“Claire, will you please go and see that?” Lillian Evans, the detective, called out as she heard the doorbell ring. “A bunch of young girls, Madam,” said her help. “Please send them up. I’ll be there right away.” Miss Evans replied. Settling down on a sofa, Miss Evans smiled at the girls. “Please introduce yourselves.” “Clarice Brown, 21” “Janice Wright, 26” “Bexley Allen, 25” “Celine Miller, 24” “Melanie Ellison, 25” “And what brings you here?” asked Miss Evans. “An attempt to murder me” replied Clarice. …………… Previously… “We ought to report it right away!” Melanie whisper-shouted. “Yes! If it happened once, it can happen again,” Bexley piped in giving a slight shrug. “Right, but I don’t have the slightest idea about who’d want to kill me!” This time it was Clarice who spoke. Celine was the only one who had remained quiet, after all, would she really care if Clarice was gone? Just a little while back, the five girls were taking a stroll in the Northwood Park. “I will go get some ice-cream’’— Bexley rushed off. Melanie followed her-- “I’ll go and help her!” The other three— Janice, Clarice and Celine walked through the soft grass, not knowing about the unfortunate happenings that were about to occur. Celine, on the other hand, wore an expression of despair, determination and slight hope. Right as they flopped themselves down on the soft grass, a bullet flew right past Clarice’s shoulder. The three startled friends got up immediately. “The bullet came from behind us!” Janice exclaimed. “That bullet…it was meant for me, wasn’t it?” Clarice hesitated trying to get a grip on herself. “You’re awfully lucky that the bullet missed you by an inch, and landed on this tree instead.” Celine replied with a slight tone of mockery in her voice surprising everyone. “I’m back!” came a voice as Bexley ran up to them with five scoops of ice-cream. “I say, what’s the matter, did you want a different flavour?” she continued catching the worried look on their faces. “Heavens, what a shock! Who’d want to kill Clarice!” Bexley exclaimed after hearing the story. “I say, where is Melanie, I thought she said she was going to help get you the ice-cream?” Janice asked looking around. “Melanie? Why, no. She wasn’t with me.” Bexley replied taken aback. “Here, I’m back. I totally forgot about helping Bexley out! There was a bookstore nearby and you know how I can’t just walk past one without entering it!” “Well, that’s all very good but Clarice here has almost been shot. The police need to be informed immediately.” Bexley said cutting her off. ……………….. Celine stopped her narration seeing a man walk into the room. “Oh, there’s Inspector Jones. Good evening.” “Good evening, mademoiselle.” Inspector Jones greeted taking off his hat as Celine started all over again. “Oh, excuse me for just a moment please, that’s my boyfriend calling.” Clarice flushed taking out her phone. Miss Evans observed the picture of a young man that had appeared on the screen. “Jacob? No, I’m not at home at the moment, I’ll call you when I get back, alright?” “Now, Clarice, could you tell us about your family?” “Well, my parents recently died in an accident. I don’t have any sibling but my mother had told me that she had accidentally got pregnant before marriage. Since she was too young, she had to give that child away.” “Alright, my schedule is packed for the next few days, but I’ll get back to you all in a while.” Lillian Evans announced putting her left leg over her right one. “Well, what did you understand from all that?” Inspector Jones asked when the others had left. “Not much, not much.” Lillian sighed as she ruffled her fingers through her auburn hair. “In other words, you managed to understand something!” Inspector asked raising her eyebrows. “Janice knows something.” ………………………. “Solving a crime is like solving a puzzle, unless we have all the pieces, the mystery isn’t completely known. And that one piece might be the most important one, the one determining the entire picture” Lillian Evans said walking down the road with Inspector Jones. “We are going to the Lorest Apartment in the evening, that’s where all five of them live. We’ll inspect their rooms and ask each one personally what their idea about each other is. Who knows, we might get something that might help us.” Meanwhile, in their apartment, Janice was getting ready to go for her bath. “Hang on, I’ll get that.” Janice said scrambling off to check who called. “Yes?” Janice asked picking up the phone. “Is Miss Brown there?” came an unknown voice. “Clarice? The call’s for you! I’m going in for my bath, alright?” Janice called out. “Is this Clarice Brown? Right, there’s a package for you, should I leave it here, or I should I bring it upstairs?” “A package? It would be very kind if you brought it up” It had been about twenty minutes when Janice came out from her bath, softly whistling a tune to herself. Her expression changed rapidly and the colour drained out from her face almost immediately. She stood petrified for a minute and then she rushed towards the dead body of Clarice Brown. Her hands shaking, she picked up her phone and dialled a number, “Miss Evans? It has happened.” “Janice? What’s happened?” Lillian Evans asked as she put on her coat. “Clarice. She’s…she’s been… killed.” Janice said in almost a whisper. “Hang on, I’ll be there.” She replied beckoning to Inspector Jones that they had to leave right away. “What has happened now?” Inspector Jones asked flinging the door open. “They’ve got Clarice.” Lillian Evans replied as she watched Inspector Jones’ eyes round up. By the time they reached, Melanie, Bexley and Celine had already reached the flat. They stood nearby and Janice sat beside the lifeless body. The inspector and Miss Evans bent