Graveyard: Life’s reality check When it comes to the part of memories, they are not only the collection of precious moments in our treasure box but also pre-gifted power to make our upcoming moments precious. Some memories are meant to be erased, some are meant to be learned, and some are meant to be applied. You may reckon why I am describing so much about memories, but you may not know the value of the moment until and unless it becomes a memory. This story is of two young men deciding to spend the night in the graveyard, ultimately learning life’s reality.  “ How long would it take a mechanic to arrive here ?” questioned Mark. “ I am trying to reach him, but due to network issues, I am not able to contact him, ” answered Jack.  “ It’s all because of you and your brainless planning Jack, we are trapped here. How shall we reach back to our place? It’s getting too late, and tomorrow we have our business associate meeting. How would we be able to reach there on time? Aaah! This hell network, not able to connect anyone, I wish I could  throw away this bloody network company. ” Mark exclaimed with an aggressive tone.

 “ Oh come on Mark, I too haven’t dreamt of such a situation, I only wished to have a long drive after hectic business days and thought you too would chill out for a while, ” exclaimed Jack again trying to contact the mechanic. “Oh God Jack, who has time for chilling, anyways, were you able to contact the mechanic person?” “ Still nope Bro,” answered Jack. Mark, a tall handsome man in his mid-thirties, a business-oriented person, only focused on making fame and money, still single, for him money matters everything, on the contrary, his business partner, Jack, a young man also in his mid-thirties, jovial, quite enthusiastic, lovable person. For him the only language that unites the whole world is love. For him, money is just a piece of paper, used to survive on this planet. A two opposite natured individual joined together in the bond of partnership, now got stuck in the middle of the forest, due to an unforeseen car repair. “What are you planning to do Jack, are you planning to spend the whole night in this dark jungle or do you have another foolish stuff in your head?” “Mark, your words are becoming so rude nowadays, try to modify your way of speaking. Anyways due to  network issues, I am not able to contact a car mechanic, so as of now we have no other option to leave the car here, and go in search of help, maybe we can get the help of local people here.” “Okay we don’t have any other option other than this, lock the car and we will move further.” Jack and Mark moved further in search of help so that they can move out of this deep forest as soon as possible. They quickened their pace in search of help. But both were not aware that with every walk they are moving a step closer to their destiny. After a long walk they both could see a bright fire somewhere close to them, they walked closer to it, and in the brightness of fire, saw an old man, face covered with wrinkled all around, dark-skinned, with bright white curly hairs, seemed that from years he hadn’t shaved his hair, sitting in front of a fire and roasting a rabbit for his meal. “Hello Sir, we are stuck in this forest, as our vehicle broke down and soon we have to reach back to our place, can you help us to move out of this place?” questioned Jack “Well Listen, son, from her, you have to walk another twenty miles to reach the main highway, from there you can catch any vehicle and reach back to your place, but at this time I don’t think so, it would be safe for you to walk twenty miles, as it too late, and the next twenty miles are covered with dense forest, which is homage to various wide animals, but then it's up to you, whether you want to travel or not, it was my duty to guide you.” exclaimed old man. (Jack now in a tensed expression sees Mark to consult with him) “What shall we do now, Mark? Are you willing to move forward, or shall we stay here tonight, and move further in the early morning?” “ Hmm! No problem, we will stay here tonight”. (Who would like to stay here in this ruined area, but who too wants to be a meal of wild animals murmured Mark.) “ Sir, can we know what are you doing here, alone in this dark jungle, that too at late night?” Jack questioned Old Man. “Son, I am a gravedigger, working in this cemetery. This is my home and I stay here.” answered the Old Man. Jack and Mark hollered, “what! Is this a graveyard?” “Yes, my son” answered Old Man. “Why you didn’t tell us earlier about this graveyard? We wouldn’t have agreed to stay here, What the hell is going on here?” shouted Mark “Come on Jack, I am not ready to stay here in this graveyard, with this stinking Old man, let us leave just now.” “Ohh my dear son, I don’t have any problem, if you wish to leave, you are free to do so, but make sure you have all the weapons to handle the wild animals. I hope you would have it!” responded the Old Man. “Hello, you old coot, trying to frighten us, with your dangerous advice?” bellowed Mark. “Not at all my dear son, I only tried to safeguard you, but anyways if you want to follow your own way, you are always free to do so” expressed Old Man.

“Come on Jack, let us leave from this place ” ordered Mark. “ Are you sure Mark? You are willing to leave this place, make sure we won’t be getting any help from anyone in between our journey, as from now till crossing twenty miles, not a single resident lives. So think once again” advised Jack. “Then you wish to spend the rest of the night in this graveyard?” questioned Mark. “It’s better to stay with dead persons rather than getting dead!” Jack exclaimed with a wink. “Ohh GOD what to do, anyways you got a chance to take revenge, your TIT for TAT subject would be completed here. Isn’t it?” expressed Mark “Ohh! Come on Mark, why would I even think of taking revenge on you, as I told you earlier, it was not my plan, I never dreamt of such foreseen happening, nothing was under my control, you too know it, I only planned for your happiness, but all things went out of the way” said Jack. So after a long discussion and argument ultimately Jack and Mark decided to spend the rest of the night in the graveyard accompanied by the old man. “As now, you both ultimately decided to spend the night with me, would you wish to enjoy rabbit roast with me? It tastes too delicious, and you seem tired. You can charge up your energy level.” “Ohh thank you for your dramatic concern, you enjoy your delicious meal.” expressed Mark. “Sorry sir, don’t mistake my friend, though his words may seem rude, but he is tender by heart. You enjoy your meal sir, we will have it later,” exclaimed Jack. In the middle of the forest, with a bright shiny moon, with accompanying starts embedded like a diamond stone on a black velvet cloth, surrounded by huge ancestral trees, sounds of a howling wolf, clicking bats, buzzing mosquitoes, hissing snakes, raised our heartbeats, sweat started dripping down, which made us feel cold with every touch of a gentle breeze, fragrance of wet mud filled the air and we two in middle of the graveyard surrounded by memorial sites all around. “Sir, where do you sleep? Don’t you have any hut, or kind of it to stay?” Jack asked the Old Man. “No son, this whole graveyard is my home. I am working here for the last 40 years and I started my work when I was just ten years old with my father, but soon he left us, and from then till now, I am the in-charge of this graveyard. People from all nearby places come here to bury their loved ones, and I spent my life burying those dead bodies.” “Don’t you feel afraid of staying here, sir?” Jack questioned. “ No son what is there to be afraid of, instead this is the much safer place on earth, as the dead person lived their life and now they know the value of life because they are the one who went through the reality of life, and now they know, nothing in the world is permanent, they too know that world is nothing but a mere stage, where we are just actors, and our permanent homage is the graveyard, so they don’t wish to harm anybody.” explained the old man. Mark overhearing all their conversation starts to think, are all the luxuries in which he lives, all the money which he has acquired, all the fame, prestige, and wealth which he worked for, are temporary? So does it mean all the effort spend on it is vain? So he thinks, if nothing is permanent, why we are born in this temporary stage, is our life a time pass? “If you feel graveyard is safer than any place why do people fear staying here? And if the world is a temporary stage, why GOD gave us birth? Is our life a mere time pass?” Mark questioned the Old Man. “Your answer to the first question is too simple, it’s because people prefer to believe in a beautiful lie rather than an ugly truth.  You are born on this planet with a purpose, your life is not just a time pass, GOD has sent you to accomplish a great task, and finding meaning to your purpose is your ultimate destiny, But what you people do, always try to chase the worldly pleasure, without knowing the purpose of it, I am not in an opinion that money is not important, it is important to sustain life, but in the race of making money, don’t forget to make relations. Working in this graveyard for the last forty years, I have learned life’s important lesson, seeing you young guys, wish to share it with you, you may think what this old coot will deliver us, but mark my words, those are the life’s important lesson, that you may neither find in any book nor could search it anywhere” said the Old Man roasting his rabbit.    “Life is too short to be lived, so enjoy every moment.” “Nothing is more precious than your time spent on your happiness, money gone can be earned, but a broken heart is hard to restitch, and even stitched it leaves behind a permanent mark on it.” “Be a person in this world, that when you die at least there are four persons who truly miss your presence.” “My dear sons love your life, you are made by a heavenly creature named god. He has spent the entire course of his life to design you, love yourself, love others, make your place a heaven to stay in, as at last you too have to come back to the same place, and your body too would be buried deep in the world”. “Have you ever guessed my sons why our body is buried deep inside the earth?” questioned the Old man. Jack and Mark seeing each other shrugged. Old Man answered “It’s only to show the reality that you are born for this mother nature, and your ultimate destiny is back to nature itself. After we die, our body has a purpose to satisfy the hunger of worms, so find meaning in every work, and love the work you do. As you work to gather money, work to gather relations too, as money can be lost one day, but true relations made are forever”  After hearing life’s ultimate truth, Mark revised his course of life and understood that in the race of making money and fame, he never had time for his loved ones, but they are the one who stayed with him in a tough time, but somehow, staying a night in graveyard taught them life’s an important lesson and from that night onwards, he understood making money is a part of life but gathering relations itself is life. He too understood that the only thing man takes with him in his last part of his life is the golden memories stored in his treasure box, so they are more valuable than any other precious commodities in this world. Meanwhile, Old man prepared his handmade bed, which was nothing but a pile of dry grass, which is used to cover the coffin, before closing it with mud, and in a short while, all slept with a deep sense of peace in there mind. The dawn broke, and which the first ray of the sun, Mark and Jack decided to leave, they searched for the old man, for giving a thank note, but could find nowhere. As it was getting late for them, they left the graveyard and started their journey back to their home. While entering the graveyard they had nothing with them, but while going back, they had a collection of precious moments, which later would be their best memory of their life.


