Above the city, the moon shined splendidly, but the stars that littered the nighttime sky were nowhere to be found. Bursts of thunder echoed throughout the city while streaks of lightning crawled their way across the sky, but the storm clouds that usually contained them were just as absent as the stars. “Must. Reach. The gate.” A man panted frantically to himself as he sprinted underneath a towering overpass. A trail of stars followed from behind him as he exited the concrete labyrinth and stepped into its desolate sandy outskirts. He stopped sharply to catch his breath and looked outward towards a royal, luminous gate. It was planted roughly 300 yards from the edge of the city, but it’s brilliant glow could be seen shooting upward towards the heavens from any hidden alleyway or cloud clinging rooftop the city had to offer. The man was dressed in a bright carrot colored 3 piece suit, with matching slip on loafers and diamond shaped cufflinks pinned to each of his sleeves. A pile of stars, once belonging to the cosmos, sat in his arm cradled to his stomach. He looked down at the stars and began shuffling through them with his free hand. “Sirius.. Where is Sirius?” He mumbled worrily. The flick of his wrist grew more aggressive as he fumbled through the pile in search of the missing star. He dedicated a short yet stressful 30 seconds to his search before giving up and turning back around to face the city. He began to survey the trail of stars that he had left behind and hopped up onto his tip-toes in efforts to catch a glimpse of the star’s glimmer from a slightly elevated point of view. His pupil caught the shine of the star almost immediately as it sat firmly in the sand a few feet in front of him. “Brightest in the sky, brightest on the ground.” He said to himself, as he began to walk toward the star. His heels sunk into the sand and kicked up small piles of the soft golden dust with each step he took. He counted out 8 sand sulking steps before he reached the bright blue ball of fire. He bent down, picked the orb up with his bare hands, and placed it in his inner jacket pocket. Several more of the sand scattered stars found themselves being picked up and placed into the man’s star pile before he finally stood up and turned back around. Once again, his heels flipped in and out of the sand as he made his way forward towards the gate. He took the same 8 steps back to where he initially stood, but this time, instead of being met with a bright burning cosmic bulb, his eighth step was met with a voice. “Hey, you there!” The voice shouted from behind him. The man paused at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. He flexed the muscles in his arm, securing the stars as tightly as he possibly could, and slowly turned his body back around. There in front of him, underneath the overpass he had run through just a few moments prior, stood a short, stocky, muscular man. The stars spilled on the sand between them shined a substantial amount of light onto the stranger, allowing the star snatcher a perfect opportunity to analyze him. He wore a thick, long sleeved dark blue shirt, baggy dark blue pants, jet black combat boots, and a white helmet with the word “POLICE” splattered on either side. A utility belt littered with handcuffs, keys, a large baton, a flashlight, and a standard issue Glock 22 was wrapped tightly around his waist. “Are you talking to me, officer?” The man replied calmly. “Who else would I be talkin’ too?” The officer spat back. His tone was as blunt and aggressive as the black baton that sat on his hip. “Ah yes, my apologies. Is there something I can help you with?” “Real funny. That sounds like somethin’ I should be askin’ you.” “Oh, you’re far too kind, but I don’t need any help. I’m doing just fine! Thank you for the offer though.” “Quit slitherin’ that silver tongue a’yours ‘fore I stomp my way over there and rip it out. Now what do you think you’re doin’ with all them stars you got there?” “No need to worry about all that. I was actually just leaving.” “Leavin’? Takin’ all those stars with ya? Where ya headed to?” “Well I believe that’s rather obvious. I’m off to the gate, of course.” The officer snarled and placed his hand on the top of his holster. “Like hell you are. Ain’t no man ever stepped foot in or outta’ that damn thing. ‘Specially not on my watch.” “Well it seems your watch may be broken, officer. I’ve traveled through this gate more times than I can count. You know, you really should get that watch looked at. After all, what good is a watch that can’t tell time?” “Alright, enough of the chit chat!” Barked the officer as he unbuttoned his holster. “Drop the stars and put your hands up high where I can see ‘em.” “But I’ve only just picked them back up.” “I said put your goddamn hands up! Do it now!” The man stood still and smirked. “May I just ask: Why does it matter what happens to these stars? You have no use for them. They’ve been scattered on the ground across this cesspool you call a city for quite some time now.” “That don’t matter. This is *my* city, and them stars don’t belong to you.” “Well of course they don’t belong to *me.* I was sent here to retrieve them.” “Sent by who?” “The king, of course!” “The king? Ain’t no king rulin’ over this here city.” “Yes, yes, this is *your* city, you’ve already made yourself very clear about that. Listen, I really don’t have time for these dramatics. The king is expecting me to arrive with his stars any minute now, and I can’t imagine he’d be very happy with me if I were to arrive even a second late. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my-” “STOP!” Screamed the officer, as he ripped his handgun from its holster. He gripped it tightly with both of his hands and aimed it at the man’s chest. “One more move and I’ll shoot.” The man stood still and stared directly down the short barrel of the officer's gun. He felt his heart rate rise gradually, but continued to hold himself in a calm, cool, and collected manner. Tiny beads of sweat began to form at the brim of his hairline, and the hairs on the back of his neck sprouted upward. He shook his star bearing arm up and down hastily as his mind attempted to conjure up a way for him to escape. The officer, whose face was now just as bright as the man’s suit, took a step forward. “I ain't lettin’ you anywhere near that gate. You’re comin’ with me.” The officer said sternly as he pulled the handcuffs out from their waist-clipped holder. “I assure you, there is no need for this. You’d be committing a great disservice to the king and his people if you don’t allow me to travel back through the gate with these stars.” The officer ignored the man and continued to walk towards him. The man, although still maintaining his composure, silently began to panic. His mind began to overload with thoughts of what might happen if he failed to return the stars back to his king, or what his peers may think of him. As his thoughts continued to pile up, he found his lips begin to open. With no destination of where the words would end up, he began to speak. “Don’t you ever wonder how the stars managed to find themselves on the ground of your city?” The man asked curiously. “Hell if I know. I ain’t got no time to worry ‘bout all that.” The officer replied. “It’s because they’ve fallen. Surely you’ve heard of, or perhaps even seen a shooting star before?” “‘Course I have! But that ain’t actually no star shootin’ across the sky.” “I beg your pardon?” “Everybody knows shootin’ star’s ain’t actually stars! They’re just meteors, or comets, or space junk.” “No, no. My goodness, is that actually what they tell you down here? Those aren’t just space rocks, they-” The man paused. Suddenly, without warning, an idea had finally found its way to the front lines of his mind. “Officer, please allow me to tell you a bit about myself.” “I told you what I was fixin’ to do if you kept flappin’ that silver tongue ‘a yours.” Threatened the officer, who was now only one foot step away from being completely face to face with the man. “Yes, I know, but I believe you may find my background to be profoundly entertaining, and it in fact might just convince you to let me go. Besides, with a broken watch, time may as well be frozen still, right? I don’t suppose you have anywhere to be that couldn’t wait a few extra minutes?” The officer stared at the man for a moment and exhaled sharply before eventually lowering his pistol. He placed the gun back in its holster and snapped it shut, but he continued to hold onto his handcuffs. The man took his change of posture as his cue to elaborate. “You see, that gate you see there, it-” “What’s your name?” The officer interrupted. “I beg your pardon?” The man replied. “Y’know, your name. What do they call you wherever the hell you're from?” “Oh, right, my apologies. You may call me Alastar. Alastar Phoenix, of the Phoenix family. My family has served the King for generations, and I am the current heir of my family’s position.” “You keep spoutin’ on and on about this damn King, but I ain’t never heard a’ no king ‘round here.” “Well that’s because my King is not the King of this land. My Lord has many names amongst our vast universe - The Constellation King, The King of The Cosmos, The King of the Stars. Everything you see above you is ruled by my King. And just beyond that gate, that glowing, glorious gate, is his kingdom. That is my home.” “Alright, that's enough. I ain’t gonna sit here and listen to you spit all this hoo-donkey nonsense about some king in the stars. Drop the stars and put’chur hands behind-” “Have you ever heard of the war of constellations?” Alastar quickly interjected. “You must at least have heard of some sort of war throughout your planet's history, yes?” “‘Course I have. I ain’t no rookie to the battlefield.” “Ah, so you can understand! You see, right above you, although you can’t see it with your naked eyes, is a catastrophic, unparalleled ongoing cosmic war. For eons, my people have been giving their lives to defend my King, his kingdom, and the people who serve him. Regular people, just like the ones here on your planet, have been slaughtered for generations defending their King.” “You sure do spit a lotta’ fairytales. Ain't nobody ever heard ‘a no cosmic war down here. Where’s your proof of all this anyway? What makes you think I’m gonna believe a single word that slivers outta your mouth?” “My proof? Why, these stars are all the proof I need! They flood your city with their light, and their heat, and their glory, but nobody seems to care. You must hear the sounds of our war late at night, can’t you? The flashing, pulsating lights that fill up your nighttime sky? The eruptions that sound off throughout the night?” “You mean the storms?” “Storms? You believe them to be nothing but storms? Where is the rain? Where are the clouds? Surely you can’t truly believe in such a thing as an invisible storm.” “The News says it’s just storms.” “Your News networks lie. Your educators lie. Your governments lie!” “Well that ain’t no concern ‘a mine. Only thing I care about is keepin’ my city safe from people like you who sneak around and try to tarnish it. Besides, ain’t no war happenin’ down here. Least not nowadays.” “But of course there have been wars in the past. You yourself claimed to be no stranger to the battlefield! Don’t you remember how it felt to be a part of something so cruel?” “That ain’t none ‘a your business.” “But you must remember the heartbreak!” “Don’t push it!” Shouted the officer, as he took a step forward and grabbed Alastar by his collar. He pulled him into his chest and gripped his shirt with a force that Alastar had never experienced before. Several of the stars tucked into Alastars arm fell from their pile and sprinkled onto the sand below. The two men locked eyes, both of them refusing to blink or break eye contact from the other. The stare-off continued for what felt like an eternity before Alastar finally broke his gaze by aiming his sights towards the sky. “Please, you must understand. These are more than just stars. These are my comrades. I must bring them home.” Alastar begged. Small puddles of tears began to well along the underside of his eyelids. The officer’s eyes widened as he noticed Alastar’s composure begin to unfold. He took a deep breath, let go of his shirt, and allowed Alastar to fall to his knees before him. He watched as the poor, star scavenging man sobbed. “Before a soldier heads off to war, a part of his soul is collected by the King and is molded into a new star. This is treated as a badge of honor amongst the entire kingdom. An honor of the utmost righteous caliber. From there on, the star is sent outward into the heavens, where it will burn and shine nobly, while the soldier is sent off into hell to fight. If the stars continue to shine, that means our soldiers continue to fight. But when a soldier dies, the remainder of his soul dies with him, and all that’s left is the sliver of soul that sits at the heart of his star. And if his star doesn’t have enough time to age and grow into itself in the sky, that's when it falls. A fallen star signifies a fallen soldier. If a star stays put on the ground for long enough, it burns out and withers away. But if the star is retrieved quickly enough, it can be placed back in it’s rightful spot in the sky! If a star can be returned, it will once again shine proudly for all to see, never to be forgotten. Even after a soldier has passed, the light of his star can live on and prove to our enemies that we shall never stop fighting. We fight for our King! We fight for our people! We fight for the light! And that, my dear officer, is why I have been sent down here tonight. I must collect as many stars as I can and hand them over to my King, so he can place them back where they belong. These stars are more than just stars. I must not let them be forgotten.” A grueling gust of wind wisped its way through the two men, picking up piles of sand and dormant stars and flinging them several yards away from where the pair stood. The drums of war, once mistaken by the officer to be claps of thunder, pronounced themself assertively above the city. The officer huffed a deep breath, tilted his head upward towards the sky, closed his eyes, and listened intently. Alastar, who remained kneeling down in the sand, wiped the tears from his eyes and stared up at the officer. The men remained cold and motionless until the wind finally halted. Then, to Alastar’s astonishment, the officer opened his eyes, looked downward, and held his hand out to him. Alastar stared at the veiny hand for a moment before reaching out and taking it. He used every ounce of will and strength left in his bones to plant his feet in the sand, and with the help of the officer, he stood up. “Alright. ‘S’go.” The officer grumbled, letting go of Alastar’s hand and placing his handcuffs back into their designated waist holder. “You’re letting me go? Honestly? Oh sir, I can’t thank you enough! Truly, you have no idea how much this will mean to my King and my people. I promise, once I-” “What’d I tell you ‘bout that damn silver tongue?” “Right, right. Well then.” The two men walked together side by side, silently, and finally calm. They walked sluggishly, each kicking up small piles of sand with their heels after each step. Alastar stared down and flipped his fingers through his pile of stars, mumbling each of their names one by one. “Polaris.. Vega.. Betelgeuse.. Rigel..” It took the men 3 measly minutes to travel the 300 yard trek from the tip of the city to the gate. Upon their arrival, they were greeted by a dull, comforting blanket of heat. The gate hummed somberly, and a hint of ominous purple light could be seen leaking out from the crack in the middle where the two doors would part once they were opened. Alastar turned to face the officer, who was staring at the gate in a temporarily hypnotized state, and smiled. “Lift your sleeve.” Said Alastar. “What’s that now?” The officer replied, breaking loose from his trance. “Lift your sleeve. I want to take a look at your watch.” The officer obliged and lifted his left sleeve up to his elbow. Underneath it sat a shiny, silver, non-ticking watch. “Just as I thought.” Whispered Alastar. He smirked, pulled the left breast of his jacket forward, reached his free hand inside, and pulled out the star he had tucked inside of it just moments before the two met. “This is Sirius. The brightest star in the sky. And a very, very good friend of mine.” He reached his arm out towards the officer and placed the star on the top of his watch. He held it there and watched as its shine briefly intensified for about five seconds, before eventually returning to its original glow. As he pulled the star off of the officer's wrist, the watch began to tick. “There you go. All fixed.” Alastar said with a smile. “Well, I must be going now. The King will have my head if I'm even a millisecond late.” “Now just wait one second.” Interjected the officer. “Now let’s say I really do believe everythin’ you told me t’night. All them stories ‘bout the war, and the king, and the souls in the stars and what not. Now, if all that’s true and not a whole load’a hoo-donkey.. Well then why do they lie to us down here?” Alastar paused and thought about the question. He was unsure of how to answer it without upsetting the officer, and he had no intentions of adding fuel to the fire of an already unstable society by telling him that his entire planet was seeded in deception and corruption. “Well, I suppose they may not be aware of the real truth, so they create fantasies to appeal to the masses.” “But that still don’t make no sense to me. Why lie? We ain’t as dumb as they might think, y’know. We can think for ourselves. All they gotta do is just tell us they don’t know the real answers.” “Well officer, not everything is as it seems. Let me put it this way: When a star runs its course and finally burns out, the light it let’s off can still be seen for years to the people on the planets who surround it. Light needs time to travel far distances. So even though a star has burnt out, it still appears alive and well to the naked eye.” “I don’t think I’m gettin’ get what your tryin’ ‘a say.” “Even the stars lie, officer.” The officer stood silently and motionlessly. His eyes latched onto Alastar’s and didn’t let go. Alastar had surprisingly grown rather fond of the officer in the final few minutes they had shared together, but he had officially run out of time. “Well, I must be going now. Thank you again, Officer…” “Don.” The officer replied sharply. “Right. Thank you, Officer Don.” Officer Don nodded his head and released a faint yet noticeable smile. He looked down at his wrist and watched the small hand on his watch tick. “Oh, one last thing.” Alastar proclaimed. “Once I walk through this gate and the doors close behind me, keep an eye on that watch. Stare at it for 30 seconds, and then look up.” Alastar smiled, glanced outward at the city one last time, and then turned around to face the gate. He lifted Sirius up to the doors of the gate, and held it there as its shine intensified. The gate made a loud, clunky sound, which indicated the star had done its job by unlocking it. Without anymore hesitation, Alastar closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, tightened his grip on his pile of stars, and pushed through the doors. A strong ray of purple light flooded the sandy outskirts for just a moment as Alastar walked through the gate, and then quickly vanished the moment the doors closed. Officer Don did exactly as he was instructed and immediately looked back down at his watch. He watched the small hand tick slowly and counted down along with the watch. As the hand hit the 15 second mark, he felt a single tear begin to form in the corner of his left eye. He remained there, steady, unblinking, and counted down the last five seconds. “5.. 4.. 3.. 2..” On the final second, he dropped his arm back down to his side, and aimed his sights upward. He watched in awe as the nighttime sky began to flood with stars right before his eyes. One by one, each star popped back into existence, just as Alastar said it would. He felt the tear drop fall from his eyelid and slowly make its way down the side of his face. His cheeks began to rise, revealing his teeth that shined just as brightly as the new stars in the sky. He pointed out some of the stars he remembered and listed them each, just as Alastar had done. “Polaris.. Vega.. Betelgeuse.. Rigel.. Wait, but.. Where is-” Just before he was able to mutter the star's name, Sirius flashed its way into existence. He bellowed out a deep, powerful laugh, and allowed his eyes to shower his cheeks with tears. He took a seat in the sand and kept his gaze on the heavens. He placed both of his hands in the sand, leaned back, and ran his fingers through the warm, blonde powder. The sky was shining brighter than he had ever seen before. His heart beat slowly and steadily, and for the first time in his life, he felt at peace. He sat comfortably in the sand and spent the rest of his night listening to his watch tick, and watching the stars shine in all their glory.