down to examine the body. A knife had been stabbed into Lillian’s chest and blood was spurting out. “I think we ought to leave this to the doctor and have a talk inside” Lilian Evans said placing her hand on Janice’s arm. “By what I just saw, I concluded that Clarice Brown had been stabbed right in the middle of her chest. Her eyes seemed petrified, it’s obvious that she saw the murderer but he didn’t have the time to shout for help. Well, now you all must let me interview you individually. But before that, where were all of you, did you see the murderer?” “I had gone for my bath, right before that, Clarice had received a phone call. It was about a parcel. And when I came out…” Janice’s voice trailed off. “You mean you heard the voice? Was it a female or male? “Male. But I think I’ve heard the voice before…” Janice mumbled as all eyes turned towards her. “Since it was a male’s voice, why would you want to interview us? And why would we want to murder Clarice?” Bexley asked. “Just because I interview someone, doesn’t mean I suspect that person, it’s the details, the little things which might fit in and give away the game.” Miss Evans said pronouncing a strained smile. “Janice, this is your room isn’t it? Will the other three of you please step out for a few minutes?” “Now, Janice, I want you to tell me your impression of Clarice.” Miss Evans said. “Well, it was last autumn when Clarice shifted to Stoneybrook. She was studying Journalism, along with Melanie. Bexley is in the arts department, while Celine and I are studying medicine.” “Go ahead, what else is there that we should know?” Miss Evans asked further. “I don’t think there’s anything else, Miss Evans.” Janice said firmly sitting up. “What about the fact that Celine’s boyfriend ditched her, when Clarice joined the Institution?” Miss Evans said narrowing her eyes. Janice sat rooted to her spot, struggling to find words. “I assumed this from the way you acted. You seemed to be shielding her, for some reason. You suspected her of committing the crime. The first day I met you, you seemed to watch Celine in a nervous manner. Celine, on the other hand seemed not bothered by the fact that Clarice could have been killed. I saw the picture of Jacob on Clarice’s phone screen. I saw a picture of Celine with the same man in the living room.” “But it can’t possibly be her, it was a male’s voice over the telephone after all.” Janice exclaimed, her voice rising. “We’ll see, we’ll see, now do step out of your room just for a few minutes. You share this room with Celine, don’t you? Melanie shared hers with Clarice while Bexley has a room of her own?” “That’s correct.” “Now, what do we have here?” Lillian Evans asked walking around the room once Janice had left. “Not a thing that seems suspicious?” Inspector Jones asked. “Here’s something rather interesting.” Miss Evans said handing the inspector a picture of a 9 year old Celine with a toy gun aiming at water balloons. “Oh, how I loved playing this as a child. But how difficult it was to shoot the yellow balloon placed at the centre!” Inspector Jones groaned. “But look, the balloon in the centre is burst.” “Heavens, she has a fancy for guns then, that girl. Could she be…!“ “Well, it all adds up, but we might be on the wrong track. The girls said that Celine was right beside Claire when the first attempt occurred. “I say, what’s that?” the inspector exclaimed taking out a packet of white powder. “We’ll have to send this to the police laboratory immediately” Miss Evans commented. “Celine, come on in, now!” Miss Evans called out as the girl entered in. “Tell me about yourself.” “There isn’t much to tell anyway.” Celine replied grimly. “And what about your history with Clarice’s boyfriend?” “If you know everything, why do you ask?” “Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve found out?” “No, why should it? I’ve heard of you, Miss Evans, you’ve solved the most astonishing crimes. You of all people should know that it wasn’t me.” Celine left, sounding distraught.  At that very moment Bexley came in. “Please tell us about your family,’’ said Miss Evans. “My parents passed away when I was a child. I just had a sister.” “I see. How well did you know Clarice?” “Hardly.” “Melanie’s turn now!” Miss Evans continued. “But before that, we’ll check your room once.” “Naturally, Miss Evans.” “Inspector Jones, did you manage to find anything striking?” “Nothing at all, Mademoiselle. What about you?” “These shelves just have notebooks, a whole bunch of puppets and some letters addressed to B.B, must be Bexley’s.” “Let’s move on to Melanie now, shall we?” “Melanie, your room, how do you sleep here, it’s messier than a cobweb! Books scattered everywhere!” “I’m sorry, Miss Evans! I told you about how books attracted me, didn’t I? The bookstore was what attracted me that day, I ought to have helped Bexley instead...“ “Melanie, you seem to read a lot of detective stories.” Miss Evans interrupted Melanie’s musings. “Why, yes, they are my absolute favourite.” “Then, you must know all the perfect ways to get away with crimes.” “Miss Evans, you can’t possibly suggest that I murdered Clarice! What would I gain from that?” Melanie exclaimed. “I’m not suggesting anything. Inspector Jones, we’re done for the day. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” …………….. “Miss Evans? Miss Evans, could you please come to ‘Monchester University’, right away? Please come to the Journalism Department, Block 2, room 7.” Celine exclaimed from the other end of the phone. “Celine? Whatever happened now?” Lillian Evans asked in a perplexed voice. “The second murder.” ……………….. “Move aside all of you”— Lillian Evans and Inspector Jones said trying to get into the crowded classroom. “Heavens, what on earth is this?” Inspector Jones asked looking at the body of a 28 year old man who was lying on the ground. “That’s Jacob, the one who had ditched me to become Clarice’s.” Celine said her voice shaking a little. “Doctor, what’s all this? And everyone other than Melanie, Bexley, Celine and Janice are requested to not gather around. I’m pretty sure there isn’t any show going on in here” Lillian Evans asked. “I just arrived here. It’s evident that he has been poisoned.” The doctor sighed “Well, we were working on our assignment, Jacob had poured some water in his glass, but before he could drink it, our teacher, Miss Dorothy had called us, right after we came back, he drank the water and immediately fell dead on the floor,” said a boy who was standing nearby. “Ammonium dichromate” the doctor informed putting a finger in the glass bringing out minute white powder. “The same chemical that we found in that packet Celine’s room,” sighed Miss Evans. “I beg your pardon?” Celine asked giving a perplexed stare at Miss Evans. “When we were searching your room, I found this” Miss Evans stated coldly bringing out a packet of white powdery substance. “That’s absurd! I’m being set up, I tell you!” Celine exclaimed. “We’ll know soon enough.” “Miss Evans, I think there’s something I should tell you. There’s something I remembered,” Bexley said in a hushed tone. “Is that so? Please go ahead.” Miss Lillian Evans said turning around. “Well, the night before the attempt to murder occurred, when Melanie, Janice and Celine were in the University, Clarice was showing me her assignment. And, well…” “And?” “Well, they had to write a detective story, but what’s odd is that the girl in her story dies exactly the way she did.” “Bexley, does it have anyone’s name?” “No, surprisingly the characters are only numbered. It says that character 5 had killed her.” “How will that be of any help then?” Janice asked. “Connections and instances” Miss Evans smiled “Well, if this really is a clue left by Clarice then we need to find how the characters are related to each other. For example, in her essay, it’s written that character 5, wasn’t on friendly terms with Clarice. So we need to see who all did not like Clarice. Celine was one, of course. On the second page, she has written that character 5 had got into an argument with Clarice about Jacob a few days before the murder.” “That happened on the 19th November. Clarice and Celine had got into quite a terrible argument over Jacob,” Bexley said softly. “It keeps coming back to Celine, doesn’t it?” the inspector asked softly. “Miss Evans, you of all people should know it wasn’t me!” Celine exclaimed. ………………. “Lillian, you know, I do feel bad for Celine if she is being set up.” Inspector Jones said after leaving the crime scene. “What if Celine is making it seem like she’s being set up by others?” Miss Evans replied with a smile. …………. The next day, everyone gathered in Miss Evan’s drawing room. Inspector Jones was also there. “Let’s begin now, shall we? At first I suspected Melanie since she said that she was going to help Bexley get ice-cream but went somewhere else. But then my suspicion moved on to Celine. The clue which had been left behind by Clarice, their history, the poison, everything pointed to her.” “And then?” Janice couldn’t control her curiosity. “And then something struck me. What if I was being led on the wrong path? What if the essay wasn’t written by Clarice but by someone else to put the blame on Celine? What if the poison was implanted in Celine’s room? Maybe Jacob’s death was also for the same reason, no one would gain from it, just that the suspicion would shift to Celine.” “But, if it wasn’t Clarice, then who wrote it?” Bexley asked. “Someone who would gain financially from Clarice Brown’s death. None other than Miss Bexley Brown.” Miss Evans replied. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Evans? I’m Bexley Allen, not Bexley Brown!” “Bexley, you mentioned that you had a sister. Clarice was your sister. You gave it away by saying you HAD a sister, instead of saying you HAVE a sister. You killed Jacob to make it seem like Celine was to blame. For the same reason, you wrote that essay and planted the poison is Celine’s room. When I was inspecting your room, I noticed quite a few puppets on your shelves. Your hobby is ventriloquism, isn’t it? You used a male’s voice when you pretended to be a parcel delivery guy to murder Clarice. Janice said she had heard the voice before. That was probably because you were joking around one day switching voices and you gave away this one. On the first day when you had attempted the murder, you first tried to shoot but missed and then went to get the ice-cream and pretended that you didn’t know anything about it. Now let’s move on to the motive, shall we? I figured out Clarice and Bexley were sisters, Bexley being 4 years older. Their mother had accidentally got pregnant with Bexley before her marriage and she gave her away for adoption. Later, she met Bexley but didn’t introduce Clarice to her sister. After Clarice’s parents died in an accident, Clarice inherited their fortune. Clarice didn’t know Bexley, but Bexley knew who Clarice was; so she came here to kill Clarice and get back the property which she felt should have been hers in the first place. I found in your room some letters written by Mrs Brown, Clarice’s mother, addressed to B.B. This of course made me realize who you really were.” “You don’t have any proof.” “What about the traces of your fingerprints had been found on the knife?” “That’s impossible, I wore gloves!” “I’ll take that as a confession.’’ Miss Lillian Evans smiled to herself wondering how many criminals one passed on the streets without even realizing.