She wasn’t supposed to be alive.            They had a plan. They watched, pupils dilating with unparalleled shock as the monitors as big as the stumps of a red wood splashed the target’s steps on the bustling sidewalk. Her heart-beating, blood pumping, alert, and alive, very much alive footsteps. How could this have happened? They all thought collectively. Never had they been unable to plan, predict, and manipulate the puppets who referred to themselves as human beings but to them had become much less, inferior things. They, the watchers, controllers, were the real humans, the ones with the sharpest minds and most elite tools. With eyes that could see into the commoners’ psyche. It was they who fed the masses the information they wanted them to perceive, and they who treated the people’s lives like a miniscule chess game. Not even chess, but checkers, for they saw the intricacies dull and limited. The people were in their hands. They were utterly predictable. But the barreling truth was that Target 337 was walking down the street of the city center, wholly alive and nothing, not in the remotest sense, was predictable about that. They were never wrong, never unable to breach the boundaries of human control in order to achieve their desires. Treasures were hidden, books obliterated, and people terminated. It was their world, the version they let their subjects see. The common folk were the slaves in the cave, and they controlled the light show cascading along the walls. As they all stared at Esther Johnson, the snake of unease slithered up their legs and quickly tightened around their throats. She made them wrong, forced them to undergo a previously foreign experience. It was a combustion of confusion, disdain, and sheer shock. The control room was silent, but as they stared at the screens, one thing fermented with equal vigor in the deepest depths of each of their bones. The Gatekeepers wanted revenge. ~~~~~ Esther wasn’t supposed to be alive. She could feel it, like an invisible noose around her neck. The Gatekeepers wanted her dead, just like her grandfather. She could see every taunt they threw in her path. She had to change every step she took, every path and schedule, in order to stay ahead or else she would be rendered the victim of some accident that wasn’t really an accident, or worse, would just disappear altogether. She kept her head down. Her navy shoes had black laces on the left one, with a small sailor’s knot tied at the end of the shoe’s lace. It was a symbol, discrete enough that the usual passerby wouldn’t think to look twice. There were those who would, though. There had to be. Her Grandfather’s teachings had told her that it would signal the right people to come help. People like him. People like her.

A flash of her grandfather’s face passed in front of her eyes. Read this, child. It will answer all your questions. Esther was only fifteen at the time, but she had never been given a book that wasn’t mandated by The Gatekeepers. All of the ones Esther had been given in school were shiny and stiff. Her grandfather’s gift had yellowed pages with a leather cover that frayed along the edges. Esther could still feel its weight in her hands, long poured over after it was given to her. It had no title. A title, when trying to protect the sacredness of the words inside, would only help in revealing the very thing we’re trying to protect from destruction. Her grandfather had said. Esther remembered wondering who exactly “we” referred to. Her grandfather was always shrouded in an eerie mask, always quiet at family dinners whenever Esther’s father discussed his job as an assistant for the Chosen Council. Esther had always found herself more intrigued from watching her grandfather’s facial reactions than she ever did listening to her father drone. She thought back to the “we” his grandfather alluded to. She wondered if her grandfather was with them now. Maybe he was pacing back and forth, staring out some window, waiting for his granddaughter’s arrival. Esther brushed the thought off her shoulder. That type of daydream was all in vain. Her grandfather was dead. She saw them do it. The Gatekeepers, sliding silently with the shadows in the night. Esther quickened her steps on the street as she thought back to the dreaded night. She was on her way to their usual meeting when it happened. She peeked from behind a dumpster, having thrown herself there, as always, while her grandfather went ahead to make sure it was safe. That’s when they came for him. Esther felt her grandfather’s strangled screams in her own throat as she watched black attired men grab him. They murdered her grandfather in cold blood, with the effortless click of the deadly technology they held to his neck. Tears, terrified at what her eyes saw, ran in haste down her face to escape. Nothing could come out of her own strangled throat. There was pressure felt there by some invisible noose around her neck, a feeling that would never go away after that night. All she could think was that her grandfather had been right. He had been right, and there was no going back. When the mysterious figures went to drag him away, Esther fell from her crouching position, fear and agony overcoming her. As she did so, her shoulder hit the corner of the dumpster, and an echo shot through the night. In horror, she watched as the men turned around in an instant. She didn’t dare breathe or move, her heart pumping profuse amounts of blood in her ears, loud as drums. Their words were mumbled, but she saw them pace around the perimeter. The lights of the center city didn’t reach this part sector, so there was little they could see. She was grateful for that. One of the men started venturing closer to her, each step striking the chords of panic in Esther’s veins. His eyes roved the vicinity, any second he was going to take a step too close and catch the hidden witness. Esther winced in preparation, already envisioning the feel of the weapon that killed her grandfather on her neck when the other man fiercely whispered that it was all clear. Esther couldn’t breathe until the close man, who took one last look around, walked back to the steps of her meeting room. After that, the men quickened their pace, desperate to get out of there and move on with their murderous evening. Esther caught them saying, “We’ll get killed if we messed this up, let’s go!” and she was never sure if the voice had meant that in a symbolic or literal sense. They hurled her grandfather like some inanimate object into the open side door of the densely black Chose Council hover car. The sight stabbed Esther in the chest and made her want to stride over and beat the two men to a pulp. As they zoomed off, Esther pictured every detail of her assault. Those men had murdered her grandfather, the truest friend she had ever known. Esther couldn’t move. She was weighed down by the chains that seemed to cut through her body and seer her with pain. It was hours into the night before she could manage to stand up, knowing that her grandfather would have wanted it. He had taught her to be strong, so that night, she would have to be. When she stood, she found herself automatically walking to the back door. She wanted to go inside to their meeting room. The thought of the dim lights, the dark, aging wood and the miscellaneous conglomeration of leather books warmed her. She wanted to make her grandfather alive again, by wrapping herself in his favorite spot. When she reached the back steps, her eyes, swollen from crying, caught sight of something lying on the ground. Esther stopped mid-step and turned towards it. Even in her grief, curiosity gnawed at her insides. She stepped over to the object and peered down at it. Electric currents shot down her spine. The world stopped. The metal device stared at her, taunting her with its single button that lay in its center. The one that killed her grandfather. The men who came must have dropped it in their rush to leave. Esther spat at it, cursed it for its powers and how it was used. There was so much anger boiling up inside her, but something else too. The device, it was inscribed. Esther knelt on the ground beside it, not wanting to touch her grandfather’s murder weapon, to see what it said. When she read what was there, her eyes widened. T.G. embedded inside a Victorian style gate. The Gatekeepers. The screams her grandfather couldn’t let out in his final moments somehow found their way to Esther’s ears at that moment. Run, he seemed to say, and don’t let the blindness catch you. That night, danger came like a raging storm cloud barreling down on her. She ran away with tears in her eyes and a heart that thumped with something Esther had never particularly experienced. It beat with dangerous purpose. Esther pulled herself out of the memory, the constant loop of it in her head was the fuel to her fire, but she had to stay focused. Looking around her, she saw swarms of people, all with screen glasses on. They were worn to protect their staring eyes from the strain of looking at the colossal screens that towered over the city. Thousands of screens so close together they all seemed to blend, like a sea of a thousand colors surrounded the heads of city folk and infiltrated the sky. Each one had something to say. Buy the newest hip thinner to get the perfect body you always wanted! One woman said in a sultry voice. Another, NEWEST HOVERBOARD, PERFECT FOR ALL! Then there were the videos of the newsreels, “The Chosen Council is here for the people of this city, they have the experience, and their every rule needs to be followed or we all will perish. The Gatekeepers are on their side, to protect us from the harsh realities of hateful and inaccurate information. We couldn’t handle that darkness; it would infiltrate society and ruin what we have built. Let us heal from the past, and let The Gatekeepers help us do so.” The television shows and news cycles created a cacophony so overwhelming that some opted for earpieces. The earpieces played their own noise, yes, but at least the interruptions for issued ads were limited. When Esther was younger, many of her friends thought the overload of jumbo screens was chaotically beautiful. Esther just thought it was obnoxious. When she made a remark to them in class about the screens being like the Chosen Council’s vanity haven, no one laughed. Her grandfather had always said that they probably didn’t appreciate a dry sense of humor. You’re like me, Esty. He had said, but some people can't seem to take a joke. As she kept her eyes down on the city street, she wasn’t so sure her joke had been far from the truth. The bitter afternoon air bit at Esther. She tightened her arms around her winter coat. Around her, the sea of anonymous people had alert eyes, but they were dangerously hungry too. It seemed as if everyone was on the prowl, almost hoping for something out of place that they could pounce on. They seemed to close in around her. Could they see her mind? She wondered. Could they see how it believed so differently than their own? As Esther’s thoughts twirled in her brain, her eyes spotted someone. He walked in the opposite direction just in front of her. He was middle aged, but his dark hair was cut into the sharp lines of someone who had access to the best hairdressers in the city. His trench coat flowed behind him, and if Esther had been lost in the screens like many of her surrounding company, she would have missed it. He was looking down. His eyes trained on her shoes. Specifically, her left shoe, the one with the black laces and the tiny sailor’s knot. The world melted into slow motion. She held her breath. Her eyes glared at the stranger, waiting, praying, begging for recognition. Seconds became centuries as he slowly inched closer. He was almost directly in front of her now, about to pass by when he looked up. When Esther locked eyes with the man, it was as if someone punched her gut. All the air she had been holding flew out. The stranger’s eyes did flare in recognition, but the sharpness of the glare shot warning signals like needles everywhere on Esther’s skin. Just then, the memory of her grandfather’s words sling-shot directly into the center of her consciousness for the second time in her life. Run, he had pleaded. RUN. Her feet carried her off at warp speed. The device that killed her grandfather, the one that she stuffed in her pocket the night she watched him die, bounced in her pocket. ~~ An excerpt from the book of Esther’s grandfather: They were supposed to honor the truth. To trust them was to believe in the promise of society. Everyone wanted to be them, to be a part of their sanction so as to serve what they thought was the ultimate form of defense against deception of the powerful. They were supposed to be driven by duty. Until the darkness seeped into their veins, they were everything they were supposed to be. They were never supposed to be the enemy.