Beneath the collapsed stone wall at the southern end of Bottle Street Cemetery, along a queue of carriages awaiting cargo on Bottle Street proper, is where my grandfather is buried. Three of his known victims are buried a pistol shot away, under a decaying oak tree starved of all sunlight by coughs of smoke in the dockyard beyond. A short row of mossy headstones stand in a patch of overgrown grass there, the weathered likeness of death itself engraved upon all. Joyce DeWitt, 1839-1861, who my grandfather entangled in a romantic affair; Joyce’s twin sister Angelica DeWitt, 1839-1861, who was buried with a beloved pet cat; and the constable’s daughter Elizabeth Thorne, 1841-1861, whose crooked headstone turns away as though petrified even in death. Not long ago, as we drove past the cemetery in snowfall one night before Christmas, my grandmother confided in me that the DeWitt sisters ruthlessly tortured Elizabeth Thorne, and once cornered the girl in an alleyway outside the butchery where she was made to swallow pig’s blood. I am yet unsure of how my grandmother came about that tale, however, as she was quite elderly and demented at the time. My own ink still wet upon the page, I wonder what role she played in such cruelty to disallow the memory to dry. The wall had been repaired once before now, amidst several weeks of deluge in October of 1887. The stonemason’s apprentice, who noticed me watching toil in the mud breathless and soaked to the bone, explained that the Butcher’s grave was much too shallow to withstand the weight of the stone and that the naval batteries along the cape were unlikely to hold fast upon such a murderous sinkhole. Evidently the apprentice knew well his trade, because the wall toppled during the evening of a violent squall this past August. Given enough time, I believe the soil would wash away to reveal a festering gateway to hell. A wagon arrived on Bottle Street early this morning that was leading a blind team through the ghostly fog that veiled the city. It was only once the cargo was unloaded and many blocks of granite lay in a rough pile beside the wall that I noticed the apprentice from years ago. A strange sense of joy overcame me in that moment, as if finally reacquainted to another who understood the true burden of its collapsing. The joy remained untainted by daylight until the discovery of a corner article in the morning paper which the author wrote about an anonymous donation addressed to city hall. “We must respect the deceased, for we too shall yet share their fate.” Though in truth, I paid the government three hundred dollars not to pay respect to my grandfather, but to weigh the rotten bastard down. Because I was murdered by the Butcher’s sick mind and foul action, if only by way of upright reputation. Yet unborn and unable to smile at the day of his hanging, I am able enough to now witness the stoning of a man who deserves to die thrice.