Midsummer, and we’ve left the longest day behind, the dreaded solstice interminable, but still we must contend with day after day of the warmth. Twilight, the heat lingers well past the setting of the sun, radiating leisurely back to the ether from those objects, from the very land itself, that sat baked in light in the hours from dawn ‘til dusk. Even the clouds, when present, cannot completely repel the illumination and thermal rise of the daytime. On this evening, not a puff of a breeze as the daylight succumbs, the air stagnant, providing no assistance to expedite the cooling process, as we wait. Ah, but on this night, there are other reprieves. Those beings that tend to bask in the horrid heat, rather than hide from its destructive forces, they would call this night that of a new moon, new implying rebirth, and a fresh beginning. We who shun the light, abhor the heat, have dubbed this monthly miracle as the great lunar demise, choosing to celebrate its utter extinguishment to blessed black, if only for this single night before the cycle begins anew with the appearance of a crescent crack of illumination on the morrow’s eve. Past twilight now to true and complete nightfall, the darkness permeated only by the tiny, far-flung pinpricks in the evening skies, a billion siblings to the mighty daytime furnace that roasts this world, but too far and too faint to be of consequence to us, the allies of darkness. We grow impatient, if it be possible for such as us, for our reintroduction back to the world, to begin our amalgamation back to being. We can feel a kindling growing in opposition to the falling temperature. No word exists to truly describe this transformation, our reformation. What one might call awakening, if we had been but asleep; or mistakenly cast as a resurrection, but that would imply a return to life. Ah, life, a shunned, four-letter word, rarely expressed of in polite company among us, and never ever to be contemplated or reminisced upon by those of our kind.

Which brings us to tonight’s other exceptional event; the possibility to grow our numbers, increase the multitude, to lead another and another away from the peaceful yet inexplicable draw of the grave, away to join in the delights of the evenings. Two are balanced to leave this earthly realm that is the only existence they have ever known. Even now, the empty husks which are the bodies reside comfortably below their mounds of earth, each interred in separate ceremonies this day, but already the spirits are being lured by the inevitable longing for rest. We who have left that former incarnation behind, yet reject passing on, call to them on their first night of entombment, before the solace of the grave has them firmly in its cold, yet seductive grasp. The newly deceased are always our priority, so we deny to ourselves the imminent release of the boundless darkness and make our plea to them to join. We have but one opportunity, for one night is all that remains to them before they must decide, and so we call. Do not go gentle into that dark, dark earth, but linger awhile, and taste the fruits of this good night. For a day, a year, a millennium, exchange one type of the dark, be it comforting yet confining, for another form, this one expansive and athrill. We call to them, though we can no longer speak as we once did, and they listen, sometimes, even though they have already lost all capacity to hear as a living being would. We communicate. though we do not understand or care to determine how. This eve, we call to Thomas, a farmer’s son, a boy barely on the edge of manhood before tragedy appeared in his world. An accident, yes, but though death comes in many guises, the result is always the same. Pain and suffering came for Thomas, robbing him of the years that should have remained to him. That pain is yet fresh and raw within what remains of him, as it is with all the recently departed.  It is escape from the pain and anguish of the time spent as a breathing man that so often fuels the desire for solace and peace. Tonight, we also call to Madeline, a woman of means until today, singer and entertainer extraordinaire, her death took a different course. She died from disease, which variety no more a concern to her now than the assets she leaves asunder, her last days spent in relative comfort at hospital. She lived more than double the span of years that Thomas dwelt upon this land, yet many still call it a tragedy for one so talented to be called away from their perceived prime, her magnificent voice now silenced. Madeline and Thomas, strangers abiding in the same countryside, he was aware of her through her fame, but only from a distance. Jump ahead to the present, to this moment in time, their final abodes being opposite ends of the same small, grassy hillside. Death came for them the same day, just minutes apart. Did Death perhaps only perceive Madeline in her weakened state when it was called boldly to these shores by the tragedy of Thomas, who can say? Death’s machinations are its own, not for the living or us, the no-longer-so, to overcome, mayhap to dissuade a bit, but ultimately only to respond in its wake as each are able. The still living bury, burn, mummify, then mourn, seeking comfort in tradition and ceremony. Those afforded such glorious sendoffs, or those who expire in humbler surroundings, can only pass on or stay and play in the coolness of the night. We have but one night to make our plea, so we must be quick, and