Long ago, before the moon was cracked, there was a man. Not a noble who spent his time fighting wars, or even a righteous man that spent his days pondering the meanings of life. Nor was he a man dedicated to the service of others, for he didn’t have enough time to wonder about tales of grandeur. He was nothing special, just a simple Farmer who did his job and did it well. The Farmer would rise with the rooster’s crow every day and tend to his crops. First thing at dawn he would make sure the crops were fresh so he could begin his harvest, plucking the fresh wheat from the field. Then after he stowed those bushels of grain away he would get to planting again, tilling the ground until he could plant fresh seeds in the ground every day. Then after lunch he would water and pluck weeds. Finally at twilight he would spend his time swatting away insects and pests determined to consume his bounty. By the end of the day the wheat had grown to his height and the Farmer would retire knowing his work was cut out for him in the morning. Rain or shine, he was out there tending to his crops, making sure there was always something to eat. He would follow his schedule to harvest every single morning in an almost mechanical fashion, but then one morning when he went to harvest his crops, he found something peculiar. There was a single wolf, staring at him through the brush. The Farmer, not quick to violence, proclaimed to the beast, “Begone!” Yet when the Wolf heard his words it acted on instinct and attacked the Farmer. The Wolf believed itself able to tear the Farmer to shreds, but with a flick of his wrist the beast was thrown from the farm. Landing back in the brush to which the Farmer proclaimed to the beast, “I have not the time to entertain such frivolous adventures. Begone from my sight!” The Wolf, after regaining its footing, immediately ignored the words of the Farmer. The Wolf was thoroughly entertained and it charged back through the grass to attack the Farmer. But upon arrival the Farmer tossed it back into the brush. Yet every time the Farmer threw the Wolf, it would get up and charge out. This lasted not just for the entire day, but the next as well. Then the next, and the one after that, before long this was the Farmer’s new normal. Tossing the Wolf out every time it got too close, until one day when the Wolf once again got too close, he simply ignored it. The Wolf, confused at this act, didn’t attack. For it had forgotten why it should after so long and likely many head injuries. From this point on the Farmer would no longer throw the Wolf and the Wolf would no longer attack. Now the Wolf was nothing more than a passive observer and had no chance of getting the attention it so craved. This new normal made the Wolf furious. That was until the day the Wolf constructed a plan and charged out into Farmer’s land through the crops. This may have angered the Farmer having his work trampled, but it did not show on his face when he threw the Wolf back out of the farm. He raised his hand and proclaimed, “I have no need for such a destructive creature! Begone to never return to my sight!” With that whenever the Wolf returned it could hardly even get close to the Farmer. It would simply hit a wall and get stuck outside of the Farm. Even on the days that it could get into the farm it was unable to find the Farmer, as if the Wolf was truly unable to return to his side. With the loss of its entertainment the Wolf made a choice: if the Farmer would not play because of the crops, then it would be better if the crops disappeared. When the Farmer went to sleep one night, the Wolf went out into the field and began tearing the crops out. The next morning the Wolf waited in the brush in the vain hope it would be able to see the Farmer. Yet when dawn struck and around the time the Farmer usually arrived the Wolf abdicated his hiding spot charging out to where the farmer usually stood. Only to hit the wall once more. The Wolf barely caught a glimpse of the Farmer as he didn’t even turn to see the Wolf as resumed his sewing once again. The Farmer may not have had crops to harvest, but he still had the seeds to plant. This made the Wolf angry. It had in the Farmer’s absence worked hard all night to tear up the plants but the Farmer was still ignoring it. So the next night the Wolf tore up the crops again and the Farmer responded in kind, planting them once again. This cycle went on for several days until finally one night the Farmer stayed awake and waited, until the Wolf arrived. For the first time in so long the Wolf could see the haggard Farmer who proclaimed loudly to be heard clearly, “I have been kind to let you remain. But now the end of my patience has been found, you are no longer welcome to return to my fields.” With that the Farmer picked him up and threw him farther than he had ever thrown him before. This time the Wolf didn’t end up in the brush but tore through the trees tearing down several in the process. The Wolf, thoroughly dazed and hurt, was unable to tear up crops that night, but this act did little to dissuade the Wolf as he returned the next night. Determined to get the crops again. Only for the Farmer to be there once again. Preventing the Wolf from even setting foot on his farm, keeping it thoroughly trapped in the forest. The Farmer didn’t even look to the creature as it scratched and scraped against the barrier between them determined to be acknowledged. This persisted for seven days until one night the Wolf returned to find that the Farmer was no longer there. Had he given up on protecting his farm? If he had, why were there no crops to tear up that night? These questions swirled around in the Wolf’s head until it found its way to the Farmer’s cabin, a place it had never had any interest in before now. Simple, old and generally falling apart just like the Farmer himself. But as the Wolf peered through one of the windows it found lying in bed was an ill Farmer. Exhausted from staying up every night to prevent the Wolf’s shenanigans while continuing his work in the day. The Farmer had collapsed. The Wolf did not understand, until the Farmer’s Wife exited the cabin and proclaimed to the beast so loudly the neighbors miles away must have heard, “You attack my husband's livelihood and now you plan on taking his life as well! You are nothing but a mindless monster!” The Wolf had been called many things by the Farmer but never a monster. The Wolf turned tail and retreated leaving the woman to her own devices. She returned to her husband and told him about the Wolf. The Farmer shrugged at her saying, “If the Wolf wanted to attack me, it would have a hundred times by now. It wants attention more than it feels malice.” And with that the Farmer went to sleep. For the first time in what felt like a century he got rest, not waking up until long after dawn the next day. But with his rest the Farmer took himself out of the house much to his wife’s protest. He may not be able to seed the field today but he could prepare it for tomorrow, where he would be two days behind at this point and would have to work especially hard to not fall even farther behind. Yet when he arrived at the field he was greeted by the sight of his crops growing fresh in the daylight. The Farmer didn’t understand, but when he found the Wolf resting among the tools he knew the answer. The Farmer took it upon himself to acknowledge the Wolf’s work. Even if they weren’t exactly properly seeded the effort was still there, the Farmer approached the Wolf. And for the first time the Wolf didn’t immediately snap or attack. Instead the Wolf, just remained still likely exhausted from the work as the Farmer had once been when he first started this work as well. They both remained motionless as they waited for the other to make the first move, the Wolf too tired to charge for it’s daily tossing and the Farmer more interested in the Wolf’s efforts. It was left up to the Farmer being the only one that could move as he lightly placed a hand on the Wolf and spoke softly with a fervent dedication, “If it is attention you so desire, then it is like this that you will earn it.” Every day from then on the Farmer would teach the Wolf his trade. It may not have been the most extravagant or illustrious work but it was long, hard and rewarding. Along with this extra hand the Farmer was freed up to do more. He fixed up his home and even built a little shelter in the barn for the Wolf. And then one day the Farmer planted something, the Wolf was confused. The placement was far too close to the house to be a crop and the seed looked nothing like it had ever seen. The Farmer invited the Wolf over while he worked and showed it how to plant this new seed. With the seed in hand the Wolf planted it not sure what it would create. That was until it bloomed the next day. And to the Wolf’s surprise in the freshly turned soil near the house it found the most unexpected life. A brilliant star in such a deep shade of light that the sky barely got at the deepest of sunset, and when the Farmer arrived he witnessed the Wolf stare in awe of the vibrant and joyous colored petals on the flower and spoke softly, “It may not exactly be a fruit or a grain but it is a lot like you, needing a guiding hand to help it bud. But when it does I am glad to say it is sure to be a magnificent star.” The Wolf didn’t know what to do, so it did the only thing it could. It ate the flower and ran.


He was wandering in the forest the day he died. He came from a quaint little medieval town, the type that hadn’t ever seen any danger or evil. Well, apart from the legends. According to local folklore, there was something dreadful lurking in the forest nearby. At least, that’s what the elderly woman had said to him when he was just a child. Tybalt had grown up obsessed with the rumors, yearning to satisfy his curiosity. So, as a young adult he ignored all the warnings and set off on his “grand adventure”, enthralled with what he might find in the dark forest. Eventually, he discovered a hidden path through the forest, appearing man-made. He followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, as it got colder and colder and the trees got taller and taller, barely allowing any light in. It was at this point Tybalt started to get scared. What was he going to find here, really? Had he just made a massive mistake? In retrospect, yes. But, despite his fear, he kept going. He had to find out what was in this forest. He *needed* to. It was only when the whispering started that the idea of turning back came into his head. But there was no turning back now, he thought. He was here. A deep and dark cave, mysterious symbols carved into the walls? Whatever evil thing lives in this forest, it lives here. He entered the cave, his heart pounding as he took each step. As he walked further into the cave, the enigmatic carvings grew more frequent, until the whole cave, from the walls to the roof, was covered in them. Finally, he reached the end of the cave where a wooden door sat, begging to be opened. He put his hand on the doorknob, slowly turning it and opening the door. Whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this. He wasn’t even sure what *this* was. The chanting wasn’t in any language he had heard before and all the hoods and cloaks, the massive statue of some tentacled abomination, plus the dead goat on the altar really wasn’t helping. Cautiously, he backed away from the doorway and shut the door silently, his flight instinct kicking in. He had to get out of here, now. As it happens, he was correct in that regard. Getting out of here was the best option. Unfortunately, he was so focused on not making any noise closing the door that he hadn’t noticed the chanting had abruptly stopped. As soon as it was shut, he took off running and it was only then that he noticed the horrific clawing sounds coming from behind him. He didn’t know what these hooded figures were, but they didn’t seem human. They were all collectively babbling something, but the voices sounded twisted, distorted and…well, inhuman. Alas, Tybalt didn’t have long to contemplate what these things were, as they soon caught up with him. It didn’t take long for the village to work out what had happened to him. No one comes back from the forest. They simply classed him as “missing” and moved on. The same thing happened to many people over the course of history. Villagers and travelers would hear the rumors and, curious, venture alone into the forest, only to “go missing” because they interfered in our rituals. That’s why we started those rumors. It says those people taste the best.


