you to tell me. You broke pieces of me, little by little harboring them in a glass display case to wander past each time you thought of me. And when I sobbed at night, it was you that held me despite being the reason my lungs couldn’t maintain the air to speak and the reason tears escaped my eyes, running across my face like meteors. And when I left, you still had your hold on me. Never keeping me too far. Giving me many gifts that were inspired by my niches you cared to remember. It was like you were saying to me *No one will love you like I did.* And when I still kept those gifts because for some reason their presence only symbolized that no one did love me like you, but I didn’t want them to. Every time I start to get close to someone the acidic pain that you left in my veins begins its dreadful current straight to the command center of my brain which makes the conscious decision to shut them out. *No one will understand you like I did.* The pain that shoots through me only makes me feel that it’s true. No one will understand me like you did, but that’s exactly how you were able to make your poisonous words so effective yet seem like such a requirement to live. Before I had actually left, you knew exactly what to say and do to make me come back to bed with you. To lie next to my attacker and believe that he was my lover. You made me believe that love was supposed to be that way. Hurting each other as deeply as you could because it’s the withstanding of pain that proves you belong together. Secretly despising each other only makes the sex better. And when I swallowed those pills because I couldn’t stand a life where we didn’t make sense, yet made so much sense, it was you who I saw in the foggy haze of revival. Certain movies I can’t see, certain smells that scrape at my insides with a painful coldness. Certain places I refuse to go, people I refuse to see. *No one will care for you like I did.* I think the thing that I hate the most is that there are nights where I lie alone in a bed too small for me, in a room too empty for me, and wish that you would roll over and embrace me again. What a foolish idea. I tried turning my mind off, prescription drugs weren’t enough to keep my mind from trailing off into fits of PTSD and episodes of dissociation. The sadness I feel when I start to think about being with someone else is too much to bear. I can feel the anxiety of even thinking of it, losing someone again. Letting someone have control over me. I can’t begin to describe how much it hurts that I may never have someone like that again. I miss the love you gave when it was genuine love. When you actually cared, but at the moment I can’t think of any moments where you may have shown that you do. As this year ends, I am left with a melancholy reminder that 12 months ago we were happy in our little apartment with our dog. Six months ago I was still yours. Broken, but yours. I have damaged myself mentally, spiritually, and financially desperate to try to find anything that will make me feel like everyday is not a waste. Like I don’t regret taking the wrong pills and confessing my plan to someone else. Since then it hasn’t felt worth it. Still, I live. Barely surviving but surviving. Even surviving a car crash that seemed to make matters even worse, yet it’s my soul that is telling me to strive forward. Something in my soul is telling me that something big is coming. I hope it is something to set me right, make things better, make me stronger and more independent. I never knew independence when I was with you, because you were so much a part of me. Now I hope that I can continue forwards towards whatever paradise my soul is secretly and so subconsciously leading me towards. I hope I can truly begin to focus on myself and be the person I need to be and truly am. I just hope you know that you didn’t fully break me, but I appreciate you trying to.


To start this off: This isn't a true story and the town is fictitious. I'm Detective Brad Markus and I'm a detective for the Florida Springs Police Department. We are a small Panhandle town in Florida, of course. It's called the forgotten coast of Florida. We like some tourism but not a lot. Florida Springs has a nice state Park which is Florida Springs State Park which for much of the year is deserted or at least it was back in 1981, especially in December. This was about 17 days before Christmas. I had the day off, so me and my wife Sandy decided to have a picnic lunch. The day wasn't cool it was around 75 degrees. We ate our lunch sitting on a large beach towel which had large starfishes on them. We watched the waves which were very light. The waves in the gulf are very light compared to the Atlantic. From a distance, I could see Old Man Wilson (this is what he liked to be called) sitting on his beach chair. Usually he would wave to me when I did patrols in the area or came to the beach and today was no exception. He would sit out there all day and sometimes into the evening. He would only leave and walk the short distance to his home when told to leave. His home was the only one on the beach (once he died the house would be torn down). Old Man Wilson was 