I'm a member of a travel group that does daytrips in Florida. A couple of months ago, there was a trip listed for St. Augustine. For those readers not familiar with the US, St. Augustine is the oldest city in the US and is in the Northeastern part of Florida. We did a driving tour of St. Augustine, followed by a tour of the Ximenez Fatio House Museum. The trip also included climbing the Lighthouse which was the last event. I was looking forward to the challenge of climbing the lighthouse. I'm a middle aged plus sized woman who had a weak left knee. I had two months to prepare for the climbing the lighthouse. I did this by walking up and down the stairs at work during my two breaks. I started out slowly. My weak left knee became stronger as did my bones. Found out that I had a Vitamin D deficiency which caused the weakness in my bones. Once I started taking Vitamin D, my bones felt stronger. I never would have guessed that I had this deficiency. Yesterday, the day finally came. December 1st. It was about a half hour before the sunset and I wanted to get up there. There was 8 landings. I would rest every 2 landings until I finally reached the top. The sun had almost set when I got up there. Beautiful view of the lights of Christmas in St. Augustine in the city and the Matanzas River. Now I had to go back down. I made the mistake of looking down and almost went into the panic. I stopped myself, took a deep breath, said a short prayer to myself and then went down. Someone in the group gave me moral support and encouragement when I went down the steps. She was right behind me, encouraging me. This I really needed. By the time I was on the 3rd landing, I was on a roll. The next 3 flights of stairs were easy. When I finished, people cheered me on which really made my day. I did it. Several person in the group congratulated me. So did a couple of people at work who I sent a text to declaring that I had reached my goal of climbing the lighthouse. I was proud of myself. The view was beautiful. I went and sat on a nearby bench for ten minutes and drank a entire bottle of water. A line had formed outside to the lighthouse. I was glad that I went up when I did. A couple of years earlier, I went to the Lighthouse and couldn't go up the stairs. My knee was weak and my legs felt like I would break a bone if I attempted to go up the stairs. I vowed that I would go up the stairs. Three years later, the opportunity presented itself. I woke up this morning with no pain. This I'm most grateful for. Our group drove around St. Augustine to see the lights. Very beautiful. I've been to St. Augustine several times during Christmas. This year it was like they went all out. This morning I sent a e-mail to the group thanking them for their moral and emotional support. This was one of the best trips I've even taken on this group.


MACUMBA – VOODO  Etcetera

PREFACE

The term “Macumba” is also used to describe various popular Afro-Brazilian rituals that aim at healing and worldly benefits. The religion involves syncretistic elements and is practiced mainly by Black Brazilians in urban areas.

I lived and worked in Brazil; from 1956-1958 and again in 1980-1983.

My first exposure to Macumba was very limited; lasting a little more than an hour in 1956, viewing groups—ranging from twenty to a hundred or more—chanting/praying on the beach; calling for the spirits to rise from the dead .

Circa twenty-years later, in 1980 I was hired by ITU – International Telecommunications Union – Geneva, Switzerland—to go to Brazil with the goal of Helping the Brazilian Government to consolidate nearly 500 different telephone corporations into ONE.

The problem had been going on since the first telephone companies were incorporated in Brazil in 1879.

My task was to train a counterpart in the skills of:

1. IDENTIFYING THE OVERALL OBJECTIVE : (Previously cited in Bold type)

International Committee of the Red Cross

United Nations Office at Geneva

World Intellectual Property Organization

World Health Organization

World Meteorological Organization

World Trade Organization

International Labour Organization

International Telecommunication Union

International Organization for Migration

International Organization for Standardization

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

International Electrotechnical Commission

International Bureau of Education

Initially, I operated alone, traveling to many of the principal corporations, one being located in Bahia. (Originally the: Captaincy of Bahia de Todos os Santos. ..i.e.  Salvador. Named for

The Bay of All Saints  ( Baía de Todos os Santos  in modern Portuguese).  A major feature of its coastline. The bay itself was named by the explorer Amerigo Vespucci.

For nearly two hundred years, Central and Western Africans were captured; placed on the largest ships available and hauled off—like cattle. (Worse than cattle; cattle would have been fed and given water, not so with the African slaves.)

The largest number—close to 800,000—were sent to Bahia—on the Eastern most, to be sold to owners of large plantations—some as far away as Haiti and other small islands to the East Cuba.

And finally: What I learned while in Bahia for nearly one month.

Candomblé is an African diasporic religion that developed in Brazil during the 19th century. It involves the veneration of spirits known as orixás, which are equated with Roman Catholic saints . Each individual is believed to have a tutelary orixá who has been connected to them since before birth and who informs their personality. A central ritual involves practitioners drumming, singing, and dancing to encourage an orixá to possess one of their members. They believe that through this possessed individual, they can communicate directly with a deity. Offerings to the orixás include fruit and sacrificed animals.

Offerings are also given to a range of other spirits, including boiadero, preto velho, caboclos, and the spirits of the dead, the egun .

While some Candomblé groups prohibit possession by the dead— considering it to be spiritually polluting— for the limited time I was in Bahia and what I learned from my friend—Clarence—who lived and worked in Bahia— there were ceremonies on the beaches where prayers and incantations were offered regularly.

Clarence and his girlfriend told me that they had their reasons for not wanting to get too close to what was going on. All of which centered around not wanting to be “SNATCHED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, BY SOME EVIL SPIRIT!”

The next time I traveled to Bahia—two or three months later, on my way back to Brasilia—I went with them to the beach.

“They don’t seem to have any set rule on who will lead the ‘incantations,” Clarence informed me.

We sat on some large rocks, approximately fifty meters from the ceremony. The prayers were a mixture of musical incantations and low mutterings from the leader. Most of the twenty or thirty members were carrying small candles...that were poorly made or were purposefully designed to give off a lot of foul-smelling smoke.

The closer the group got to us, the more the smoke blurred our vision.

As the group came closer and closer, they encircled us...muttering once in a name of a Catholic Saint or one of Jesus disciples...as if calling up a dead-spirit. Whatever their intentions, it was enough to give me some spine-chilling moments in Bahia.

After living in Brazil for a year, I took my first ‘paid leave’ and returned to the U.S. via...Three guesses?

If you guessed Haiti, you’d win the prize.

When Clarence first noticed my interest in ‘different religions’ other than a variety of Christian Faiths: “You really should check out Haiti.

Rather than my take on things that might scare the Bejebbers out of most Americans—not all, mind you...since there are some American religions that would require you to drink purple COOL AID laced with arsenic...or reach into a box of poisonous snakes  Voodoo

Voodoo is still a prominent religion in Haiti.

It is considered the national religion and is practiced by a majority of the population .

Vodou is a syncretic religion that originated in Haiti between the 16th and 19th centuries . It is a blend of traditional West and Central African religions and Roman Catholicism.)

Now that I have focused on ‘strange religious practices'  Perhaps in all fairness I should include the following:  THERE IS A passage you mentioned is from the book of Isaiah in the Bible. It describes a vision of a peaceful world where all creatures coexist without harm. The verse you referred to is Isaiah 11:8, which reads: “The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.” 1

This verse is often interpreted as a metaphor for the peaceful coexistence of all creatures in the world, as you mentioned. It is also seen as a prophecy of the coming of Jesus Christ, who would bring peace to the world .

Now that is realllly scary!

(My hope is...that the last paragraph won’t disqualify me from the contest.)

END

2]