I was only about twelve or so when I noticed a new presence in my life. It was the kind of presence where you'd see it out of the corner of your eye, or when you look somewhere quick. It's like a dark shadow, but when you look to the spot, it's gone. I've heard of other people dealing with this before but never anyone near me. This dark figure hung around a lot, more often in winter at first but after the first three years of my new companion, it started hanging around year round, often in the dark. After the third winter with the figure hanging around, just barely out of sight, it started showing up more and more, not just during the night anymore but any time during the day, day after day. It wasn't until after that winter, when I was 14, did I finally meet someone who dealt with the same issue I had. His name was Michael, a popular kid who I don't think anyone had a problem with. He spoke to me about the figure often and to others, and it made me realize I wasn't alone. The figure kept getting more and more common with me, I kept it to myself for the most part. Then one day I get a call, "Mike's dead" the voice on the other line tells me, I struggle to respond and ask how, only to be told that he took his own life. I know Mike, that's not Mike I told myself, that's not him. The next few days the figure seems to leave me alone and grieve. Then day it came back, and I guess it didn't enjoy it's time gone because it was worse than ever, doing a dance just beyond my vision but I knew it was right there. Weeks pass and I was taunted by this figure worse and worse every day. Then days came and it didn't jump in and out of the edge of my vision, it was clear ahead of me, clear as day. That's when I lost control, I tied a rope I found that I had in a way I've practiced many times before, but this time was different, because it wasn't going to be untied, I looked the beast in the eyes as I wrapped the rope around my neck and here I was, being controlled, not by anyone else, but by something inside me, something I couldn't control. A cancer of the mind. I released my weight, and as I gasped my final breath I realized what this monster was for it's true form, which went by the name of depression.


He lay in bed recounting the past two years. They were dreary, dull. His only memories were that of his ceiling and occasionally some forced smiles looking down at him. His family was ‘supportive’ in their own way, although they would never support him in the one thing he actually wanted. The only thing in the world that could make everything better for him. Death. It would be too painful for them though, so there he lies, a vegetable. Drooling all day. Barely able to get the words out to tell people how he truly feels. Just then there was a knock at the door. He recognized the tenderness of the gentle rasps. It was the one person who he looked forward to seeing. The one person that made an effort to show that she understood the pain he was going through. *“Come in,”* the words passed through his lips like sandpaper over rough metal. She opened the door and let herself in, taking her usual seat at his bedside. The way she acted towards him one would think they’d been lovers before his incident. They were simply the best of friends although he couldn’t help but think they’d have been more if he’d met her before she was married. She held his hand in hers and he felt his muscles relax. He was never truly free from the pain but her touch made him feel light inside. Like he was free from his cage. He looked in her eyes and saw all the pain reflected from his own. She could tell he was hurting and it hurt her just the same. A tear rolled down his cheek. It was refreshing and the warmth of her brushing it away was intense. She noticed a flash of discomfort in his eyes, maybe regret? “What’s on your mind?” She asked. His lips trembled, he didn’t want to but, he knew that she was the only person he could ask. *“I need to ask you for something,”* he started, *“tell me if it’s too much.”* She already knew what was coming. “Yes, I’ll do it”. Her lower lip trembled as the words left her mouth. She wouldn’t enjoy it but she had to do it for him. He deserved that much. They both fell silent. Both had suspected this day was coming. Neither was entirely ready for it though they knew it was entirely beneficial. She looked him dead in the eyes, almost as if to ask ‘are you ready’? He blinked. That had been a part of their code for a while. She knew how difficult it was for him to speak so they developed their own language. It was easier for both of them. Neither had to actually say what they were feeling but, they could express it. She reached behind the bed and unplugged him. Muting his machine in the same motion. He held her hand as the pain began to spread throughout his body. It was a pain at his core, as though his bones themselves were on fire. She leaned down and caressed his lips with her own. Lingering there for a moment before curling up on the bed beside him. She had almost made him regret his decision. Luckily, he didn't have enough time for that. Regardless, this was the happiest he'd been in a long time.


He is African rock royalty. Even after the long absence, his presence lingers in the hearts and minds of his fans. No, not just fans. They are his subjects. His enemies go so far as to call them his minions. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. All he wanted was to live and work and play without the suffocating mask of royalty, to enjoy the priceless peace that he had travelled so far to get. But one of his enemies found him. "What is this place? What are you doing, hiding here in the back of nowhere?" He offered the visitor a mango picked from the mango tree in his garden. "I'm not hiding. I'm finally living. No more schedules, no more commitments, no more being the conscience of an entire nation. How's your wife and kid?" The visitor sprinkled powdered chili on a piece of mango. "Fine. And it's kids now. Didn't you get the 324 baby pics?" "I haven't been online for...a while. 324? Really?" "I may be a bit smitten with my newborn daughter. You don’t miss it?" "You get used to it after a while. After all, there was life on planet earth before the Internet and -." "I'm talking about the music. Don't you miss the music?" "I carry the music with me wherever I go. It's all the other stuff that I don't want." "That other stuff is what gave you fame and fortune and fans." "I never wanted all that. I just wanted to make music. I get to do that here. In peace." "The fans want you back." "No." "You owe it to them." "Like The Beatles, I have given the fans my nervous system. I have nothing left to give." " What about your band?" "They have a new lead singer." "She is not you." "Wasn’t that the point? New blood and gender diversity and all that?" "She is not you." "And I am not the band. I'm not going back to being joined to the hip with that institution." "It's just a band." "It's a Multinational Corporation! I never signed up to be the leader of that monstrosity. When did that band turn from being a beauty into a beast?" His question remained suspended in the space between them, like the sword of Damocles. The visitor evaded the question by busying himself with the messy business of eating a juicy mango. When he was done, he wiped his hands on the serviette then pulled out the “small guns”. "I can make you disappear. For good." "I am well aware of your powers. But even you cannot compete with my reputation." " I know people who can erase your reputation." "At a cost, of course." "Of course. You know how it is. Nothing is for free." "So how much will my freedom cost?" "One final tour." Only three words but they hit him with an avalanche of images and memories and deafening applause and pedestals and shouting matches laced with barbed-wired words. He busied himself with clearing the table then wiping it as he breathed through the onset of a panic attack. "That's a hefty price." "Freedom is expensive." He took a moment to weigh the pros and cons. His decision did not surprise either one of them. "Your offer is tempting. But peace is priceless. So unless you can bottle up what I have found here and bring it with me, my answer remains no." Glaring contest. The visitor blinked first then switched to the big guns. He took out his phone, opened the app that managed all the band's social media pages and typed. "Either you agree or...with this one post, I will reveal your exact location." "You're bluffing." "Last chance." "You wouldn’t dare." "5...4...3..." "Why are you doing this?" "2..." "I just want to be left alone!" "1..." "Please!" "Is that a yes?" "No." "And...sent." "You...Why...I don’t feel so..." He doubled over and vomited. Within an hour, #prodigalrockstar was trending. Exactly one year later, #prodigalrockstarback was trending. The tour was a resounding success, despite him fighting nerves then vomiting his victory over nerves (or was it defeat?) every single time before going on stage. The preparations had been taxing. He was out of practice and out of shape and out of sorts. He was older too, so he had to learn to pace himself. He had to work to reconnect with the other band members after shutting them out for so long. He had to learn how to share the limelight with the new lead singer. He had to fight his demons and a variety of monsters, sometimes during his waking hours, mostly in his nightmares. In one fight, the masked monster was ruthless, throwing him against a wall, over and over again. He finally had enough of being thrown around and fought back, fought dirty, until he managed to remove the monster’s mask. He woke up in a cold sweat because behind that monster’s mask was his own familiar face. He confided in the band’s therapist that he had missed some aspects of the royal life. Making music, arguing music, soaking in music with his comrades in arms. The rapport with his minions. The magic of being on stage, sharing his gift with the world. The satisfaction of a job well done. A lot of it was like before. The energy, the enthusiasm, the controlled chaos, being treated like royalty. Yet, it was also different. Because he was different. Being away had irrevocably changed him. He was going to miss them when he left it all behind. “How did you know?” He asked the visitor a few days before he was to say goodbye to his royal life. It was mango season again. He was going through 324 baby pics. “Know what?” “That I needed this final tour?” “It was just a hunch. Also…” “Also?” “My wife is one of your minions.” They laughed, they cried, they said goodbye, knowing that their friendship would stand the test of time and an abdication.