80 years old and in good health, so I don't see that happening any time soon. He will live there until the day he dies. Beautiful home. Me and Sandy stayed till the sun went down. It was starting to get cold and the wind was blowing. It looks like a storm would be coming in and right as we got home, the storm hit. It rained for several hours. By midnight the storm was over and you could see the full moon. The next morning, the ranger called us and said that he had found a man in the surf face down with a bite mark on his neck. He had a bite on his torso. A capsized boat was seen drifting in the water nearby. This was about a mile from Old Man Wilson's beach house and technically in the jurisdiction of Florida Springs. It was decided that Florida Springs would take over the investigation. I went to Old Man Wilson's home. His hearing isn't that great and he usually doesn't wear his hearing aids. He wasn't of any help. The medical examiner called me and said that the man who was identified as 23 year old Mark Marsh was attacked by a shark, most likely from falling out of the boat. He also had been drinking and had been smoking weed. This guy had no family and no one claimed him which was very sad. Old Man Wilson felt sorry for him had paid to have a funeral and a resting place for the man. February 1982 This you would think would be the end of the story until I got a letter about two months later from someone who claimed that the death wasn't accidental. The letter told what happened but from the evidence that we have, we could neither prove not disprove. The anonymous writer said that they knew the identity of the killers but couldn't come forward.. What was odd is that the letter was sent to me from a post office in Austin Texas. Was this for real or was it a joke. I know that it wasn't Old Man Wilson who sent the letter because he doesn't have a typewriter and he's deceased. He died a couple of days into the new year. It's been two months since I've received the letter, but I haven't told anyone yet. I mentioned to our local press three months later that we needed additional information regarding the death of Mark Marsh and for someone to please call us. No one did and the case went cold. For some reason I kept this paperwork and took it with me when I retired. Not really supposed to do this but I did. June 2019 - nearly 40 years after Mark Marsh was found on the beach, I get a call from Debbie Wilson Youngman who is the granddaughter of Old Man Wilson. She has breast cancer and doesn't know how much longer she has to live. She has information about Mr. Marsh. She lives in Pensacola and is in a hospice center there. Let me give you some information about me. I became Chief of Police in 1987 and retired in 2013. This was after 40 years of law enforcement service. I started out at age 18 in 1973 at a officer for the city and by 1978 I was detective. A lot has changed in Florida Springs. In 1973 it was about 1,500 people and by 2019 it's about 6,000 people. More hotels and condos. They put the condos across the street from the beach. Some of it, I don't like. Sadly shortly after Old Man Wilson died, someone kids vandalized the place and then one of them who was smoking threw the cigarette butt on the floor and the house was destroyed by fire. So, I'm on my way to see Debbie Youngman. Will be interesting to see what she has to say.  December 1981 Old Man Wilson was surprised to see his granddaughter Debbie Wilson arrived a day early. He had just came back from the beach. Debbie brought some food and made dinner. Debbie was tired. She had flew in from Pensacola and had taken the taxi to the beach house which was 40 miles. They decided to turn it early. The storms on the beach sometimes unnerved Debbie but Old Man Wilson it didn't bother. By midnight it was gone and a full moon was out. Debra couldn't sleep and went out for a walk. It was 3:00 am. She loved doing this as everything was so quiet. As she came closer to the house, she noticed a group of men hanging around. She hid herself where she could see them but they couldn't see her. "He doesn't know that we are here. " said one man. "Hey, let's go in and rob the place." said another man. Dogs could be heard in the house barking up a storm. "Don't think so. The Old man has nothing to rob. Leave the man alone. Come on let's get out of here."said a third man. Two of the men Debbie didn't recognize but the third one she did. She watched as they left her grandfather's house and walked down the beach. She went along a trail where she wouldn't be seen. She was careful not to make any noise. She saw a man with a boat that was waiting for them. She saw them overpower the man, tied him up and put him in a boat that sped away. She was afraid to go back to the house. In the distance, she could hear screams and then nothing. A short time later, she then saw the men make the boat capsize and then placed the man next to it. They then left by boat. She ran back to the house. Her grandfather was asleep and never knew she had left. "I know I should have called the police, but I was in shock and was too scared. Ranger Burns found the body a couple of hours later. He