The day before your birthday, you find out you have to fight a gorilla and you have to win. This is certainly news to you, but your parents say they’ve been talking about this for months, don’t you remember, and while you don’t, you just nod and say oh yeah I do because you’re afraid you’ll get in trouble if they find out you weren’t listening to them. Then you ask why you have to fight a gorilla, and your parents look surprised and say don’t you know? Everyone has to fight a gorilla when they get to be your age. They did it, your older brothers and sisters did it, your neighbors did it, even the nice old lady who works in the candy shop did it. You’re not sure if you believe them, but you ask your older brothers and sisters, you ask your neighbors, and you ask the nice old lady in the candy shop and they all tell you, yes, when they turned the same age you’re about to turn, they too had to fight a gorilla and win. You’re shocked, but think maybe they’re all playing some sort of prank. So then you ask some of the older kids at school and they say yeah they fought a gorilla on their birthday and look at you kind of weird for even asking. At recess you ask your teacher whether she ever fought a gorilla when she was a kid, and she says of course, everyone does. She points to a scar on the side of her face and says that was where her gorilla bit her, when she was about your age. You go to the library and ask the librarian, someone who always smelled like the old sweaters in your basement, and he grins and says it looks like someone’s got a birthday coming up soon. You’re showed a book that explains how people have been fighting gorillas on their birthdays for generations, supposedly starting with some guy named Sir Francis Nanergrab, though the book says there’s a lot of doubt he was really the first. It showed a picture of this Sir Francis Nanergrab, and he was missing an eye, an arm, and his entire lower jaw. You slam the book shut and run out the library without even putting it away. You cry for a while, both because you’re scared you have to fight a gorilla, and you feel stupid for apparently being the only one who didn’t know you had to fight a gorilla. At dinner you ask your parents again why you have to fight the gorilla, and they tell you again that it’s because that’s what everyone does when they’re around your age. You say, no, no, that’s not what I mean, and then ask why is it the thing that everyone does, and they tell you it’s just how things are, so then you say why do kids have to do it anyway, it seems stupid, and then your parents get really mad at you and say that if they had to do it when they were young, you have to do it now. One of your big brothers says he doesn’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it, and to quit being such a baby about the whole thing, and your parents actually agree with him, even though they say he should be nicer about it. You can’t sleep that night. As you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, all you can think about is how big and scary gorillas are and how you never ever want to have to fight one but everyone is going to make you tomorrow. Eventually, you see the sun rising through your window and realize you got no rest at all. Your parents come in a little while later and say it’s time to get up. When you come to the kitchen, the table is piled high with all your favorite breakfast foods. You’re not hungry. Your stomach hurts from being so nervous. But then your parents get mad at you again, saying they worked really hard to make this meal special for you, and you’re really hurting their feelings by not eating it. You take a few nibbles here and there. Your parents say you should eat more, you’ll need your energy for later, but that makes you even less hungry and you tell them sorry but you can’t eat anymore. One of your parents asks if this is still about the gorilla, as if they expected you’d forget about it overnight, and when you nod they say you must stop being so silly about this and that this is a big day for you. Instead of going to school, your parents take you across town and at first you think you’re going to the grocery store, but then they turn and you realize you’re going to that big boring building next to the grocery store, the one you always saw but never really thought about when you’d drive by it. You refuse to leave the car at first, grabbing onto whatever you can to stay where you are, but your parents are too strong and they drag you outside, then drag you across the parking lot, then drag you through the door, then drag you down the hall to meet someone they call Mr. Talbot, who they say is the town Gorilla Master. Mr. Talbot doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d force kids to fight a gorilla. He has kind, gentle eyes and a warm smile. He kneels down and holds your hand in his, which you find to be warm, dry, and a little rough. He says he knows exactly how you feel, how he was nervous too when he was your age, but was just fine, and when he gently squeezes your hand you notice he’s missing three fingers. You yell and scream, saying please, no, please, no, over and over again, louder and louder. Mr. Talbot shakes his head and smiles, says there’s always one every year, then with surprising strength drags you into a dark room in the back. It’s a little bigger than your garage and smells like a petting zoo. You look up to the man and beg him to please let you go, that he doesn’t really want to do this, but he just puts a whistle to his lips and blows a shrill piercing cry. At the other end of the room you see a pair of blinking eyes shimmer in the dark. They get closer until, out from the shadows, steps the gorilla. It’s huge. It opens its mouth wide and lets loose with a mighty roar as it beats its chest with fists as big as your head. Mr. Talbot shouts “FIGHT!” and the gorilla charges. The next few hours are not your best. You never, ever try to fight the gorilla. Instead you just run and dive and duck and dodge and do everything in your power to avoid it. Mr. Talbot yells at you from the sidelines, saying to be tough, to face your fear, telling you that all the kids at school will make fun of you if you don’t fight, but you’re still running. The gorilla keeps chasing you in circles around the room and your heart is pounding against your chest and your breath is coming out like fire and your legs are feeling like jelly but still you try to get away, you are not going to let this gorilla catch you even if you have to run forever. But you can’t run forever. You get tired. You get slower. And the gorilla is getting closer. Right when it’s about to catch you, Mr. Talbot blows the whistle again and the gorilla stops, then returns to the shadows, leaving you gasping and wheezing on the floor. Your parents come in and cross their arms and say they are VERY disappointed with you. Every single kid when they get to be your age fights the gorilla and wins, why can’t you? Between deep breaths you say there was no way you’d ever beat a monster like that, especially when you don’t have any weapons at all, but your parents say they both fought gorillas even bigger than that when they were your age and they had no problem. Mr. Talbot said the gorilla he fought when he was your age was ten feet tall and he was still able to kill it in just a few minutes. Why can’t you? Everyone else can, after all. Your parents say maybe they’d understand if you were, like, dying of cancer or were born without arms or legs, but you’re a healthy normal kid, so why can’t you just kill that gorilla like a healthy, normal kid would? You don’t know the answer. All you know is that you can’t. You wonder what’s wrong with you, if it’s really supposed to be so simple. You can tell your parents, in their heads, are wondering the same thing. Still, it’s over. For today at least. In the car ride back, they say they have never, ever seen someone act so immature. You’ll never get anywhere in life, they say, if you can’t kill one little gorilla in hand to hand combat. It’s very important to your development. So that is why, they say as you pull into the garage, you will be returning to Mr. Talbot tomorrow, and the next day after that, and the next day after that, on and on and on, until you’ve slain that gorilla like a proper young person should. And until you do, they say, no more video games.


They sped along in V formation, kings of the aerial highway. Any jaywalker plucky enough to cross them was flattened. Dale was riding near the front, when the leader honked loudly. "There's a nice hole-in-the-wall up ahead. We're stopping for drinks." They’d been traveling since sunup so the gang honked back their overwhelming approval.

The smooth surface was icy on Dale's underside as he settled into the water. He shivered. Then, after a moment, began to guzzle lake water. He'd been needing a drink for hours. His gullet full, Dale started to think of food. He made his way to the bank where a few of his brothers had gathered to complain about their old ladies between sips of lake water.

"How's the eats?" asked Dale. "Not bad," said Jack, a one-eyed goose that was the head of their V. "Some grasshoppers and frogs here in the shallows."

"Nah, I'd better not," mused Dale. "I ate a cigar butt off a sidewalk yesterday. Plus, I swallowed a diamond ring that I found on a park bench. My stomach needs something lighter.”

"Suit yourself, Brother," Jack returned.

Dale found a creek and followed it into the nearby forest. He had just found a nice spot and was about to dive to the bottom for minnows when a piercing cry for help rang out from farther up the creek. Out of curiosity, Dale paddled upstream where the creek became wide and deep. There was an island of sand in the middle of the creek, and perched on top was a small rooster with a large red comb.

"Could you help me out?" asked the rooster when he saw Dale. "Why should I?" asked Dale as he swam up to the sandbar.

"I—I'll owe you a favor!" said the rooster. "A big one." "Why would I need a favor from a clucker?" Dale laughed. "Is there nothing I could trade for a ride across this creek?" asked the rooster. Dale hesitated. The rooster was clearly a local, so he would know the area.

"I had a bad cigar the other day,” said Dale. “So I'll be requiring minnows." "Sure thing," nodded the rooster. "Get me across this creek, and I'll do you one better."

His interest peaked, Dale allowed the little rooster to climb onto his back and ride him to the far shore.

"I owe you my life!" said the rooster.

"I'll settle for minnows," said Dale. "Do you know a good spot?" "I've got something better," whispered the rooster.

Dale followed the rooster until the woods opened up to a small marshy field. "Here we are," said the rooster. "But you must not be seen, and you must promise not to reveal this place to anyone."

"This place!" Dale's eyes went wide. "Is this a rice field?" "Yup," said the rooster. "But if Farmer John spots you, you'll be shot, so stay low to the ground." The rooster led Dale to an inconspicuous corner of the rice field, and pointed his feathers invitingly. "There's plenty, so please eat your fill."

Dale hadn't been this excited since that corn field in Indiana. He dove into the shallow water and began to gobble rice.

"Is it true that migrators are scared of snow?” asked the rooster.

"What do you mean?" asked Dale.

"You run away from the snow every year,” said the rooster. “Everyone says you’re scared.”

Dale spit out a mouthful of rice. "We aren't running away from the snow, we’re running toward the sun!”

“Winter is scary for locals too,” sighed the rooster. “But in different ways.” The rooster plopped down on the bank of the rice field. "I actually tried to migrate. Almost made it across the stream, but I was washed down to that sandbar."

"Why'd you leave?" asked Dale. "I didn’t think locals ever became migrators.”

“I had to. The chickens on my farm have gone completely insane," said the rooster. Dale chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sure they're wild. A real dangerous bunch of cluckers."

"If you only knew," the rooster shook his head.

Dale ate his fill, then climbed up beside the rooster. "You know," he said, "for a local, you aren’t bad. What's your name, friend?" "I'm Red," said the rooster. "Well Red, thanks for the meal.” Dale flapped his wings. “I've gotta get back to my V," "You won't tell anyone about this rice field, will you?" asked Red. "If a lot of rice goes missing, Farmer John will kill more chickens this winter."

Dale pitied the rooster. Stuck in one place, just waiting to die. "No, I won't tell anyone," said Dale. "I give you my word."

"Good-bye," said Red. "And believe me, I will pay you back for saving me. I give you my word."

Dale flew back to the lake. As his brothers came into sight, he felt his rice coming back up. There was a row of repulsive creatures encircling his friends along the bank. "Mallards!" Dale scoffed.

"This is our turf!" the mallards were quacking angrily as Dale landed. "We stopped here last fall and marked it as our territory." A mallard pointed to a nearby tree, which had a small pile of rocks against its trunk. "We took those rocks from the bottom of the lake and put them there last year, clearly marking this as mallard territory." "Clearly!" said One-eyed Jack, the leader of the geese. Dale pushed through the wall of mallards and stood between the two groups. "It's a big lake," he said. "Big enough for both geese and mallards."

"It's a lake, not an ocean!" said Jack.

"It's not big enough for the two of us!" agreed Marco, the mallard leader.

"How about we settle this in the morning?" suggested Dale. "All of us need a place to stay for the night." "Nothing doing!" honked an old goose as he strode toward the mallards.

"Never!" quacked a young mallard, as he strutted toward the geese.

Peace was never an option. Dale realized that now.

Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. The goose and mallard war-cries were interrupted by the din of interlopers. "Locals?" The pecking and wing-beating halted as the mallards and geese stopped to stare.