(Inspired by Grimm Fairy Tales and Black Souls) Iron. That was what stuck with him the most. The smell. The taste. Red dripping from his claws, his fangs, so much crimson that it seemed to overcome his senses, blinding him with senseless fury. It was only when he saw her that he could calm down, when she cradled his head in her arms, whispered sweet nothings to him and told him that it would all be alright. They would always return in silence, as they slowly strode up the stairs to her room, closing the door with nary a word. The beast would drag himself to the wash, submerge himself in large copper basin filled with scalding water, try to wash the blood from his thick and matted fur. But the smell never faded, the taste never left his mouth. Everywhere and everything was just more blood. He’d dry himself off as well as he was able, sitting down in a large ornate leather chair as he watched her sleep. She’d always wake up, sleepily rising from the bed as she took his hand, against his protests. He’d feebly resist as she dragged him back to their resting place, lying her head against his chest as he stared at the ceiling in shame. He wasn’t fit to be here with her. Fit to share a bed with this girl who had given him so much. No maid should share their bed with a Beast. The people knew to avoid the castle, and the roads that surrounded it. Everyone knew the tale of the savage creature that walked the roads, tearing apart all in its path. And yet braver caravans and merchants still tried to cross it, eager to save time and money on investments and sales. Such a caravan, guarded by hired mercenaries and armed soldiers braved that road one fateful night, accompanied by the merchant and his family. Yet what is mortal weaponry against the Beast? What is the armaments of man against the Fangs of God? He descended upon them like a flurry of claws and fangs, his devastating jaws crunching through steel plate like it was made of paper, his sharpened talons slicing through iron blades like it was naught but the toys of children. One by one, the men fell, screaming as the Beast descended upon them, muffled gurgles as he tore into their throats and soft flesh, feasting on their entrails. The taste sickened him, and yet he was compelled to eat, compelled to fill his mouth with blood and offal until his belly swelled, roaring in rage and agony all the while. A red haze obscured his vision as he burst into the carriage, tearing through soft flesh as everything was hidden behind a film of delirium. They were naught but shapes in the red, faceless and soundless. And as he lunged for the last, his bloodlust at his peak, he stared her in the eyes, frozen. The baby looked at him with curiosity, her eyes bright and wide, innocence unconcerned by the sight of her dismembered mother, her brutalized father. She cooed with delight as her fingers brushed the Beast’s soft fur, her hands gripping it and pulling hard. The Beast shivered, every muscle stuck with a tension that could not be unraveled. And then she smiled, causing The Beast to recoil with horror, falling backwards out of the carriage as he fell into a pool of red and guts. He whimpered as he saw the faces of the men he had massacred, his stomach churning as he fought the urge to vomit. He had to run. Had to escape. Had to be anywhere but here wh—- “Adam?” Her voice cut through the night, a soft melody erasing the darkness. The Beast turned his eyes to the girl, his Belle, as she took in the carnage, the devastation around him. He shambled to her, a moan breaking out from his throat, guilt overtaking him and threatening to break him to pieces. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was neutral, her eyes barely showing emotion of any kind. But the Beast’s blood curdled at the words nonetheless, and he fell to his knees, prostrating himself before her and begging for forgiveness. For mercy. She knelt down then, her hand gently caressing his furred cheek, her eyes sweet and loving. And with that same voice that he had fallen in love with, she said this. “Finish the job.” The Beast almost choked, trying to maneuver his mouth around his own voice, thick and rusty from disuse. “Be....Be..” He sputtered, before stopping himself, and coughing thick blood from his throat. “Bel...Belle. Just....child. Baby.” The girls eyes flickered but an inch, registering the baby in its carriage for a mere moment, before flicking back to the Beast. And in her eyes, in that cold nothingness, he felt the crushing weight of his own failures. “What are you...Adam?” Her voice was steady, calm. But he could sense her displeasure. He curled into a ball, dug his claws into his arms and let the blood flow like a river from his wounds. He felt the burn as his cursed body restitched itself back together, still not allowed to die. “Do you think you can play at being a human? At being one of them? Do you think that your sympathy will endear them to you? That sparing one life will have them forget your shape...have them forget your existence?” He rocked back and forth, tears spilling from his eyes. He remembered the stones, the beatings, crawling in the streets as they screamed at him. “Look up.” He wanted to hide deeper into himself, so deep that no one would ever find him again. But he couldn’t. He was always here. He was always himself. “Look. Up.” And he did, compelled by that soft voice. And he saw no fear, no hatred. Nothing but love, and perhaps even envy. He reached his hand out for her, talons still dripping with red fluid, and she let him rest it against her cheek with no hesitation. “You’ll never be human enough Adam. Never human enough for them to love you.” The Beast sat still for a mere moment, before raising his head and howling in agreement. He would never be one of them. She nuzzled her cheek against his, and he felt so safe in her warmth. In her embrace. “But I love you for what you are, instead of hating you for what you are not. Don’t you know that?” The Beast nodded, his head lowered. She had saved him. He knew that. He owed her everything. She gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead, before standing up and bringing him to his feet. “So then. Be the Beast I love.” He trembled then, once, before his body trembled no more. He turned back to the child, cooing ignorantly in its blankets...and did what had to be done. He sat there then, turned away as Belle pulled the most valuable trinkets from the gore, hands casually picking priceless baubles from pools of blood. She gently removed a emerald encrusted locket from the mothers neck, smiling at its gleam and shine. The Beast dared not look, could not bear to look at the carnage he had wrought. But a small sigh of happiness grabbed his attention, and he turned towards the sound like a moth to the flame. For it was this he killed for, this he would die for. The sight of the smiling girl amidst the corpses, a stunning visage made only more beautiful by the tragedy surrounding it. She did not lose that smile as she slowly swayed towards him, leaning in to kiss him and run her hands through his hair. He was breathless in her presence, powerless before this tiny girl that held him like he was naught but a child. “My Beast...” she said with a burning affection in her eyes and a grin on her lips. “My Beast. My Animal. My Killer.” Each word should have stung, but they were uttered with such love, such adoration, that the Beast could do nothing but smile, almost dazed by the weight of devotion he now felt. “You have done well.” And with those words, his reason for existence was cemented, and with it, his eternal prison in her arms.


A single tear drop slowly rolled down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away before Mattie could see, but his eyes were already on me. Mattie looked up at me with his wide brown eyes. They sparkled, ignited by everything he held in his mind. His lips were slightly turned up at the corners, smiling at whatever created that ever-present glint. I could tell he didn’t register that I was crying, so I let out a quick sigh of relief. “Okay, Mattie!” I swallowed the emotion threatening to clog my throat. “So, first; I’m going to put you in your safety seat, then buckle you in, and then we’re going to drive home.” Mattie simply stared. Ignoring the prickling sensation of my tears starting to well again, I started digging in my pocket for my keys. I felt my fingers wrap around the cool metal and pulled them out. Due to medical expenses, we could no longer afford both of our previous cars, so I downgraded to an old Kia Sephia I managed to get for $500. It’s a very plain, small gray car and it’s proving to be more trouble than its worth. Meanwhile, Jason decided it would make more sense for him to continue making payments on his 2019 Chevy Tahoe because it made everyone at work “take him seriously”. I put the key into the driver’s side door and twisted it clockwise, praying to God it wouldn’t jam again. “Chik!” I released my breath. I opened the door and stuck my hand behind the seat to reach for the rear door’s lock. I felt my finger brush against the raised edge and gently pushed. “Chik!” Picking Mattie up, I opened the rear door and slowly bent down to place him into the booster. The booster had been installed by firefighters, but they had placed the booster directly in the middle of the backseat. It had been fine two years ago when Mattie was 3 and still small, but he was much bigger and longer now which made it quite the challenge. I carefully placed my hand on the back of Mattie’s head and maneuvered him around the door frame making sure to angle him far away from it. A child hitting their head is serious in any situation, but with his recent seizures, it could prove to be fatal. Once Mattie was secured, I grabbed the black straps and clicked them into the red buckle, making a small fart noise with my mouth while doing so. “Phbt!” This got Mattie’s attention. His naturally wide eyes widened a bit more and the corners of his mouth stretched upwards just enough to expose his tiny white teeth. “Teenth skarl zeben thar mmm!” Mattie exclaimed and wiggled his fingers. “Oh, so now I have your attention?” I laughed. “Okay, so now I’m going to close the door, get into my seat, and start driving home.” I slowly backed out and straightened myself out. My arms were already feeling tired from briefly holding Mattie so I lightly stretched them before gently pushing the rear door closed. I peered through the window and noticed Mattie was still wiggling his fingers. It’d be a while before I managed to bring him back to my reality, but at least he’ll be able to keep himself entertained on the ride. Mattie typically doesn’t enjoy car rides because of all the sounds, lights, and colors. The drive from his doctor’s office to our home ranges from 30-35 minutes and he tends to scream the entire time. I’ve tried using headphones, an IPad, and even a sleep mask to distract him but nothing ever works. Only when his eyes start sparkling, his fingers start wiggling, and his face breaks into a smile is when he no longer fears the drive. I think it’s because he mentally removes himself from this plane and goes off to play in another. The doctor calls it stimming, but I consider it as more of an episode of sorts. Most times it’s your standard 30 minute runtime, but there are the occasional 45 minute specials. Those occur when he’s very excited or spontaneously set off by something. Normally he responds to his name being called, albeit it’s simply eye contact, but that’s a response in and of itself. However, during those episodes, I could be screaming at the top of my lungs just for his attention, but he doesn’t hear a thing. Hopefully, this car ride will be one of those times. I eased myself into my seat and buckled in. This car is old and only has a radio without an auxiliary port, so in order to use the gps I have to prop my phone onto a mount and put the volume at the loudest level. My phone usually overheats when I play music with my GPS going, so most of the time it’s just me, Australian Siri, and the vocal stylizations of Mattie. Just as I was about to click ‘Start Route’ for home, Jason’s face flashed across the screen. Seconds after, a low, tuneful jingle started playing. I don’t enjoy the small selection of ringtones iPhone has, so I immediately tapped on the green button. “Hey, Babe.” Jason’s voice played through the speaker. “Hey. I want you to know that I am about to drive home, you are on speakerphone and Mattie is here in the car.” I always let Jason know when Mattie is around just in case he wants to talk about sensitive information. It’s still a relatively new thing because before now, I never knew if Jason was calling because he wanted to simply talk to me and hear my voice, or if he wanted to discuss Mattie or something serious. Recently, if we do talk, it’s only ever about Mattie. And it’s always something serious. “Oh great. Hey bud! It’s daddy!” I glanced back at Mattie but he was still looking at his twiddling fingers. “Did he… react… or something?” Jason asked. “No. Sorry. He’s off in Mattie-land right now.” I smiled and chuckled a little. Jason sighed into the phone. There was a long pause. I felt my smile slowly fade away. “So, if he’s not paying attention, that means we can talk freely now.” Jason sighed again. “Yeah, I guess.” I said, glancing back at Mattie once more. “What did the doctor say? Why has he been having so many seizures recently?“ Jason’s tone was urgent, but I understood why. I felt my throat start tightening as I remembered why I was crying. I swallowed in an attempt to get some moisture back into my suddenly dry mouth. “He-He said…” I took a deep breath. “He said that he’s not too sure about whether the autism diagnosis had been the correct one. They’re running some tests but they think it might be something else.” “What? So let me get this straight..” Jason’s tone got low and harsh. Although the anger wasn’t directed at me, it still stung to hear his voice in that way. “They’re telling us that the diagnosis we have been living with for the past two years, the one we have poured most of our resources into in order to get the best therapies, the best education, the best damn doctors for, was wrong?” “Yes.” I heard some crashing from the other end of the phone. Jason was still at work, so there was no mistaking that what I heard was him angrily throwing things off of his desk. He was never an angry man, but after Mattie’s diagnosis, our financial struggles, and the dilapidation of our family as it once was, the anger slowly took over. He tries not to show anything around Mattie or I, but I smell the alcohol on his breath when he goes in for a kiss. I smell the light floral notes mixed in with the sandalwood musk on his work shirts. I see the bruises on his knuckles when he returns from a “work trip”. I know and I see it all. “Well that’s fucking fantastic—“ Jason hissed. “Hey, hey! Language. I already told you that you’re on speaker.” I quickly lowered the volume a bit. Even if Mattie isn’t paying attention, I don’t want him to wake up one day with a bunch of curse words flying around in his brain. “Like it matters? He can’t even—” Jason paused. I could hear him taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He didn’t finish his sentence but he didn’t have to. I already finished it for him. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” Jason cleared his throat. “So what is it? If it’s not autism then what could it be?” “The doctor said that he’s currently suffering from something called… hold on.” I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and started rifling through it, in search of the pamphlet the doctor had handed me on our way out. He instructed me to read the pamphlet in order to grasp the complexities of this situation. This was in response to me insulting him and the nurses for screwing up Mattie’s diagnosis. “Okay, so I have a pamphlet.” I started reading off of it, but it was too dense, so I switched to paraphrasing. “Mattie is currently suffering from ‘Convulsive Status Epilepticus’. Which he has in conjunction with what they believe is not severe autism but Landau Kleffner syndrome. Apparently the similarities between Autism and LKS are so high, that many kids get misdiagnosed with autism first. LKS is also very rare but is more typical in boys. The issue with Mattie is that these seizures he is experiencing are very dangerous, potentially fatal, and usually occur with older kids 7 and up. At 5, Mattie is in need of dire help. We have to monitor him around the clock and especially when he’s sleeping which is when the seizures are most likely to occur without indication.” Jason stayed silent. I wondered if he had started searching it up while I was reading to him. That’s what he did when we received Mattie’s initial diagnosis. He wanted to know everything about the disorder to see if there was a way we could come out on top. He’s a businessman always trying to find solutions. That’s just how he is. “And how are we meant to monitor Mattie 24/7?” Jason’s voice was low again. Though this time, there was no anger. He just sounded tired. That made it sting even more. To hear the man who once forced himself to eat a 20 pound hamburger in thirty minutes because he was determined to win a novelty t-shirt. The same man who threw up for 5 minutes afterwards in the parking lot but still prided himself on not giving up. To hear that man sound hollow and defeated hurt more than I ever imagined. It forces me to face that he’s no longer Jason, just a hollow shell. “We have medicine that will be delivered in a few days and Doctor Straum is ordering a EEG headset that will help us temporarily monitor Mattie’s brain activity. We may have to take shifts at night where one of us sleeps and the other stays up to monitor until we get the medicine. I don’t think we can afford either of us taking any days off of work. There’s going to be a whole new wave of tests, therapies, treatments and we need to be able to afford it.” I started rubbing my temples, stressed out by the insurmountable debt we’ll most likely accumulate from this. “Okay, well thankfully tomorrow was already a scheduled day off for me, so when I get home tonight I’ll take the first shift and you can sleep.” Jason responded. “Really? Just like that?” I was surprised. Usually there’s some pushback on these things. “Yeah. You know, from the looks of it, most kids with LKS have some delayed cognition in speech but when paired with the proper medication, they can get to a place where they’re seemingly normal. If we manage our expectations but do our best, we might be able to hear Mattie say “Mom” or “Dad” again soon.” Jason laughed lightly. It sounded hopeful. Tears started welling in my eyes again, but for a different reason. Jason was still Jason after all. Could it really be possible that Mattie may once again be my Mattie? The Mattie I spent the last two years mourning? Unfortunately, I could already feel my hope scratching its way to the surface of my heart. Despite the intensity of all of the doubt, pain, fear, and distrust my heart harbored; my hope was holding its own. “Yeah. Maybe soon.” I smiled as the tears made their way down my face. A gentle sob escaped through my lips before I could stop it. The tears started flowing faster. Within seconds, I completely broke down. In this moment, everything that had been building up throughout the years was finally being released with hope as its catalyst. I’m aware that things may get worse or that this could be another misdiagnosis. Financially, Jason and I are near ruin and our romantic relationship is in tatters. But in this moment, all I can feel is relief. It’s rather dim, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at home.” Jason’s voice floated over to my ears. It was cracking with emotion. I know he can hear me crying, but it’s funny because it seems as though he may be crying as well. “O-okay.” I choked back a sob. “I’ll see you at home.” I waited to hear the familiar ‘beep beep’ of the call ending. But instead I heard a soft; “I love you.” And so I responded; “I love you too.” Beep, Beep.