we must be forthright, if not also a little enticing. And just what do we offer, why stay rather than drift out of this realm to the great and unknowing void? If one stays, an experience unlike any other awaits, an existence of sensations henceforth unknown. We cannot speak, we cannot hear, but oh, we can see. Farther and better than any raptor who plies the skies. In the darkness that we love, we perceive better than the slyest predator that stalks the forest floors. But our true enrapturing sense is that of touch, enhanced beyond imagination. We cannot directly interact with the material world, could not disturb so much as a speck of dust with what substance is afforded to us, but we feel … everything! And so it comes to that which we hold most dear, the luxuriating that is our cause for existence. We creatures of sight and sensitivity revel in the coolness of the dark, writhing and cavorting to milk each experience to its utmost that it has to offer. The sky, the ground, flora in the fields and woods, stone and rock of the mountainsides, the very oceans of the world all transform to our playground with the coming of the night, with the dissipation of the heat. We can wallow in a cold mountain brook, as it passes through and around us, becoming one until us and it are indistinguishable. We ride the breezes, however faint, or careen madly within the tumult which is a hurricane, equally at home in either, feeling each molecule that surrounds and rushes around us in our explorations driven by these forces of nature. We can soar into the upper reaches of the stratosphere, where the currents are colder still, and the life sustaining elements that we no longer require are thin, or surf atop wave after breaking wave as they traverse the globe. Or, if it is our want, we may simply relish the simplicity of sitting upon a branch in a secluded wood and allow the material world to move around and through us, stimulating as it goes. The possibilities are endless, as is time to explore them, for each night presents the same choices, yet each night can be abundantly new and wonderous. Where we come from and where we go is a mystery even to us. Nightly, we are created afresh. With great effort, in moans and shrieks, we spring from the emptiness. In homes and glades, from ships and battlefields, from those places lost yet familiar, we evolve. We are not bound to them, yet we return nearly exclusively each time we dispel, for there is comfort in these structures, these hollows, those creations of ours when we were bound by gravity and walked upon the land, be they tangible or only sites full of memories. The living mistake our pains of awakening, believe them to be directed at them, but what appeal would terrifying the living satisfy in us? The living may have a preternatural interest, some even an obsession with our kind, but we do not reciprocate. The living simply cohabitate the night with us, the majority asleep and oblivious. Is our daylight demise a violent act, does the heat sear us with its intensity until we vanish with not even a tinge of vapor? Are we allergic to the light, to the heat it brings forth, for either will dispatch us more readily than any virus detrimental to those who still breathe? Call it allergy, or call it sensual overload, the heat and light stimulate us beyond comprehension so that we must escape to oblivion, such that we may once again arise when the darkness and the accompanying cool returns. But what of our new compatriots, of Madeline and Thomas, advised of their options by us, the keepers of the secret realm? Thomas has moved on, as most undoubtedly will, following his mother in her choice as so many before him and so many yet to come. They yearn for loved ones gone ahead, and often not finding them within our ranks, chose to stay in the grave and await their next journey, hoping for reunion with those previously lost. We do not hold any grievance against their decision, nor lament our loss, for the choice is given freely and without ramification. Those of us who choose to stay may rescind that decision at any time, though the same cannot be said for the alternative. What lies on the other side of that veil, who can tell. Be it heaven, hell, a reincarnation or just nothingness, none have ever returned to expound. But Madeline, she of the silenced soprano, has chosen the alternative path, our path. To become, for as long as she desires, a disciple of the darkness. We welcome her to our spirit realm with open arms. Former peasants and pharaohs, slaves and queens, the life you leave behind has no meaning or value here. With no powers to subjugate and no limits to measure and rate one against the other, are all equal and as one, here in the inviting darkness.


It's 7:30 A.M. on March 10th in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Special Agent Detective Margaret sat in a small almost vacant diner waiting for her new partner to arrive. Sheriff Black Crow walked out of his patrol vehicle in a very composed manner with his heavy brown leather boots. He entered and tilted his hat to the waitress across the room, then joined the young blonde woman sitting at the booth by the window seat. "Hey there, I figured you'd be wanting to meet in T-Town instead", he sat down opposite Margaret and placed his wide brimmed white hat besides him. Margaret smiled and noticed he had a long braided ponytail hidden under his hat which he pulled and rested to the front of his shoulders.