came to my grandfather's place and I hid.. My grandfather his memory was very bad forgot that I was there. He didn't of course see anything. I was nervous the whole time I was there. Debbie took a sip of water and then continued. "The next day two of the men that I didn't know. came around. I was at the house when I saw them approached grandpa and asked him about Mark Marsh. They didn't see me as I was in the house. I watched very nervously. Ranger Burns walked up to them and asked if they had seen anything. They hadn't of course but I knew they were lying. They quickly left. I never saw them again, although from time to time Mickie Larange would show up in the panhandle but not here. His grandparents have a beach house in community of St. Joe 40 miles away from Florida Springs. He came during the summer. Both his parents and grandparents thought he was a special person who could do no wrong. I knew who Mickie Larange was. Bad news and a bad person. He was a rock star that was adored nationwide and worldwide. If they only knew, but they didn't and even if they did, well........ "He had people who covered for him big time from the time he was a child till today. He got away with a lot of things, because they weren't violent in nature. Stole things from stores. Wrote bad checks. Tried to get away with not paying restaurant and motel bills. Took a car for a joy ride when he was a teen and got into an accident, totaling the car. Daddy paid the man whose car he wrecked. Broke young girls's and women's hearts. Doesn't pay child support unless he's force to You get the picture. I knew who he was and what he looked like and his reputation but never had any interaction with him, thankfully. " I nodded. I never had to deal with Mickie Larange as he didn't come around Florida Springs and the State Park but I'd heard about him from other law enforcement agencies that came in contact with him. He was never arrested until two years ago when police arrested him in California for failing to pay child support. My wife remembers how angry he was and how he treated two of his ex-wives. He called one of them a liar and something else I can't repeat and then he spit in the face of the other ex-wife. When his own children said he was a jerk, he said that they were spoiled brats. My wife likes to watch all that on TMZ. Not me, have no interest in it." "I was the one who wrote the letter back in 1982. I had to tell someone. I never told anyone about this." We talked a little bit more and then I left. Sadly there isn't much I can do. A couple of weeks later I get a call from one of the men who was there, former body guard. Like Debbie, he's very ill and doesn't have long to live. The third man died 20 years earlier in Prison. He was another body guard. Two months later Mickie Larange is arrested in California and he denies everything. Later he is put on trial in Pensacola Florida. He tries to blame the other two men saying that they threatened to kill him if he didn't go along with them. It was clearly proven that he was the mastermind behind the crime. The reason was because Mark Marsh was going to write a book about him, detailing what he had done. He couldn't have that and he took action. The jury convicted him. Even though he's in jail he still gets letters, gifts and money from adoring fans. A sad footnote to this story. Shortly after Mickie Larange was convicted, Debbie Youngman passed away and so did the bodyguard.   .


In a distant time, in a distant place, there lived a very old eagle. The eagle had lived a long life, but always thought that he was still a young bird. When his feathers turned ragged and gray, he insisted it was just dirt. When his beak and talons weathered away, he blamed the rocks of his nest for dulling them down. When his wings grew too frail to fly, he lied and said that he no longer wished to soar the winds. The eagle refused to accept his age and pass on, even after all of his other animal friends had gone away. Rhino. Elephant. Giraffe. Lion. All of them were gone now, but the Eagle was stubborn, and stayed. Every day, the eagle would take the long walk down the cliff to the murky watering hole nearby where he would take a drink out of his broken beak, and use his dull talons to dig through the dirt for worms. One such day, the eagle was dragging his talons through the mud when a dragonfly flew out from the marsh. "Sir eagle, I see you here every day but I must ask- why do you dig for our worms when there are rabbits that run through the fields?" "Because..." Began the eagle. "The rocks of my nest have broken my talons. I cannot hunt for rabbits anymore. I can only dig for easier prey." The dragonfly landed on a nearby rock. "That may be so, sir Eagle, but why do you drink from our murky waters? Surely there are many more ponds with fresh, clean, water to drink." "I do not wish to fly anymore." The eagle lied. "I grow tired of the winds and want to walk the earth. This is the nearest pond to my cliff, even if the waters are murky." The dragonfly hovered behind the eagle. "There is no need to lie, Eagle. Your feathers tell the truth. You are as gray as a thunderstorm, and your wings