"Holly, why are we standing in the cemetery? It's the day after Thanksgiving and we should be in line somewhere shopping for stuff we don't need." Clair said. "First off, we're in a pandemic, Clair. Black Friday is already online and has been for a week. We're all that Mama and Pop had. We should at least try to be here." "They won't notice if we are or aren't, Hol. They're dead. Hate to break it to ya." Holly and Clair Brockfort stood at the tombstones of their parents. The brisk fall day bit into their skin like demons' teeth. "Holly Mae Brockfort, this is ridiculous! I'm tired of this every year. Mom and Dad wouldn't want us constantly sobbing over dirt. It's not enough water to make anything grow." Holly gave her sister an evil side eyed glare. "I don't understand why you're not more..." "What? I'm not more what? Mushy, emotional, shallow? It's because I realized they're dead. No amount of tears I cry, regardless of what a movie says, will bring them back!" Clair strode away, hiding her own tears. Weakness, her father said, was unacceptable in his children. His military training seeped into Clair's thinking. Her rebellious side shown more with every passing month. Where Holly was the softer of the twins, Clair was attached to her father's side. One day, she saw him kiss another woman. She'd been thirteen. "Mom shouldn't have been with him. She'd be alive and that bastard would've released us all from our captivity. Now? We're without parents. I'm sorry I don't share the amount of pity you do for them. I'm not that way. I never will be. So, go ahead and cry for them all you want. I'll be in the car checking Amazon." Clair walked away swiping at her tears. As she wiped her hands on her pants, her phone rang. "Clair Brockfort." "Hey Babe," Jordan McAvoy, Clair's boyfriend of two years, called her once he ended his shift at the construction site. As a building surveyor, he often wore a suit. "I have a favor to ask of you, J," "You know it's not a favor. I love making you happy.. especially today. I don't know or understand why this has to be a tradition every year. They're dead." "My sister." "Is a flaming emotional wreck. She needs help." "I do too. I admit it. I nearly broke at the site." "When you get home tonight, no objections. I'm going to care for you." "What about you?" "I took some measures for a mall space and helped three couples redesign their kitchens. It's not as hard on me as today is on you." "This. This is why I love you. I didn't even work today and I feel like I've been in a prize fight with Tyson Fury." "Come home and I'll take care of you." Clair laughed. "I'm sure you will." "Before I try to contain myself, Clair, what did you want?" "Could you send me a picture of you right now?" Jordan laughed. "Um, ok.." the text message sound pinged with an incoming message. Clair fumbled her phone at the site of Jordan in a pair of black boxer briefs, wearing his glasses. "Are you trying to kill me?" Clair asks. "You wanted it." "I'm gonna die either in a graveyard of embarrassment or in a high speed chase to get home." "You're mad, Love." "Nah, just in need of some distractions." "Glad you're finding me a distraction." Jordan said. "Don't I always?" "Whenever you need me, I'm there." Clair chuckled into the phone. "Thanks, I mean that. I appreciate it." Holly approached the car. "I need to go." Clair said. "Come home safe, Angel. I miss you." "I'll be there soon." Clair ended the call. Holly entered the car. "We need to get to the house." Holly said. "Why?" Clair asked. "There's something there for you." "Okay?" The girls went to the house and entered. Neither stepped foot in it since their parents died. Inside, the mantel was adorned with pictures. Three stood out to Clair. "Have you ever seen these, Hol?" Clair asked. "What are they?" "Well, one is Dad in his Marine Formal uniform and Mom in some sort of dress." They both read: May 1993 The next picture was their mother, heavily pregnant. "This must have been when mom was having us." Holly said. "She was gorgeous." Clair said. The last picture was their father holding their mother. "I was a horrible kid." Clair said. "I wasn't much better." Holly said. "Remember when we tried to sneak out of the house and I ended up in the hospital?" "Oh yeah, I had to run to the porch and get Dad." "They were happy til the end, Clair. I want that." "It's funny. I have that with Jordan. You'll find it, Hol. He's out there somewhere wondering where you are." "We were lucky, weren't we?" "Dad came home to his family and he never left after he came home." "Mom.. Loved him like he should've been." Holly handed Clair a box. "Mom wanted you to have this. She wanted to make sure you knew you were loved." Clair opened the box to see a plaster cobblestone with the inscription "I love you, Mommy." "She kept this?" Clair asked. "She kept everything you made." Clair handed Holly a similar box with a note written in male chicken scratching. Holly opened it and found a purple blob with ridges. "Oh God! I remember this! Dad kept it?" "He always told me, whenever we were out in the yard, 'Ya know your sister tried really hard. I didn't have the heart to tell I quit smoking when I married your mom." Holly laughed then sniffed. "He didn't smoke? Why was that silver ashtray out there?" "Uncle Glenn. He smoked. Daddy didn't. Uncle Glenn and those hideous cigars. Dad would come in from the garage and smelled so awful! Mama threw him in the shower and told him to wash up or else he was sleeping in the tent." The sisters looked at each other, laughing. "I love you, Berry." Clair said. "I love you too, Peach." They embraced. After they depart the home, Clair's phone rang. "Hey, I'm getting bored at home. You coming back yet?" Clair laughed. "Yeah, I'm gonna make sure Holly gets home." "Good. She needs her sister." Clair looked at Holly. "Not as much as I need her."