Dale saw a flock of chickens edging around the lake, pecking at rocks and grass as they went. They were led by a shriveled looking rooster with a faded comb. "Get lost!" Marco mallard quacked at the chickens.

The chickens stared blankly at the two groups. They glanced from the geese to the mallards, then back to the geese. The old rooster in the lead suddenly stumbled backward. "Where'd y’all come from?" The flock of chickens clumped together and shrieked in unison at the sudden appearance of a threat. "We've been here this whole time, you dumb cluck," said Marco mallard. "Shoo! This is our territory!" The chickens' terror passed momentarily, and they became curious.

The geese became increasingly annoyed as the chickens gathered around them, scrutinizing their bills and feathers.

"Are you aliens?" asked the old rooster. "I've heard tell of your kind." "It's best that you leave," said One-eyed Jack to the rooster, flapping his powerful wings in warning.

The mallards were not so kind. Using their powerful wings and bills, they bludgeoned the chickens into a full retreat.

"We don't want to leave!" squawked the chickens as they gathered behind the old rooster. “The grasshoppers and worms here are tasty,” whined a young rooster. “I’m so tired of eating rice,” grumbled a young hen. “It has no flavor.” "We’re leaving," said the old rooster.

"Rice?” Both the mallards and geese perked up at the same time.

"Pay Henrietta no mind," said the old rooster. "She's just a picky eater." He turned to the young hen. "It doesn’t matter how tasty the bugs are around the lake, this territory belongs to these gentlemen. When we get back to our rice field, you will finish your rice before eating bugs, or you can just go to bed hungry."

The old rooster bowed his head to the geese and mallards, apologizing for the intrusion. The chickens turned dejectedly and started down a well worn path leading into the woods.

This situation suddenly struck Dale as strange. However, before he could voice this opinion, a fresh tumult erupted.

"Wait just a minute!" quacked Marco mallard.

"Yeah, wait!" echoed One-eyed Jack. "What's this about a rice field?"

The old rooster turned and looked at his pursuers blankly, then he stumbled back. "Who're you?" he squawked. The other chickens clustered together and began to shriek once more at the sudden appearance of a threat.

"We were just speaking a moment ago," said One-eyed Jack.

"Ah! You were by the lake earlier," the rooster pointed a wing at One-eyed Jack, recognition dawning on him. "That's how I know you!"

"That..." Jack hesitated. "Is correct."

The old rooster nodded as if greeting an old friend. "What can I do you for?"

"You said you want bugs right?" interjected Marco mallard. "We can give you all you can eat." he gestured at the lake. "Really! You'd do that?" asked the old rooster in amazement. The flock of chickens began clucking in excitement.

"But in exchange," said One-eyed Jack, "We want rice." The old rooster looked surprised. "You want to trade bugs for that nasty gruel?" he shook his head. "I can’t take advantage of you.”

"You see," said Jack, "we aren’t normal migrators. We are… we're 'aliens!’ If we don’t eat rice we’ll die.”

The old rooster looked at him with pity.

"We are willing to make a trade,” continued Jack. “We will give you all the bugs you can eat," he looked graciously from one chicken to another. "All we ask for in exchange is your rice field."

The old rooster hesitated, "I don’t know. It seems like we're taking advantage of you.” The young hen, Henrietta, nudged him angrily. "It’s fair. Just accept!" The old rooster shrugged, then nodded his agreement. "Okay, follow us."

The flock of chickens, geese and mallards formed a caravan along a well worn path leading into the nearby woods.

Dale watched them go. This whole affair seemed very strange. It couldn't be the same rice field he'd just eaten at.

“Ugh!” Dale clutched his stomach. He’d eaten too much earlier, and as he hunched over, he pondered his poor life decisions. If only he hadn't eaten that cigar butt or that stupid ring yesterday. That ring especially. The gold band had simply been too shiny, and the diamond had been too sparkly. It had just been sitting there on that park bench looking delicious.

"Wait!" shouted a distant voice.

Dale spied a small rooster rushing along the bank of the lake. It was Red.

Red caught sight of Dale, and made a bee-line for him.

"Have the chickens been here?" asked Red as he gasped for breath.

"They left a while ago," said Dale. "They led my brothers and some mallards to a rice field.”

"What?" Red’s eyes blazed.

"Wait a minute," Dale held up his wings. "They aren't taking them to your rice field. That rice field is danger—" Dale stopped as the realization suddenly hit him. “But why?"

"I told you!" Red flapped in exasperation. "The chickens around here are devious and evil." "Devious?" Dale cocked his head, recalling the dimwitted locals. "I don't buy that."

"It’s a con!" said Red. "They’ve done it before.” "But why?" Dale asked again, starting to worry.

"If Farmer John bags enough game birds, he won't kill any chickens during the winter,” said Red.

Dale stared dumbly. How had he been so stupid? "I have to warn them!" said Dale. He flapped his wings and flew up. But he'd barely left the ground when his stomach convulsed. He hit the ground with a thud.

Red rushed to his side. "Are you all right?"

Dale staggered up, gazing horror-struck at the path leading into the woods. He couldn’t warn his brothers in time.

"Follow me!" shouted Red. "I know a shortcut." Dale's stomach was in knots, but he managed to chase Red. They rushed along the edge of the lake, and entered the woods using a game trail.

"Foxes use this trail," grimaced Red, "but we don't have a choice." They pushed through the underbrush, keeping a sharp eye out for predators.

"Why does your farmer need to kill so many migrators?" asked Dale, between gasps. "Doesn't he have plenty of rice?"

"He sells all the rice," said Red. "Farmer John is saving up to marry a lady farmer down the road. He’ll eat chicken this winter, until he saves up enough to buy something called an ‘engagement ring.’

The forest suddenly opened up and Dale could see a farmhouse with a smoking chimney, a big red barn, and a rice field. In the middle of the rice field a flock of birds were fighting bitterly. "They haven't been spotted yet!" Dale exclaimed.

As he spoke, there was a rapping at the farmhouse. To Dale's horror, dozens of chickens were pecking at the farmhouse door. The door swung inward and a young man in overalls waded amid the chickens. "What’s going on?”

The chickens flapped wildly and turned in unison to the rice field where the geese and mallards were battling.

"Varmints!" the farmer exclaimed. Shotgun in hand, he waded through the chickens and slinked toward the rice field.

Dale flew up, but thudded to the ground once again. This time his stomach gurgled, and he vomited a mass of lumpy goo onto the ground.

He lay there in the dust, panting. "Have...to warn...them.” "I'm on it," shouted Red, as he dashed toward the rice field. "I still owe you one, remember."

Red raced down the hill. "It's a trap!" he yelled. One-eyed Jack and Marco Mallard halted their battle when they heard Red's warning. That was when they finally noticed the farmer slinking toward them. One-eyed Jack instantly recognized the metal stick in the farmer’s hand. Marco did too. They temporarily shelved their differences.

"Fly away!" One-eyed Jack screamed.

"Run for your lives!" said Marco mallard. The battle screeched to a halt, and in unison, both sides leapt into the air.

The farmer fired off two quick shots, but missed. He reloaded, but when he raised his weapon, the birds were out of range.

Dale saw his brothers fleeing, and sighed in relief. His eyes went to Red, who was now surrounded by an angry flock of chickens.

The old rooster shook his head with disappointment. "Son, do you know what you have just done?"

"I know." Red hung his head. "But this… it just isn’t right.” The old rooster sighed. "No one disagrees with you Red, but this is the only way." The old rooster gestured for the mob to break their encirclement. "Let him go."

Red plodded back to Dale. "Seems like all your friends got away. I guess we're square now."

Dale gazed at the black dots on the horizon. "Hey Red," he said. "Thanks." "Don't mention it," said Red. "What're friends for."

“You aren’t a friend—or a local,” said Dale. “You’re a brother now—an honorary migrator."

"You're not gonna make me fly are you?" asked Red. "I got on top of the barn once and realized that I'm scared of heights."

Dale grimaced. He suddenly felt something squish beneath his webbed foot. It was vomit.

Amid the half-digested rice, Dale saw a sparkle. It was the ring that he'd swallowed the previous day. Suddenly he had an idea.

He ignored the vomit and pecked out the ring. Rushing to a nearby puddle, he began to clean it vigorously.

Red watched on, bewildered.

Dale rinsed the ring until it shone like new. "Take this.” He dropped the now-sparkling diamond ring in front of Red. "What is this thing?" asked Red, pecking at it.

"It's an engagement ring," said Dale.

"You mean?" Red looked at the ring with growing excitement.

"Yeah," said Dale. "Give that to the farmer, and your flock will survive the winter.”

Red whooped.

“See you next year, Brother!” Red pecked up the ring and rushed to Farmer John.

The farmer plodded along with a flock of dejected chickens trailing behind him. He was still cursing under his breath when he noticed the little rooster barring his path. "Not now, Red," said the farmer.

Red dropped the ring on Farmer John's boot.

"What's this?" said Farmer John as he stooped and picked up the diamond ring. "Jesus H. Christ!" he exclaimed. He held the ring up to the sunlight. "Lord in heaven,” he whooped! He bent over and scooped Red into his arms. "Red, I'm gonna make you my best man!" Dale took flight and raced to catch up with his brothers. As the farmyard and rice field faded in the distance, he watched the farmer laugh all the way to his pickup truck. “I’m so getting laid!” he shouted. He stumbled over a chicken every step of the way, but hardly noticed. The chickens were squawking loudly and if the farmer could have understood them, he would have heard them chanting "Red! Red! Red!" with wild excitement.

Dale dropped into V formation. "You guys as hungry as I am?" he groaned. His stomach was empty and all he could think about was finding another rice field, one with fewer chickens.