are brittle like dried grass." "I do not lie, insect. My feathers are simply coated in dust, and my wings are as strong as they could ever be. Do not insult me again or I will eat you like these worms." The dragonfly hovered upwards, out of the eagle's reach. "You may try, eagle, but we both know that it is not in your power to succeed. You may have been the hunter of the skies many seasons ago, but now you are weathered and aged. It is time to move onto the land beyond the horizon." The eagle began walking back to his cliff. "I am not an old bird like you suggest. I am noble, strong, and proud, and have many more years left." The dragonfly followed the eagle as he began walking up the cliff path back to his nest. "You are designed to fly and hunt down your problems, not run and hide from them. Do not keep tricking yourself into thinking you are a hatchling anymore." "I know that I am no longer a chick, but I have no intentions to lie down and die." The eagle crossed a log but was halted by the dragonfly blocking his path. "You need not lie down, sir eagle. I simply ask that you understand where you came from. Do you have children?" "Yes." Said the eagle, pushing past the dragonfly. "They travelled north towards more bountiful lands." "And how about a wife?" "Once, but no longer." The dragonfly hovered around the eagle's head. "What of your friends within the savannah?" "They too travelled beyond the horizon many seasons ago." The dragonfly dared to perch upon the eagle's feathered skull. "So you are the last member of your life, eagle?" "Yes." "Then why fight destiny? Why must you cling to a world for which you may provide nothing more? Your legacy will be carried on by your children, and their children, and their children's children. The scratch marks of your talons amongst these stones will forever tell your stories, long after you are gone. You have ensured that the world will remember you, so I ask again: why must you keep walking across the earth instead of soaring the skies beyond the horizon?" As they crested the edge of the rock and entered the eagle's nest, the eagle looked around. His grey, weathered feathers adorned the ragged mess that were the remains of his nest. He did not have the means to repair it, but as the twigs and branches fell away, he could recall distant, faint memories. His wife, with her beautiful feathers. The pair of eggs that sat in the center of this very nest so, so long ago. His friends that would look up towards the rocks and cheered when he flew down to meet them. The eagle's old eyes narrowed as he looked at the dragonfly. "Because I am afraid, dragonfly. I do not wish to forget the wonders of my life. They are the feathers that I scatter among the winds. They are the sun and moon, the stars in the night, and the clouds in the sky. They are my heart, my soul, and everything I was, am, and ever will be. I am afraid that if I move on beyond the horizon, I will lose my memory of everything that gave my life purpose." The dragonfly flew towards the nest, perched at the edge of the rock, and stared towards the sunset. "Sir eagle, there is not much more time for you to remember. I will not claim to know what lies in the land beyond the horizon, but I do know this. If you truly wish to remember, then those memories will never fade. In every world, in every life, you will always have the wonders of your life with you. They will stay in your heart, and move with you wherever you may fly. They will love you as much as you love them, and will never, ever let you forget them." The dragonfly turned to look at the eagle. "Everything that the light touches will eventually crumble in time, but love and memory will persist beyond every obstacle. If you wish not to forget, then you will always have what matters most wherever you go." The eagle stepped forward and ruffled a few feathers. "Then what do you suppose I should do next?" "Fly to the horizon, and proceed to the land that beckons you." "But I cannot fly! My wings are too brittle, my feathers too frail!" "You can." Said the dragonfly, who began hovering in the air. "When fate beckons, the breeze will carry you where you need to go. All you need to do is spread your wings, remember what matters most, and let the winds take you beyond the sunset." As the dragonfly smiled, gave a wink, and buzzed away down the rocks, the eagle took another step forward until his dull, broken talons scraped at the edge of the cliff. He felt the breeze pick up around him, and he flexed his frail wings. For the first time in many, many seasons, he was not afraid of falling. As the wind caught his feathers, they scattered amidst the gust and blew into the shapes of his wonders: His wife. His friends. And not now, but maybe later, after many more seasons have passed, his children. They all beckoned to him, and a smile crossed the eagle's face as he let the breeze lift him into the sky. While his wonders fluttered around him, he too danced in the wind and let out a mighty screech to join in their song of rest. The horizon grew closer, though the eagle's fears didn't return. He may have been on his last flight, but he flew all the way home.