       “You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon,” I can recall my mother saying. It was dinnertime, and she was at the stove spooning something lumpy from a frying pan into Tupperware. We — my father, my brother Lester, Bradley Willis and I — were at the opposite end of the kitchen around a pink and gray formica dinette.          “Who?” asked Bradley Willis, mouth full of steak.          “Why Helen Leam,” said my mother, looking at my father. “You remember Helen from Rebekah Lodge.”          “Jeez,” said my father, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure. Helen and Wally Leam.”          “They split up, you know,” said my mother, “two years ago. Helen’s still living out by Forty-First, but Wally’s moved to Hollister.”          “Well for God’s sake,” said my father.          My mother put down her spoon in the pan and turned to face us, a hand at her throat. “It seems Helen’s had a bit of a tragedy. Her apartment was broken into and burglarized night before last.”          “They catch the guy who did it?” asked Bradley Willis.          “No,” said my mother, and snapped the Tupperware shut. Then she opened it again and took one last teensy bite. “Helen was off at the movies by herself and when she got home the door had been jimmied and all her silver was gone and her mother’s brooch and some watches. Some other things too, she said, looking at my father significantly.

         “Like what?”          “Nothing, Bradley. Personal things. Anyway, Walt, I’ve invited her to come and stay with us for a few days. She says she’s taking Valium like M&Ms and hearing noises.” There was a pause.          “Oh hell,” said my father.          “Well Al, it was the least I could do.”          “No, Mona. It was the most. I mean she hasn’t picked up the phone in two years. Why you?”          “But I didn’t pick up the phone either.”          “Okay, okay.” My father threw his napkin across his plate and stood up.          “I wonder if the guy crapped on the floor,” whispered Bradley to Lester. “I heard cat burglars always leave a calling card. The real pros, I mean.”          “Bradley,” I said, “I don’t wish you to feel yourself unwelcome in our home…”          “Just don’t feel yourself in our home,” said Lester. Guffaws.

         “…but kindly clean up your language and/or leave.”          “Get off Bradley’s ass, willya Brenduhhh?” said Lester in the long-suffering whine he reserved for me. “You in love with him or something?”          “No,” I lied. “I am not in love with your odious friend.” Hoots.          And so, the next evening at dinnertime the doorbell rang, and it was Helen Leam, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other. When she saw my mother, she burst into tears. She was a small woman in her late thirties with protruberant hazel eyes and pale hair already silvering at the temples. The hair was swept back into a twist of penitential severity; not a tendril escaped to charm the rigid center part. The back of her neck was naked of wisps. The bones of her face—good, even bones, I noted—stood out so vividly from this harsh frame that it was difficult to look at her; she was too exposed, too unprotected. I glimpsed a short upper lip and dark hollows beneath her suffering eyes before lowering my own. She set down her suitcase and turned to Lester and me, hands clasped to her bosom.          “So these are the children,” she said, and sobbed anew.          “Oh God,” said my father under his breath, “she’s nuts. Hello Helen,” he said aloud. “Uh, how have you been?”          We set her up quarters in the basement, in a chilly makeshift bedroom paneled in knotty pine and redolent of concrete. Her clothes hung in a cedar closet that also contained my father’s old Air Force uniforms. Moments before her arrival, Lester had removed a collection of tattered pornography from under the bed.          “I hope this is okay,” said my mother, beefy in red bermuda shorts, her head porcupined with pincurls. "And here’s an old TV. It’s ugly, but it works.”          “Thank you,” wept Helen, hand to head. “You’re too good.”          “I don’t want to hear it,” said my mother and hugged her.          And then we left and trooped back upstairs to compare notes. My father, listening from behind the newspaper, snorted with derision at intervals. We were all waiting impatiently for Helen to reappear and validate or contradict our speculations, but she did not emerge at all during that evening, nor during any other evening. She huddled downstairs like a troglodyte for three weeks, and more than once we heard her crying through the grate.          Many years have gone by since the Helen Leam episode, and oddly, as if through an ever-focusing lens, I see this time in sharper detail with each passing year. Recollected conversations assume new significance. Gestures and expressions return to jolt me as I start the car or wash my hair. Heads turn, eyes meet, bodies glide toward one another, then away, with surreal clarity.          I was fourteen at the time and nearly six feet tall, gaunt with social anxiety, ravaged by the assaults of ferocious hormones. Like a volcano, I burned, churned and erupted. I was failing math. I couldn’t dance. My nose, forsaking its childish unobtrusiveness, loomed bony and stippled with blackheads. I cut my own hair, surveyed the catastrophic results and cut even more. I came to live in the deepest circle of adolescence, loathing myself with a perverse, demonic energy.          My brother Lester, in contrast, seemed as serene and correct as a wolf within nature’s ineluctable definition. He combed his hair with a towel and proudly slung his massive jockstraps all over the bathroom, while I timidly hung my cupless bra on my doorknob, where it dangled sadly, like the skeleton of a small bird.          Lester and my father communicated with one another in a cryptic language of yelps, guffaws and curses. They punched one another playfully on the deltoids and feinted for wrestling holds. Helen Leam, a troubling enigma to me and my mother, was a standing joke to them. “That screwball down below,” they called her.          Every morning at seven, Helen would dress and leave for her job as secretary to the overseer of a mushroom cannery. She would return at six, parking her old Chevy far from our driveway, apologizing herself in the front door, through the kitchen and down the stairs. Only after our shrill, bickering dinner was over would she emerge to fix herself a tray of soup and toast and descend again, china clattering thinly.          “Poor gal,” my mother would pronounce after each nightly exit. “This has been too much for her.” And I understood. After all, a whole gamut of legal indignities lay before her. Her self-confidence, laboriously established after a divorce from what my mother labeled “a barrel full of pickled tightwad” had been dealt a mighty blow.          “Can I ask you a question?” said Bradley Willis to me after Helen had been with us for weeks. “How do you guys put up with her down there? Don’t get mad.”          “Why would I get mad? I don’t care what you think. And if we can put up with you, we can certainly put up with her.”          “I mean, what is she doing here?”          “Well she’s scared. Wouldn’t you be?”          “No. It seems to me,” narrowing his eyes and concentrating on a point beyond me, “the last place that burglar is likely to hit again is her place. I mean he cleaned her out, supposedly. So why doesn’t she go home? She’s going to have to sometime.”          “Maybe she’s lonely.”          “Then why does she skulk around down there like some troglodyte instead of…”          “Some what?”          “Never mind. I have to think about this some more.” And he ambled off, lips pursed in a silent whistle, receding absently into his future.          Gazing hopelessly after him, I see his cornsilk hair just touching the collar of his shirt; his hands are in his pockets, elbows turned sharply out. I see the heels of his sneakers and the backs of his ears.          His I.Q. was “astronomical” my mother had informed me when he first started coming around. He had learned to read spontaneously at age three and later skipped a grade. But now at sixteen, Bradley Willis,had become a daydreamer, a cutup, and his grades were poor, his ingenuity wasted on forging attendance excuses or concocting exotic diseases to sicken of during homeroom.          I cannot say precisely when I first realized I was in love with Bradley Willis. I do remember that early in the year, the sound of his voice began to both irk and attract me, and I began to provoke him clumsily, burning with the helpless realization of knowing myself an ass.          I plucked my eyebrows completely out, stuffed my bra and painted my eyes. I would appear one day in flounces and lace, the next in funereal black. I affected a British accent. Come bedtime, I would turn on my music and the umber boredom of my room would vanish, to be replaced by the dazzling scenario of the Eternal Triumphal Prom. And I became That New Girl and Bradley was my boyfriend. His arms held me tight. His ring thumped my bosom as we glided, eyes locked, among admiring dancers standing still as stage props. Hour after hour in the dark, I partied with Bradley Willis at the neverending prom of my soul.