Before anyone could reply, dozens of quacks sounded and a V formation of mallards pulled alongside. The two groups glared angrily at one another for a long time. "There's a nice estuary five miles south-west," Dale called. "First ones there get to stay!" “We marked that one last year!” quacked Marco mallard. “We left a pile of rocks by—” But the geese ignored him as they beat their wings and sped toward their next meal.


Ellie took a deep breath; she knew what she needed to do. She was way past nervous, her mind and emotions numbed whilst every cell in her body vibrated with an intensity that bordered on painful. Her limbs did not feel like they belonged to her and every movement required conscious effort. Oh, not now, struck by a sudden urge to vomit, she leaned against the wall of the tunnel, pressing her head against the cool brickwork. The change of focus brought unexpected resolution and, oblivious to the looks and shouts from her astonished team-mates, she turned and faced back towards the changing room. At the age of twenty-five Ellie Brighton was about to live the moment she had been working towards for as long as she could remember. She was captaining the England women's national football team as they played in the World Cup final. This was her destiny. Ellie told people she was lucky to have always known her destiny. She had never had to suffer indecision or uncertainty, never had to consider options or wrestle with potentially pivotal life choices. She had even been spared the bittersweet agonies that she had witnessed her contemporaries succumb to. As they practised falling in and out of love, testing boundaries and breaking rules, Ellie practised only within the painted white lines, carefully sidestepping so much as a yellow card.

It was impossible to pinpoint when her future had become apparent. Maybe from the moment she was able to walk, or perhaps when she first kicked a ball. Not for her dolls, jigsaws, colouring books, or any of the diversions offered to other children. Ellie had footballs, goal posts and subscriptions to football magazines. Her evenings and weekends were consumed with training and matches. There was no time for other activities, but as the years went on her friends became more distant and the invitations less frequent. That was ok, she needed to focus and there was no place for distractions. Nobody was surprised when Ellie excelled at football, she put in the work and it was in the blood. Dad had been a promising player, later blaming his early transition into parenthood with its onslaught of responsibilities for his missed opportunities. But he was able to channel his frustrated abilities and abandoned dreams into his firstborn, Ellie’s brother Kane, ten years her senior, and her hero. Kane was a true football natural, destined for great sporting achievements. Dad could see that Kane was going to live the life that he had been forced to forgo. Setting the template for Ellie’s experience years later, Kane was brought up to be a soccer star. Whilst he was blessed with at least as much footballing talent as Ellie, Kane was not blessed with her amenable personality and desire to please. For him, the process of being moulded into the vision his dad had already created for himself was a source of tension, a constriction causing an ever-increasing pressure within. Lacking the skills or the opportunity to recognise and name his building distress, Kane took the only option available to him and developed alternative outlets. At the age of four years he started urinating behind his bed, he didn’t know why, and was unable to explain himself to his furious parents. His dad could barely look at him as they trained that evening. There followed a series of protest behaviours over the years, each as hopeless as the last. Fighting at school was written off as youthful energy, unwillingness to complete homework accepted as part of a focus on a footballing career, and isolating from friends created more space for what was really important. Infrequent interjections from school suggesting that there may be an issue requiring address were side-lined. Dad knew what he was doing. But the tension continued to intensify and, as Kane grew older, the range of available outlet options became wider and more detrimental. His early escapes into self-harm were quickly detected and met with such scornful disgust that he stopped immediately. Or so dad thought. But Ellie knew he hadn’t stopped. She adored her big brother and football for her was a way to be close to him. She might have only just started school but she knew enough to understand that Kane hadn’t stopped the damage, he had just become more creative and skilful at hiding it. Time did little to ease the frequency and fervency with which Ellie constructed a version of reality in which she had been able to share her childlike insight, to raise the alarm and prevent the tragedy. She carried burden of that knowledge, heavy and blunt, excruciating to the point of nauseating, through the remainder of her shattered childhood and into her fraudulently successful adulthood. She had become Kane’s substitute, and she provided dad with the vicarious football career he craved. Fuelled by the heat from her burden, which never abated no matter how hard she worked or how much she achieved, Ellie did what Kane could not. But now, standing here, about to lead her team into the most important game of their careers, the most important moment of their lives, Ellie experienced a new sensation. The boulder-like burden lightened and rose upward within her. It expanded within her chest giving rise to a feeling that she had never before associated with playing football, suddenly she was filled with doubt. There was no uncertainty about her ability, that was not in question. Rather, Ellie had seemingly selected this, the most poignant moment in her career, her life, to lose her belief. What was she doing? How had she ended up here? The noise from the stands faded, her teammates drifted from her awareness and Ellie was five years old standing beside her beloved brother’s bed. Kane wouldn’t answer her and she couldn’t wake him up. The confusion and rage, two decades stored, seared through her. Then came the grief and, with it, an unforeseen clarity. Kane hadn’t wanted the life that had been so precisely prescribed for him, and neither did she. Unable to truly free himself, Kane had escaped the only way he knew how. Unquestioningly, grounded by the weight of her innocent guilt, Ellie had taken his place. But it wasn’t Kane’s place and now it wasn’t hers. She had trained all her life for this moment, and now she walked away from the pitch and towards a different future.


Stuart Watson									about 2,100 words 607 Ridgeview Court Hood River, OR 97031 stu@watsonx2.com 541-386-8860 More Than It Can Hold by Stuart Watson We were gardening, pushing bulbs into the ground and hoping for flowers. I heard a car door slam, looked up, saw four young men carrying something really heavy toward the front door of the house across the street and two doors down. It’s painted red, but I couldn’t tell much about the thing they were carrying toward it. All I could tell was they were straining under its weight, spread out, struggling with their share of the load, but knees bent almost to the ground. One man went down and the others hurried to adjust, to keep their load from falling and crushing their friend. He sprung to his feet, quickly grabbed new purchase on the load and they resumed their trudge. Maybe it was the bright setting sun, but I couldn’t tell what this object was. It had corners and edges, where people could grab it and lift. It was longish, maybe the length of a rolled rug, but it wasn’t a rug. Or at least it wasn’t what I could identify as a rug. Frankly, I’m not sure if it was anything.

“New neighbors?” I said to Sylvia, tapping dirt from my trowel.

My wife looked up, a smear of dirt like a mustache above her lip.

“Looks like it,” Sylvia said. “House has been on the market so long. It will be nice having somebody in it.” “Will it? I love empty houses. New people are always odd people.” “Why?” “Because people are odd? No, seriously, they just move in and go about their lives and none of it matters. Why should I care? Why not let the house be empty? So we can live in peace. They’ll probably have a dog. And let it sit outside and bark. The noise will drive me nuts. I’ll want to go over with my noise vacuum and suck it up and the dog with it.” “What are they moving?” “Not a clue. Can you see anything?” She looked for a few seconds. “Nope,” she said. “But they sure look like they’re hauling huge stuff. Hey–” She got my attention. “--you think they’re mimes?” It was the same thing all week long. I grew despondent. Groups of two to five men, carrying large items that, at least to our eyes, were invisible, but appeared to have considerable heft. One day, a really long item, maybe an invisible girder? The next day, something that could have fit inside a small apartment, floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

“I’m guessing it’s a commercial laundry machine,” I said. “Dirty sheets in, gray sheets out.”

“You know how when you’re on the freeway and get stuck behind some huge piece of industrial machinery on a low-boy?” Sylvia said. “Things that sort rocks or make concrete or turn forests into toilet paper? Maybe they’re DIYers, making their own butt wipe?” “We should get them an Oversize Load banner. As a housewarming gift.” That got us giggling like little kids, and the next thing you know, we were in the rack. When we were done, Sylvia rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. I’ve always loved the way her breasts slumped sideways at moments like that.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she began, “but when I was walking Oscar by their place earlier today, I heard … well, it sounded like the sound you hear when an elevator starts to move and picks up speed. Rollers. Rattling. Air rushing past. Hearts beating loudly, everybody hoping this isn’t the elevator that goes blooey.” “Did it go blooey?” “Nope, but I heard it ding and the doors open and suddenly a bunch of voices, like when you arrive at your floor and other people are waiting to get on and everybody stands back for the guy with the photocopy machine on a cart and maybe you know some of them. Somebody always says that line from the Aerosmith song. Good morning, Mr. Tyler. Going … down? ” “Maybe they’ve got a big elevator in there?” “It’s a one-story rancher, you idiot.” The day after they moved the big thing in, I noticed an aroma. It was a little like fresh-mown grass, with notes of strawberry and lime, backed by a somewhat yeasty base. I imagined it was what a kombucha bakery smelled like. If there was such a thing. I asked Sylvia if she noticed it, and she said it smelled nice, like a lotion she wouldn’t mind rubbing behind her knees. The aroma lasted for a day or two, then waned. In that time, the house swelled to twice its previous size, mostly upward but a little to the rear as well. Lights pulsed behind the windows. We hadn’t met the new residents, so we thought it might be nice to invite them over for dinner. Get to know them. Maybe satisfy our curiosities.

Lars and Wanda arrived at six with a bottle of screw-cap red. Chateau Oaky Hills something or other. I already had a beer, but poured three wines for them and Sylvia. She had made chicken with roast potatoes, onions and carrots. Very Middle America.

I toasted “to good neighbors,” hoping it wasn’t too direct. Then I offered my help, if they needed any, with moving their stuff in.

“It looks big,” I said. “And heavy. I didn’t know sounds … and shit like that, they took up so much space.” “Oh, you have no idea,” Lars said. “Big sounds, big space.” “Well, if you need a dolly or a come-along, let me know.” They thanked me. From there, it was pretty open-ended questions, hoping they would spill the beans. “Lotta stuff.” “Don’t you hate moving?” “Where did you come from?” “Are you among the lucky ones, remote workers?”

They weren’t. They came from Dubuque. Two kids, in elementary. He was a sonic archivist. He saw our uncomprehending looks.