"Hey there, Mr. Black Crow, it's good to see you again". "Likewise, little lady." "What can I get you, Sheriff, the usual?" said the waitress, an older woman with a kind disposition. She smiled and jotted down their order. "Yes ma'am, please fix me up a coffee won't you, cream and sugar please" he added. Black Crow was an old-fashion man with a tragic history in the community. One of his sons had been kidnapped over thirteen years ago but they never caught the culprits. It however made him a more tenacious investigator who had dedicated his years learning everything he could about the mysterious Wolf Nation. Margaret stared outside of her window observing the small town indigenous community. She could hardly focus after the strange dream from last night. A young toddler cried out to her laying on an open field, the red rocky mountains in the distance. She ran towards it panting like a dog, but when she held the baby to her face, she saw a ferocious beast. In her dream she could see herself in a rugged form, her hair was unkempt and her clothing tattered. After her last mission in Sunnyside, New York she felt she could cave in any second. She watched her partners succumb to a bloody carnage while she sat by helplessly. Those memories forced her to relive that trauma like an incurable infection in the mind. "I'm confused, Ms. Margaret". Black Crow said. "Its an unusual request to have me track down some members of the small local hoodlum gang here" he said. "It just seems odd some small town vagrants would be associated with the massacre back in New York involving the Mafia in Romania ". he continued "Listen, Ms. Margaret, I ain't some halfwit small town Sheriff whose going to shoot first and ask questions later. This is my community and I've built trust in these people, I can get them to speak". "Sheriff, there is an urban legend around town. One they speak of regarding a group of elusive people who are said to be shapeshifters, they supposedly hide out in the mountains here".

Black Crow pinched his forehead and stared outside the window. He sighed and fell silent. "These are only children's story, the Wolf Nation is just a gang of ruthless criminals, he said. "Sure thing" said Margaret. Two strange men with long black hair and clean shaven faces walk in through the doorway, they appeared solemn and irate muttering to one another. They have on an inconspicuous baseball cap and sunglasses, one of them orders something with the waitress. The other one sits besides Sheriff Black Crow. Margaret could feel them staring as she observed their nervous body language. Suddenly Black Crow's cup spilled on his lap, he jumped back up from the burning sensation "Sonuva" he shouted. One of the men apologized excessively and handed the Sheriff napkins. "I'm so sorry, officer". "Don't worry son, just be careful next time". Black Crow walked back to the bathroom. One of the men got up abruptly and sat at the other end of the booth where Margaret was sitting. She stared suspiciously at him. "Can I help you" said the Detective. "Yeah you can as a matter of fact", the long haired man removed his sunglasses and hat. "You can stay out of Oklahoma unless you're aching for a death wish.". He slammed his fist onto the table spilling her coffee mug. "You're not wanted here" he said. " We don't need no trigger-happy city cop poking around our business".

The two men standing before her fit the description of the suspects seen escaping from the Sunnyside incident. They even drove the same style white pickup truck. "Do you know who we are?" he said. "I have a suspicion". "That's right, Detective. We're the men responsible for ridding this world of those leeches . You're in the middle of a war you don't want to be in. We won't hesitate to kill you if we have to. These raids stop in our town stop today ",

he demanded. "You can go back to eating your greasy pizza in that piss-smelling cesspool of yours". Margaret pleaded. "The Broken Arrows signify a sign of peace, the blood shed will never end with these attacks, they will only fight back twice as hard". "I don't give two rats asses" the man snapped pushing the booth table towards her abdomen. Margaret's glimmering blue eyes slowly changed to a pale yellow as she held the table from the other end. The long haired man noticed her eyes and stood up. "You two aren't going anywhere" the detective said reaching out to her holster. The two men quickly draw their weapons in return. Detective Margaret noticed his tattoo, five wolf paw prints and spirals designs on his wrist. Black Crow walked back into the dining area and noticed an infuriated Margaret giving death stares at the two men while the waitress and the patrons cowered below their tables. "This didn't have to escalate" one of the strange man said. "Well, well, well" said Black Crow pointing the end of his barrel to one of the men, taking part in the tense standoff.