I looked at my watch, "what could be taking her so long?" I sigh "I hope she's okay." I plop down in my good ole recliner and kicked my feet up on the coffee table. Honk! Honk! "Oooh!" I screached almost jumping out of my skin. "I don't know why she does that to me everytime." I shook my head and grabbed my purse off the counter and sauntered out the door. My granddaughter sat in the driver seat of her black 1998 Honda civic in my drive way, she looks up and smiles as she sees me. "I'm sorry I'm late, I over slept as usual." She shrugged, "that's alright lady bug you're here now aren't ya?" Tissshhh! A loud crashing sound came from the back of the house, glass no less. I threw my arms up above my head caught off guard by the ruckus, "what the crap was that!?!" May yelled, clearly ticked off. She threw her car door open, slamming it shut behind her. "Now be careful, you don't know who's back there it could be unsafe just hold on a second!" I hollered "Damn girl" I sighed as she took off running toward the back through the gang way, I quickly shuffled after her. "HEY! Come back here!" She screamed, "what the hell is wrong with you!" She chased after someone that I could see running down the alley. "Just let them go! It's alright, it's just a window it can be fixed, get back here girl!" I yelled. May turned around and jogged back to the house her cheeks scarlet from running. "All I know is it was a girl looked like she was around my age, I can't believe she tried to break in your house!" She gasped catching her breath. "You don't know that that was what she was doing, innocent untill proven guilty, you know that." I nudged her in the side with my elbow. "Yeah well usually If someone breaks one of your windows they're trying to get in or they're a kid throwing rocks and she's clearly not a kid playing around." She frowned. "Oh well we have somewhere to be." I said, "we'll clean this up later, let's get going." I grabbed my Bible from the book shelf and made my way out to the front porch and sat down on my porch swing, the swing my daddy built when I was just a kid. I put my reading glasses on and got ready to spend some time with the good Lord as I swayed back and forth enjoying the cool evening air. I was just about to the second verse of the book of Job when I heard a can rattle across the cement in the backyard. I sat up straight and put my book down "Here we go again" I whispered to myself. I got up and slowly walked around back I was shocked to see a young girl huddled over my trash can I use for soda cans, "Ohh." She jumped as I startled her "I'm so sorry, I was just coming back to leave some money for the window I broke yesterday all I have is 25$ but you take it please, I was just looking at your cat in the window yesterday and I fell into your window on accident, I got scared and took off when I heard yelling. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble ma'am." She sputtered out as she twisted her fingers together in front of her and stared at her feet. "I see, yes that baby in there has to be the most beautiful cat on God's green earth, I believe you alright." I took in her appearance all at once, I hadn't noticed her tattered jeans and holey shirt and her shoes that were falling apart at first glance. "Here take this money, I know it's not enough but it's all I have." She sighed. "Why was you so interested in peeking in on my kitty cat now?" I smirked. Her eyes grew wide as she began nervously "I love cats they're my favorite animal, borderline crazy cat lady I guess, I lost my cat 2 months ago and yours looks just like her, so I couldn't help but look closer." She said kicking dirt off her shoe. "Keep your money honey, my husband already has glass from another house we used to live in, back there in the garage, so we won't be needing to purchase a new window. " I handed her back the twenty dollar bill and the five ones, I glanced at the crease of her elbow as she reached out to grab the cash, she had obvious bruising and many track marks like freckles on her skin. She noticed me looking and hurried up and snatched the money back and wrapped her arms around her body, as she stood there hugging her sides I decided to ask her if she wanted to come sit with me on my porch swing and have a glass of iced tea. She nodded obviously some what leery of what my intentions were. We walked around front and I slid into my side of the swing and she followed suit. I looked at her and said "Are your mother and/or father also addicts? I asked a little worried of her reaction. She slumped her shoulders and sighed, looking back at me "Yeah, no neither one had a drug problem, my dad used to drink when I still a baby, but my mom got tired of it and told him it was either her or the alcohol, and well he quit drinking, he's been sober ever since." She stared at her hands folded in her lap. "My brother is an addict, well all 3 of my brothers are addicts, technically the 2 half brothers are alcoholics and my full brother is a junkie, just like me." She shook her head. "I'm sorry to hear that, usually the parents have a problem that they pass on to their kids, so how did you start all of that?" I asked with great interest. "I don't really know, to be honest, like one day I was with 2 friends and they had a small bag of weed and a pipe made out of metal pipes from a kitchen sink they made, and we chose to try to smoke it." She grimaced and shook her head staring off towards the street. "That was the begining of the end, it instantly hooked me, I was changed forever that day at the park at the top of a plastic slide hiding from view so we wouldn't get caught and get in trouble." She explained. "I guess I was just meant to be a drug addict, because after that one hit of smoke that's all I could think about, it's all I wanted. I didn't want to be sober or clear headed and clean I wanted to be high." She picked at her nails and bit her hang nail