“Like a sound engineer.” “Oh,” I said. Then, “All abooooard!” He looked at me like I was an idiot.

“You know? Trains?” “That would be the conductor,” he said. “No trains involved.” It was a pleasant evening. Social events drain us both. We crashed. I was deep in dreamspace when the sound of a huge crash jerked me awake. Sylvia was screaming. “What is it? What is it?” Our room was fine. I slipped into my sweatpants and hoody, closing the door behind me in case we had an intruder, who had accidentally tipped over the refrigerator. I flicked on the hall light and slowly made my way through the house. All was normal. Nobody jumped out from the behind a doorway with a knife.

So I went outside, out front, where activity lived. It was still dark. We had no street lights, by our choice, so I had to pick my way along our sidewalk. When you’re looking for a sound, or more precisely, the source of a sound, it can be challenging. Nothing presented itself. Across the street, I heard crunching and tinkling, like what you hear after a building has collapsed and the stuff on the top floor is just arriving at the bottom, all atomized and reduced to rubble inside a billowy cloud of concrete dust. Otherwise, nothing to see here. I turned back toward our house and that’s when I tripped, stumbling forward and down, onto our lawn. What was that? I crawled to my hands and knees and worked my way back, feeling the ground for the obstruction. I found nothing but flat, pebbly concrete. And then the voice. Ahh, that magic voice. Fred Parris. I’m old enough to remember when he first shone from the airwaves, he and his do-wop Satins. “In the Still of the Night” became the theme song to my lost innocence. Our lost virginity. But where? What was the source? I was lying on a sidewalk in the dark, no radio, no passing car, no lights from any window? The song’s lyrics trailed off, as if just passing through, which of course, any song does. Sylvia had the lights on when I returned, and told her about that magic moment. She smiled that smile, and wrapped her arms around my neck. Still the same. After the sun came up and everyone got after their yard chores, I could see the new neighbors – Lars and Wanda and two teenage boys – out picking up stuff from their yard. I couldn’t see what. Frankly, it looked like they were just going through the motions. There was nothing there, but they were bending over and reaching down and struggling to stand back up, whatever it was (or wasn’t) cradled in their arms. Then they would take it back into the house.

I couldn’t resist wandering over, casual as can be, with Roscoe on his leash. “Lend a hand?” I offered. Lars looked up, smiled. “Thanks, no,” he said. “Think we got it.” “Uh, it ?” I said. “Oh,” he said, looking around, almost as if it should have been obvious. “Our sound file tipped over in the night. Not sure why. But audio went everywhere. Still missing a few pieces. If you happen to come across The Still of the Night or Alley Oop , we’d love to get them back.” “Records?” He stared at me, geezer and dog. “No,” he said, finally. “Songs. The sound of voices and instruments. Gear on gear. Weather. Urbanity. Construction and transport. All for aural consumption. They’re beasts, these sound bites. And heavy. Especially the death metal. Cavernous” I must have looked confused. “Sorry if it woke you,” he said. “Moving is a bitch. We hadn’t organized everything yet. Our Tower-Crane-Toppling audio … well, it toppled – ironic, right? –

and knocked over the 747-Crashing, and that tumbled into the Walk-Off-Home-Run-Cheering and the Atomic-Bomb-Detonating and …” He looked at me, as if something on my face betrayed what, in fact, I felt – a mixture of confusion and incredulity and the sense that I was being fed a line of snake oil mumbo-jumbo. Or the jabber of a savant. So I jumped at the chance for clarity. “Isn’t sound just air? Invisible vibrations passing through? Like a pulse? Not much more than a feeling?” “Or like a stupid question,” Lars replied. “It’s not just air. Sound is … value-added air. It’s

the most valuable thing, the repository of words, emotions, speech, music, natural percussive echo and oral transmission of memory, the gospel rock of Sister Rosetta Tharp, bird journeys, exhalations swept away by atmospheric rivers, conversations in sidewalk cafes and the councils of government, where hate takes root, gains traction, where fear inhales and hides, where ...

“ “You’re stoned, right?” To his credit, Lars smiled. Took no offense. Figured Rubes like me would never get it, so why waste time and breath trying to explain. He invited us to come by later.

“This house is way too small for our collection,” he said. “Last night? Proof if ever we needed it: We’ve got far more than the house can hold. We’re having a yard sale later. You could find a bargain or two. I’ll give you a deal on a priceless Steam-Engines-Colliding.” I nodded. Priceless? As if anyone would pay for something as evanescent as a sound bite from the 19th century? I didn’t know what to say, but I’m sure that when our eyes met, Bart realized that I thought he was nuts.

“You could get a phone,” I said. “Upload all your noise. To the cloud ? And download it. E-z p-z.” Lars’s lips thinned out, tight, cinched into a grimace. It was like I’d insulted him and he didn’t want to get arrested for taking me to the ground and extinguishing my lights. Such as they are, my lights. Maybe I should’ve called it something other than noise, but it wasn’t exactly all music, was it? “We gotta lighten the load,” he said. “Got a cacophonous shipment of stuff coming down the river on a barge. Need to make room.”

On the way back to our house, I chastised myself for being too judgmental. Who was I to say that Bart and his clan were any different than some scruffy philatelist or presser of flowers between paper towels inside the pages of the Sears catalog, whatever that is? Was .

Sylvia was sipping coffee when I returned. Slurping it. Loudly. At the top of her lungs. Or lips, actually. She peered over the top of her cup, expectant. “News?” “Lars is an air collector.” “No shit? Where does he collect it?” “Anywhere and everywhere. Only thing is? They’ve got too much of it. It’s crashing down around their ears.” I suddenly felt the urge to capture Sylvia’s slurp, like a free-flying parakeet, and put it in a cage for future reference. To protect it, treasure it, appreciate it whenever I wanted. Then I realized that was unnecessary. It would always be there, every morning, until it wasn’t. Instead I told her about the yard sale.