"If it ain't the Cleghorn brothers". he said. The two men looked towards each other. "I thought you looked familiar, been looking for you two for quite some time". Sheriff Black Crow said with a strong disdain in his voice. He had been looking for a probably cause, seeing them pointing a weapon at a bureau agent seemed like a serendipitous opportunity. The Cleghorn brothers were career criminals heavily suspected of being involved in the disappearance of Black Crow's son over a decade ago. "Ain't I a lucky man?" said Black Crow gritting his teeth. "Stay back, old man", one of the man warned. "We don't want to harm a fellow tribesman, even if you are on the wrong side of the law". "No you two don't understand how delighted I am right now" said Black Crow. "We're not letting them leave" said the Detective. Both of the men start pacing their weapons to the Sheriff and Detective more aggressively and shouting for them to give them space. The other customers gasped and stumbled around under their tables. Black Crow paused for a moment and noticed the restaurant had several bystanders around, he looked at a young boy that would have been his son's age and felt a sudden need to calm the situation down. "Look, it's OK" he said. "I know you two want to get out of here, why don't we spare these innocent people here in this diner". He lowered his weapon and urged the Detective to oblige with him. "Now stir some dust under you". Black Crow said. The Cleghorn brothers walked slowly backwards towards the door and made their escape in their pickup truck. "We had them!" said Margaret. "No, Detective I know exactly where they're going, We're gonna get these degenerates and we'll need some back up, I'll round up the entourage". "Not yet" yelled the Detective. Black Crow appeared perplexed at her reaction. "I can't spare any more officers. Your only job here is to take me to those two men, and once we're there and I get what I'm looking for, you're more than welcome to call for backup". she said firmly. "I know you have a history with those men, but it's an order". Sheriff Black Crow sped over a hundred mph through the small dirt roads deeper into the rural county. Detective Margaret clutched onto the grab handles on the ceiling and turned to Sheriff Black Crow who had an unbroken focus on the road. She is surprised his large cowboy hat hadn't flown out through the windows yet. "You know Sheriff". Margaret said trying to break the tension in the car. "My grandfather is from Oklahoma. You probably won't believe me, I am one-fourth from the local tribe here. My dad use to tell me the stories about the spirits in these mountains. Some people were born with two inner wolves inside them. They were fighting a never ending battle". Sheriff Black Crow held his unflinching stare on the road. "He use to say one of the inner wolves represented the evil in your soul which was anger, envy and fear. The other represented goodness in your heart, humility, kindness and compassion". "You know what, Ms. Margaret", The Sheriff broke his silence "I would agree with that sentiment. I've been working tirelessly to protect the innocent people in this town within the rights of the law". he gritted his teeth again. "Today I'll get my justice served on a golden platter, even if it leaves me rotting in those mountains". The two officers arrived in front of a small community of houses, there was a congregation of men and women lounging around wearing beautiful hand-woven colorful garments. They looked honest and not privy to any of the suspected illicit behavior the officers were looking for. They finally spot the white pick in front of a small farm house several blocks away. Behind the two of them there were miles of a mesmerizing backdrop of red mountains. They shadowed the horizon with miraculous red colors. Detective Margaret watched the breeze pushing heavily through the open fields of thistles and tall grass in the distance. There she felt a certain profound peace looking at the natural environment, but then unexpectedly felt a strong sensation in her body of anxiety, like an intuition of danger closing in. She spotted a large flame brewing near by. The hairs behind her neck stood out as she walked closer, feeling the urge getting stronger in her stomach. Sheriff followed close behind. "I said wait back here Sheriff." "I sure as hell aren't letting you stop me from catching those boys out there Ms. Margaret, you're going to need my help. The less stubborn you are, the better this situation will unwind". "You stay still Sheriff or I'll arrest you myself". Detective Margaret affirmed him in an attempt to protect him from the suspected dangers of the Wolf Nation gang. Suddenly the detective heard a loud howling sound in the distance. She removed her firearm from her holster and walked faster towards the flame. There is a group of shirtless tattooed men staring at her. They sat in circular formation around the fire. Some of them standing smoking cigars and drinking beers. She quickly recognized one of the Cleghorn brothers towards the end. "You, take me to your leader". she demanded and pointed her gun towards him. "Don't make me ask again". The Cleghorn brother stared at her without saying a word. The Detective grabbed him and pushed him away from the group against the wall to pat him down and handcuff him. She then looked through the rest of the group for a familiar face from a suspected photograph she studied. "I want whose in charge of the murders at Sunnyside". she demanded. She walked over to a large intimidating older man sitting at the center with long white hair and beard who fit the description. He continued smoking his cigar and blew his smoke towards the Detective's face. Detective Margaret picked him up from his shirt and twisted his arm behind his back. "You're coming with me". she said wiping the sweat from her brow and struggling to breath from the thick smoke building up. The hot winds repeatedly blew her blonde hair from her forehead and blurred her vision. She