as she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, it's not your problem ya know, I don't like to talk about it." She said. I put my hand on her shoulder and patted her a couple of times. "Honey sometimes all we can do is talk, talk about the hard stuff, the misery, and the pain. It's when we don't talk about it that were letting poison seep into our bones and rot our souls." I smiled at her. "I asked because you look like you need someone to talk to, and I think I am that someone. That is if you want to, I'm all ears, no judgement here." I said as I lifted my hands up the palms facing out dramatically. She smiled and sipped her tea finally as she sat back into the swing and relaxed her shoulders for the first time since I caught her in the back. "Why do you put needles in your arms? Aren't you afraid you'll cause damage to your body one day by accident?" I asked worriedly. "Yeah, yeah I do worry sometimes, but it's never enough for me to actually stop doing it." She sighed. "It's funny, the person that showed me how to shoot up for the first time told me before she showed me how to do it that, that she didn't like to be the person that helps someone start shooting up." She snorted. "Yet she still stuck that needle in my arm and stripped away my only grasp on getting clean." She spit through her teeth as she talked, "I lost my boyfriend, my home, my son, my dignity, and my self worth that day in that car that was parked behind her cousins garage in the alley on 14th street." A tear slipped down her cheek as she struggled to steady her breathing to keep from crying. She wiped the tear away angrily. I sighed, "I'm sorry you've had to discover one of life's many spiritual wars. Some of us are destined to suffer more so than some people, while others live carefree lives." I looked at her and gave her a look of empathy. "Exactly!" She forced out rather quickly, "I'm cursed, and my life is never going to be the way it was before I took that first hit of smoke, I'm ruined. And there's nothing I can do about it." She hiccuped holding back tears that threatened to spill over her eyelids. "Ya wanna know why I asked you to sit and talk with me?" I questioned her kindly. "Why?" She asked, "Well honey, I too am one of the chosen ones who knows many miseries and has suffered a many a decade or two maybe three or four. I saw myself in you when I found you around back tonight." I smiled as my voice cracked a little. "My drug of choice was crystal meth, but I did just about everything there was as long as it kept be from being sober." I said. I know exactly what you're experiencing because once I was a junkie just like you, with bruises and track marks that marked my skin, my arms, legs, and belly would be covered in unsightly black and blue from breaking blood vessels putting needles in my skin over and over again desperately trying to find blood in that syringe. I was also diagnosed with anxiety, depression, schizo affected disorder, and schizophrenia caused by the stimulants no less. But I've struggled many times with my burdens. But I never gave up hope." I smiled at her and patted her shoulder once again. I can't tell you why God wrote our stories this way but there's undoubtedly a purpose for every painful thing you experience. Don't ask me what that is. Only you and the Lord can figure that out together." I said as I looked up at the sky. The stars were starting to poke out behind the clouds that painted the night sky. "Ya know what? Hold on just a second, I have something you might like, it may give you reassurance when you're feeling hopeless some night." I said as I stood and made my way into the house. I hurried upstairs to my jewelry chest I kept tucked away under my bed, I opened the lid and found the false bottom underneath all my trinkets and sterling silver. I opened the bottom and pulled out the Platinum skeleton key, not just any skeleton key it was one my great great great grandpa gave to my grandma when they married. On top of the key where the usual half moon hoop would be, two little cat ears as well as whiskers on each side laced the top of the key in the shape of a cat's head with diamonds for the eyes and smaller diamonds for the whiskers. That key was the apidamy of strength. You might think it's silly a key with a cat as the handle but just like my grandma she was a crazy cat lady she'd move hell and earth for her kitties, I too have the cat lady gene and would die to save my Lil Buns anyday. I walked back out on to the porch and sat down, I smiled some what sheapish, you said you were admiring my Lil One in the window so much so that you could have been injured breaking the glass." I smiled and laughed a little bit. "Hold out your hands" I told her. She held out her hand in front of her and opened her palm I placed the key in her hand and closed her fingers around it. "This has been in my family for many generations us Yates women fancy ourselves cat conaseures you could say." I laughed. She looked down at the little key and she grinned from ear to ear, "Oh how cute is that!" She exclaimed with pure enjoyment washing over her words as she spoke. "A cat once saved my life, she was all I had when I lost everything to my addictions. That baby was my soul, she kept me here when I was ready to be done and pass on." I smiled. "She looked at me surpirised, "it's the cat in the window, isn't it?" She asked curiously. "You betcha, now I'm going to send a cat with you that can hopefully be of some comfort when you're fighting a battle that seems like it will never end." I said as I stood up and walked to the front door. "Well honey I'd better be off to bed, I need my beauty sleep." I winked as I made my way into the house. I smiled as I walked in and saw my husband fast asleep on the couch. The man that never gave up on me. That man let me bring my Lil One home with me that day I finally decided to get clean and come back home.