         My obsession with MTV was a running family joke. So I am still puzzled at my father’s failure to remember that on Fridays at four, while my mother was sure to be at Red Cross Auxiliary and Lester at basketball practice, I was equally certain to be home, glued to the television.          Which is where I was when I first heard the voices coming through the grate above Helen Leam’s bedroom. At first, I paid no attention. Then I turned down the sound and crouched by the grate on my hands and knees, pressing my ear against the cold metal grid, breathing old burnt dust and seeing the pile of the carpet close and huge.          “All right, Helen,” my father was saying, and I thought I heard fear behind the reasoned testiness. “We’ve been all through that before now, haven’t we? I am asking you just how long you’re going to keep this up.”          “That’s what I’ve been asking you for the last three years. Three years.”          “Oh no. I want a rational explanation, delivered in a reasonable manner. What in the hell do you mean by moving in here, camping here on some thin pretext…”          “I couldn’t help it. I had to be near you, even like this. I couldn’t stand it any more. I trusted you and you broke your promise. You said you would tell her. You’ve said it a million times and, every time I believed you. I want you to keep your word.”          “You blackmail me like this and you’ll end up with nothing.” There was a sob.          “So what do I have now?”          “Oh Jesus,” said my father. “How’d I get myself into this fucking mess? Helen, this isn’t worthy of us, of our love.”          “I don’t care anymore. I’m desperate. I lie here at night and think about our clothes in that closet. Our clothes can be together. Why can’t we?”          “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s like something out of a bad movie.”          “Do you think I wanted to? I was losing my mind. My God, after I called the police I actually thought about just driving my car over a cliff. I thought, if they find out they’ll put me away in the nuthouse for sure.” There was a pause.          “Wait a minute. If they find out what?”          “Well that I did it myself.”          “Did what yourself?”          “All of it. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you guess?”          “You mean to tell me you burglarized your own house? You stole your own panties and bras?”          “Yes,” in a little girl lisp.          “You wrote those filthy words on the mirror? And the watches and silver? You did all that yourself? There wasn’t any man?”          “No.” A giggle. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I couldn’t go on.”          “This is insane, Helen.” A scuffle. “Get up. Stop that. Stop acting like a nut, will you?” There began a shrill crying, almost an ululation, and then I heard my father cursing first Helen then himself in the sibilant expletives of despair. At last, he began to murmur words of comfort. The crying became muffled.          “Take your hair down,” my father commanded in a hoarse voice. “Shake it down.” There was another brief scuffle, then the sound of tearing cloth and a deep sob, this time from my father. “Oh God, I love you so much. How you enslave me.”          “Oh Al, Al. Everything I have is yours.”          Choking with horror and laughter, I stumbled to my feet, joints stiff from kneeling. I put my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut. The blood beat red behind my eyes. Like a hostage escaping, I made for the front door, taking huge steps on legs rubbery and numb. .        It’s no big deal, I told myself over and over. It happens all the time. Shaking, I let myself out and headed down the street as fast as I could walk. My laughter had turned to dry sobs that racked my chest like coughs.          Down the block, I could make out Helen’s old Chevy, and I toyed with the idea of busting all her windows or putting sugar in her gas tank. But that would not make my father love her less, nor would it undo their affair. With a deep sigh, I crept slowly back toward my house to sit glumly on the curb in front until it grew dark, my feet in the gutter.          The next day, Helen Leam packed up, left our house and went home. She and my mother said goodbye at breakfast very affectionately, and Helen thanked us all and said she had been so frightened, but now she was herself again and ready to forge onward.          Life was tragic sometimes, replied my mother, but these things passed, and Helen said yes they did, with the help of God and good friends. I kept my eyes on my bowl of Kix, and Lester whined where the hell was Bradley to give him a ride to school because his generator was arcing and he bet Bradley had forgotten. My teeth suddenly started to chatter, and I left the table.          I don’t know to this day if my mother ever found out the truth about Helen Leam, and I don’t know what became of my father’s affair with her. Days passed, then weeks and months, and no divorce ever materialized, no storm ever broke. The lie that was our family continued smooth and self-contained: Newspapers were read, food was consumed, holidays observed, necessities purchased.          I came to exist in a permanent state of disbelief, cringing before a blow that never fell. My apprehension bore down so on me that sometimes I could scarcely breathe. I slept poorly and began to smoke, surly and furtive. At the sound of Bradley Willis’s voice, I would flee to my bedroom and light up, holing out until he was gone.          In April, my hands broke out in eczema, and I watched MTV all month wearing polyethylene mittens full of white goo. All hope left me.          In June, Lester and Bradley Willis graduated, and Lester went off to USC in a new Camaro with four on the floor. Bradley made two listless starts at City College, then dropped out and eventually joined the Army.

         “He just shot it all to shit his own self,” Lester pronounced. “But maybe the Army’ll do him some good.” And that was the last I heard of Bradley Willis until my mother mentioned years later that he had been killed.          “Do you remember that friend of Lester’s with the blond hair?” She said. “The kind of oddball who could never find himself?”          “Bradley,” I said, staring at the green and steel walls of my college dorm room.          “Well he was killed in Iraq,” said my mother. “Isn’t that a pity? Lester read it in the paper. They had lost touch, you know.”          “I know,” I said. Then I hung up the phone.          But there is another, better end to the Helen Leam episode, and sometimes I go back in my mind to that afternoon I found out about my father.          Once again, I am stumbling from the front door, alone and in despair. But this time Bradley is there, and I fall into his arms. He understands at once what has happened and doesn’t need to ask me, and I don’t need to tell. It will be all right, he says. He is there for me because he loves me.          I cry onto his shoulder until I am empty of tears, light and purged and free. Then, happier than we have ever been, we get into his car and drive up the coast to Half Moon Bay. We park on a cliff overlooking the beach and watch the sunset, talking in murmurs, saying everything in our hearts. At last, when it is dark, he takes me in his arms and we make love. I see him above me, his face lit by moonlight. I can feel his body trembling and hear the ocean below us.          And then, because I have never done this before, and because I can’t think of anything else to say at such a moment, "Oh Bradley," I whisper, "everything I have is yours." ###


23:10 hours “What on earth is wrong with you?” Lindsay sat up in her bed glaring at the girl lying next to her. “Come on, Lindsay! Its Halloween. We never do anything fun. Just this once. Please?” “Reed, it’s freezing outside. Besides, if braces sees us, you know quite well that she’s going to report us to Ms. Winter.” Braces was an irritable seventeen-year-old who was put in charge of watching the orphanage kids for the day, since Ms. Winter had gone to look after her sick mother. Reed sniffed and turned over. Lindsay sighed. “Sometimes I really can’t tell if you’re two or twelve.” She pulled the covers over her head and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, Reed began to sniffle. Lindsay groaned. “Seriously? You’re going to do this today?” The sniffling became a low wail.  “Oh for God’s sake, shut up!”. The wailing immediately ceased and Lindsay felt terrible. Reed had had a case of measles recently and had to be shut up in the “alone room” for a few weeks. She had missed the monthly ice-cream treat and her birthday celebration ( which Lindsay honestly didn't find that exciting, considering the fact the “celebration” was droning an off-key happy birthday followed by the distribution of a few disgusting, half-molten candies. They did the same exact thing. Every. Single. Year.) She felt kind of sorry for the girl. “You know what Reed? Let’s go.” Lindsay got out of bed and began to pile on some clothes. Reed sat up, wiping her eyes and beaming. “Really?” “Yep. Unless I change my mind, so hurry” 24:30 hours The girls were now crouched behind an old, crumbling headstone. “Okay Reed, we're gonna stay here until sunrise. Just like you asked. Then we’re going straight back to our dorm before anyone even sees that we were gone.” She paused, wrinkling her nose at the creepy array of weirdly shaped stones “Ugh. I don’t know where you get ideas like these.” Reed’s eyes twinkled with glee. “I read it in a book that I borrowed from Jemma. It was about two boys who decided to spend a night in the graveyard. In the end, one of them died.” Suddenly, her face darkened and she fixed her darting green eyes on Lindsay. “Do you really think that ghosts are real, Lin?” Lindsay so badly wanted to say yes and tell her about that one time when she saw a big ugly monster living under Ms. Winter’s bed, ready to gobble up any mean kids, but she knew that if Reed started wailing again, they would be certainly discovered. “Nonsense. When people die, they just become dirt. Like the Bible says.” The answer seemed to satisfy Reed and she settled down a bit. 2:30 hours “Did you hear that Lindsay?” “Hear what?” Lindsay was getting tired now. Her nerves were beginning fray. There seemed to be a stench rising from the wet mud; the smell of rotting leaves and death. It was awful, really. Why had she agreed to this stupid idea in the first place? Reed tugged at Lindsay's sleeve again. “It sounded like someone was crying. They were calling for me. Telling me that they missed me” “Ha ha. Very funny. What next? Are you going to tell me that you saw a woman in a white dress behind me?” “I’m not lying Lin!” She pouted and huddled close next to Lindsay. “Get off me Reed! This was you’re idea. You’re going to have to sit through this.” Then she added, just in case, “And don’t you dare start crying now. You’re such a little baby.” “Am not! Why are you always so mean anyway?” “Me? You’re twelve years old and still believe in ghosts! Anyone would be annoyed!” “I’m not a baby, Lindsay. I’m not. I’m not. I’M NOT!” “Okay shut up! If you’re so brave then, go touch that stone.” Lindsay pointed at a rectangular headstone that was about thirty feet away. “That one?” Reed shuddered. “It’s too- It’s too far” Lindsay smirked. “That’s what I thought.” Her eyes now brimming with tears, Reed got up and brushed the dirt off her slacks. With pretense bravery, she walked towards the headstone. 4:45 hours Two minutes had passed. Five minutes had passed. Ten minutes had passed. “Okay Reed, I get it. You’re not a baby. You can come back now.” Silence. “Reed it’s not funny! Get back now.” Silence again. Perhaps she had fallen down or something? Lindsay made her way towards the headstone. It was so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She stumbled over tree roots and pebbles several times. Maybe Reed did fall. Maybe she got hurt. Oh no. This was her fault. She should have never let Reed go there alone. “Reed I am so sorry. Please come back”  Lindsay reached the headstone now, but Reed was nowhere to be seen. “Reed! Reed! Are you lost? Say something. Please” Lindsay was afraid now. Maybe someone had kidnapped her. Maybe she’d run away. What was she going to tell Ms. Winter? What had she done? Suddenly, she saw something. It was a body. She ran towards it and leaned over it. It was lying face down. “Reed? Is that you?” It wasn’t Reed. Reed wasn’t so tall. Reed didn’t have such long fingers. Reed didn’t have such tangled hair. Reed wasn’t wearing a red and white dress… The dress was not red and white. It was just white. The body turned over and sat up. Its eyes were white and hollow. It had no teeth. Lindsay screamed and ran. She ran and she ran until she tripped over a root and hit her head on the edge of a gravestone. Her vision went blurry and something warm and wet began to trickle down her temple. The last thing she saw before she passed out was a set of blurry letters. "R.I.P" “ Reed Winston” “1989-2001” 8:30 hours Lindsay blinked her eyes open. There were bright lights everywhere and there was beeping and yelling and crashing. She heard a voice. It seemed so distant. “Fifteen-year-old female, Lindsay Greene. Mentally unstable. Found with a laceration to her forehead and a broken ankle” “What happened Jim?” “Another one of her delusional episodes. She escaped the Psych hospital across the street and made her way to the graveyard. She was lying there for a few hours before the maintenance guy found her. God knows how she got herself hurt” “Poor thing” Lindsay stirred. “Reed… where is…” A little woman in a white coat leaned over her and smiled. “Hi Lindsay, I’m doctor Williams and I’m going to be taking care of you okay?” “What? No. No! Get off! I need to find Reed!” Lindsay shoved the doctor away and tried to get up. “Honey you need to calm down. You’re safe here.” “No!” Lindsay screamed. “You killed Reed! Where is she!” She felt a pinch in her right arm and suddenly felt sleepy. So very sleepy. “I’m sorry Reed.”