\-The Turn, short horror story. Emma sat in the back seat of her mother’s car watching the line of cars on the other side of the interstate. They weren’t moving and occasionally she would see kids playing with passengers nearby stretching legs. Her tablet had died earlier that morning and she was still cross with her mother for not letting her plug it in. She said she needed to keep her phone charged, and she thought to herself that “maybe she wouldn’t need to charge it if she wasn’t constantly reaching for it - trying to call people or answer when it rang”. Not that it made a difference. Every time it rang, she would talk for a few minutes in a hushed voice before spattering “hello, hello” as the connection was lost. She mulled over the thought of asking her again to use the charger but thought better as she would be home soon anyways. Mother was upset, and she didn’t want to chance getting rejected again. They had been in the car since before the sun crossed the horizon. Now after lunchtime with her stomach rumbling, she was just happy to be heading back home where she would finally be able to get the snacks her mother had hastily left at the house. Emma’s mother, Bernadette, a slightly heavy set woman with short chocolate brown hair, focused on the road in between attempts to wipe the tears from her eyes. She had been a single mother since Emma was two. Between the booze, the lost jobs and the fists she couldn’t take it anymore and somehow convinced her worthless husband to move out. As she drove back to her modest house in the country she wondered if she made the right choice. At least maybe he would have been able to protect them. She shook the thought from her mind as they passed a sign “Knoxville - 25 Miles”. She refocused as she knew the 321 exit would be coming up shortly. She could feel her heart begin to race. The thought of vacating the main interstate and leaving the safety of all those other people brought the dread from her stomach up into a lump in her throat. She felt sick and thought for a minute that she might pass out. She shook that thought loose too. Right now - she needed to get home. Get her and Emma home, then she could worry about what they would do for the night. They lived in the small town of Wears Valley, Tennessee. Just on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains and Dollywood where she worked cleaning hotel rooms. Bernadette had lived there her whole life. They lived in the house her daddy had left them after he’d passed. A small house with two bedrooms and a single small bathroom. It was a sturdy house, besides the sagging porch and thinned glass windows. She always thought “it had good bones” and “they don’t make them like this anymore”. Now thoughts of what heavy furniture she could push in front of the windows, and could she pry up those old boards from the front porch raced through her mind. As four lanes turned to two Emma began to see things she recognized. It wouldn’t be long now before they were back home. Then she could plug in her tablet and eat some snacks. What a strange day it had been for Emma. She could see the shops, gas stations and homes she’d seen a hundred times, but they were different now. Boarded up, dark, men with guns sitting outside scanning the distance. One of the men she recognized, Lloyd Houston waved frantically at her mother from outside the Smoky Mountain Grocery, a small corner shop. He was a nice old man and she always liked seeing him. He would buy her a pack of gum or a candy bar whenever they would go to the store. Bernadette pulled her car into the gravel parking lot and as close to Lloyd as she could get. He propped his 12 gauge against his lawn chair and walked to the window. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on Bern? I thought you were going to Atlanta” he whispered through the window. Bernadette, not able to fully control her voice snapped back “We tried Lloyd; we couldn’t get anywhere close to it. They were turning back cars as far as Cartersville.” “Jesus” Lloyd said again “Tom couldn’t come meet you, to talk to them - or let him take them with you?”. “No, he’s just a deputy - they had the National Guard with jeeps and dogs turning us around on the median. One of the cars got stuck, and they just used their trucks to push it back onto the road”. Lloyd stepped back from the car for a moment, knowing what had to be going through her mind. “What are you going to do now, Bern?” he asked. Still trying to speak soft enough for Emma to not hear “Lloyd please, I don’t know. I can’t go home. Not out there alone in the woods. You have to let us stay with you”. With a sad look he says “I can’t Bern. You know I’d love to have you but there’s just no room”. “Please Lloyd you have to…please” She bargained. “I don’t know, we’ve got all the grandkids and their parents are panicked. They are hard enough to be around in good times”. Knowing she could win this argument and play on his kind heart she reaches out the window and grabs his hand. “Please I’m begging you – we won’t be any trouble; we will bring our own food from the house. Emma can play with Susie and Dillan – distract them from their parents”. Realizing he’s lost Lloyd relents “It’s standing room only – you’ll have to make a cot for you and Emma to sleep on”. “That’s fine Lloyd, just fine” she fights back the tears, and she squeezes his hand. She releases his hand as she reaches for the napkin to dab her nose. Lloyd steps back and orders “go to the house quickly, get anything you might need – food, water, something to sleep on and get into town. But be safe and quick about it!” Bernadette nods curtly, still trying to dry the snot in her nose. She shifts the car back into gear as he quickly catches her “do you still have your daddy’s .308?” She nods again. “Bring that too” As she approached the final turn to the road which would ultimately lead her home, she contemplated whether or not she should just keep going. “Just keep going and go straight to Lloyd’s house”. Whether it was habit or guilt over the food she promised to bring, she soon felt the bumps under the tire as she crossed the median turning onto the dirt road. The house was at the edge of town, a town where everyone knew everyone. Nevertheless, out here the land was rural, and neighbors could be hundreds or thousands of feet away. Bernadette didn’t have much land she legally owned, but her property almost backed up to the national park. Great swaths of land formed a half billion years ago. Mountains rising out of the earth as tectonic plates collided. Being late spring the trees were green and the forest thick. A hazy overcast day compounded by the dust and pollen the small car kicked up. Bernadette had to pass two houses before she reached home. She didn’t know the Johnsons who lived closest to the road, but she spent some time cleaning vacation homes with her neighbor, Amy Wilson in the off season. As she passed the Wilson driveway, she slowed the car and tried to spot the house. In the winter she could see Amy’s car, but the dense foliage blocked her view. “Surely she’s left”. Nearing the end of the half mile trip from the paved road she felt that sickening feeling again and once again had the urge to keep driving. She regained her thoughts and told herself “twenty minutes, I can go in for twenty minutes and be at Lloyd’s in an hour”. \- The car came to a stop and Emma could hear the familiar sound of windchimes singing in the breeze. Dust hung in the air and caused her mother to cough as she opened the door and unstrapped her from the booster seat. She quickly hoisted her and led her into the house by her hand. “She never holds my hand” “Mom, can I have some chips now?” “Yes sweetie, grab some chips and go get a few toys from your room” Bernadette said as she quickly began raiding the fridge. “I want to plug my tablet in” “no not now sweetie we are going to Mr. Lloyds in a few minutes” “No, I don’t want to go to Mr Lloyds, we just got home – I want to play on my tablet” Emma said with a whine. Realizing she hadn’t told Emma about their plans to stay with the Houston’s that night she stops her packing. Looking at Emma now for the first time since she awoke her at 4:30 this morning she pushes back the brindle hair from her freckle kissed face. “I know sweetie, but Susie and Dillan are going to be there. Don’t you want to play with them”. Emma shook her head softly no and put her thumb in her mouth to hide her disappointment. Bernadette knew she was tired, she never sucked on her thumb anymore. She pulled her in close nuzzling her under her neck while she rubbed her back “Ohh baby, if we don’t go to Mr Lloyds then he can’t give you the candy he forgot to at the store today. If you’re really good he might even take you on a tractor ride”. Knowing this was a lie. She pulled back from her daughter and could see the tears beginning to form in her eyes. “I don’t wanna go”. Her calm composure now turning to anger and panic snaps at Emma. “Emma Lynn O’Keefe if you do not go to your room and pack your toys you will have nothing to play with tonight, and if you do not go right now I will spank your bottom. She flies up and begins her frantic packing of anything she can grab from the old white fridge. “Go Emma, and I don’t want to see anymore tears” Emma still sniffling, begrudgingly walks towards her room. “The adults are acting weird today, momma never wants to go anywhere.” She crosses the dark living room making sure to step on the beams of light streaming from the blinds in hopes that maybe it will break her mother back. Emma’s room on the opposite end of the house is adorned with toys and stuffed animals. She looks across the rows of stuffed animals and dolls and remembers the tablet in her hand. Maybe she could charge it for a few moments before they had to leave. Susie’s parents wouldn’t let her have a tablet, but maybe she could borrow one from the adults. She climbs onto her bed to fish the plug from the socket. Something outside the window draws attention from the edge of her periphery. A white bunny rabbit at the edge of the garden. She’s seen bunnies before, but never a white one. Not a single mark of gray or black or brown, she can see its pink nose as it sniffs at the vegetables from outside the fence. She watches it for a few moments as it works its way around the garden fence, looking for a way to retrieve the produce. “Maybe I can catch it and take it to Mr Lloyd's house” Emma thinks. “He raised that baby squirrel whose mother abandoned it”. Forgetting the toys and tablet she hops from the bed - moving towards the hallway, pausing. She needs to be quiet; wanting to be quick and get the bunny before her mom notices her absence. She begins to sneak towards the screen door just past her mother’s room, cautiously avoiding the groaning floorboards. As Emma approaches the screen door she crouches down into a low stance. She begins to push and the hinges pop with a loud groan. Pausing she can hear her mother talking on the phone from the kitchen. Making herself as small as possible Emma slides her body between the door and the house out onto the concrete steps. A cacophony of birds and insects break the silence of the stale house and Emma holds her nose not to sneeze from the pollen in the air. Right around the corner there it is, the white bunny rabbit. It’s digging at the bottom of the fence trying to gain access to the plants Bernadette planted a few weeks back. Still in her low crouch Emma begins cautiously walking towards the garden. The un-mowed grass licking at her exposed ankles, she knows she will be itching later. After a little sneaking she finds herself five feet away from the bunny who’s preoccupied with his soon to be treat. Pausing to sniff the air the bunny spots Emma, and quickly begins a hasty retreat. After a few steps the creature stumbles and struggles to get up. Emma can see that its leg is hurt. She feels a sharp pain of sadness in her chest, “the poor thing is hurt. Now I have to get it to Mr. Lloyd” The rabbit regains his footing and begins a staggered hop towards the edge of the woods and Emma gives suite. Not quite gaining on it, but not losing it, she follows the hare through the edge of the woods and into the thickening undergrowth. Ignoring briars and thorns, young Emma pushes through the tangle determined to rescue the wounded animal. It begins to get dark, even midafternoon in April the dense canopy oppressively hangs overhead. Emma pushes past the dense grove of pine trees. The trees she’s not allowed to pass, deep in thought and pursuit. “Mamma doesn’t have to know I’ve been back here”. Nearly losing sight and regaining it, Emma spots the white bunny only a few feet away but it’s not moving. Emma doesn’t know what she sees. There are red splotches on the animal and it’s breathing is shallow and labored. As she approaches the rabbit, she can see the fear and begging in its eyes. It’s in a trap. A trap not unlike the traps the cunning villain uses in her favorite tv snow. Realizing the extent of the injury, tears begin to well in her eyes as she brushes the dried leaves from the jaws that now intersect the wounded animal. She begs and pleads as she pulls on the powerful spikes that seem to devour the poor beast. The animal struggles and she sees it’s stomach begin to tear against the sharpened blades The springs are unrelenting. Emma, hearing a loud pop, looks up for the first time since beginning her chase. The crack still echoes through the trees, a figure emerges from behind a grand pine. “Shh shhh – Don’t cry Emma” A sing-song voice speaks out to her. The forest now quiet save for the soft voice and gentle rustling of leaves. The figure approaches and her young mind struggles to make sense of what she sees. A tall woman but far too big to be any person she knows. “She must be two feet taller than mama” Nearly scraping the first layer of limbs, Emma sees the antlers adorning the woman’s crown. Antlers that lead down to a deer’s skull, leaving only her pale white mouth exposed. Her torso and legs covered with heavy cloth, stained with dark splotches crimson red. Her bare feet with darkened toes walk silently across the earth. As she draws closer Emma begins to feel uneasy by the strange woman. “Maybe she will tell mama I was out here - I wasn’t spose’d to be''. Feeling an urge to run, she remembers the bunny. “This woman is big, maybe she can open the trap” “I found a bunny…but it’s hurt and, in a trap…can you help me” Emma blurts to the odd woman. “What bunny sweet Emma?” she replies Now focused on her little white friend she thinks “It’s right here!” “She’s so close, how could she not see it?”. Only now did Emma feel the visceral burning pain as she looked down. No bunny to be found, she tries to pull back but can’t move. Her delicate hands smashed between the powerful jaws of the bear trap; she feels the teeth dig into her wrist as she struggles to break free. First panic, then fear, and finally dread wash over six-year-old Emma as the horned woman approaches. Tears stream down, washing streaks of dust from freckled face as she wishes her mama was there. Bernadette hangs up the phone, finishing the conversation with her brother, Tom, the deputy in Atlanta. His last remarks replay in her mind “It’s crazy today, sit tight for a few days at Lloyds and I’ll call when I can get you into the city” Not wanting to stay here any longer she puts her arms through as many grocery bags as she can carry. “Emma bring your toys we’re leaving now!” she yells across the small house. Getting no reply “Emma, come on, right now sweetie”. Maybe she had been too hard on her. Rounding the door to her daughter’s room. A rush of adrenaline and churning stomach acid, her eyes go wide as she quickly scans the room” “Mama! Mama come here!” she hears faintly from outside the house. “Emma!?” Bernadette retorts as sheds the bags lining her arms. Nearly sprinting out onto the sagging porch scanning the unkempt yard. Instantly she feels the adrenaline start to fade and her heart begins to slow. She sees Emma by the edge of the woods waving and smiling. A heavy sigh, she promised herself she wouldn’t be that hard on her sweet Emma again. “Emma, what are you doing out there sweetie?”. “I found a bunny; I think he’s hurt” she replies from the dark tree line.