hustled to move them over towards her vehicle and get away from a dangerous situation escalating. "Leave him!" said a soft voice coming from the shadows. The emotionless group suddenly in synchronization lowered their heads in a submissive manner. A young boy who barely looked like a teenager came out of the darkness and revealed himself. He had long hair and a very young face, but showed an unexpected quality of assertiveness. "Detective, you've got the Wolf's blood in your body". he said. "We are not enemies". "You haven't even hit puberty yet" Detective Margaret scoffed nervously, she was shocked that he knew of her ancestry. "There is no way you're leading this group" she continued. "Deceptions of mother nature" said the boy standing barefoot on the hot charred sands below. "I was chosen by the higher spirits to operate this monster inside". he smiled. "My people answer to my will, ever since I became a man, this hunger grew stronger, this power flowed through my veins, I only want to protect this family". "You're a child, you weren't involved in the killings in Sunnyside" Detective Margaret said. "You're a victim". "Detective, Do you see what they're trying to do? Destroy our lineage, we can't roll over and allow our people to die in vain". the young boy pleaded. "Several of us were murdered just a few weeks ago, they're picking us out one by one". The detective pulled the two men against the wall. She then reached for the boys arms. Then she felt a sudden force pushed her back, she loses her balance and trips on a wood blocks from the campfire. The deep uncomfortable feeling in her body grows stronger. She tried to look back towards where the young boy was last but the smoke irritated her pupils. There is a deep roaring growl emanating from behind the flames. Followed by an uneasy sound of muscles tightening, bones cracking and painful moaning sounds. Through the smoke, several beasts reveal themselves from the group of men from before. They are menacing with their large jaws and teeth poking outwards from their gums. The larger more terrifying of them in the center, she could see the familiar eyes of the biggest wolf glaring at her. It was the young boy, he was the alpha male in the group. She is shocked to find the fiercest of the monsters was only an innocent kid. Detective Margaret's eyes grew to a pale yellow, she closed her eyes and forced herself to transform into her alternate form, she screamed as her clothing ripped from her body. She contorts into a blonde beast with large fangs and claws. One of the Wolf Nation beasts jumped onto her clinging their claws into her fur. Margaret lunges her jaw onto his back and tosses him onto the side of a building. She bites another and tosses him into the flames burning a foul charcoal-like sulfurous odor. The alpha tackled and tossed Margaret across the field effortlessly as he was almost four times her size. She cried and struggled to stand up, but falls again. Several others growl and show their fangs. Suddenly loud gun shots are shot into the sky. Sheriff Black Crow is standing around watching wolves tearing each other apart, he noticed the pools of blood in every direction. One of the Cleghorn Brothers is standing across him handcuffed against the wall. The Cleghorn turns to the Sheriff and dislocates his wrist from the handcuffs. Then runs swinging his large claws towards Black Crow. The Sheriff reciprocates and emptied the rest of his clip into the Cleghorn brother's chest. He falls spitting blood from his mouth. "That's what you deserve for taking my son from me all of those years ago" he screamed, he spat at the beasts body laying on the ground twitching. "Now I know there's another of you Cleghorns out there" he demanded. "You better reveal yourself". The other beasts are growling towards the Sheriff more aggressively. Detective Margaret is still breathing heavily in her wolf form nearby trying to regain her balance. Suddenly the young boy transforms back to his human form and walked towards the Sheriff. He had a shirt tied around his waist. He looked up and extended his arm to him. "Dad?" he said. Black Crow stared at the boy and brushed his hair from his forehead examining his facial features. He dropped his gun on the bloodied dirt floor. "Son, is that really you?". Black Crow's eyes filled with tears. "I don't believe it, you're alive?" The young boy smiled and turned back into his beastly form and towered over Black Crow. "You've abandoned me, and you'll pay for it". He lunges at him and swung his claws towards his face. The campfire's flames grew out of control and are now burning the houses around the surrounding area. The young boy runs off behind the buildings, along the other wolves. Black Crow lays on the ground holding onto his neck, while blood streams between his fingers. He turns to the yellow eyed blonde beast breathing heavily nearby and they lock eyes for a moment. "Ms. Margaret" he smiled before taking his final breath. The detective transforms back to her bipedal form and runs towards the Sheriff to check his pulse. She looks around the area and there are charred animal bodies and corpses left on the ground. The last of the Wolf Nation members were now long gone, except the old man with long white hair handcuffed lying on his stomach cursing under his breath.


Many, many years ago, when tigers used to smoke, there lived an old man on a mountain. He lived in a secluded cabin far, far away from any other people. He was happy there alone with nothing but his own thoughts. Until he met her. Life became brighter. His beautiful wife, a lovely creature, all smiles and sunshine, pretty blonde curls, blue eyes the color of the clear running mountain stream that flowed past their cabin. Her voice as soft and sweet as the tufted titmouse, she would sing all day while she worked around the cabin. He could hear her songs when he was doing the outside chores and his heart would soar. Since the day they had first met, in a church in the valley, love had blossomed and grown as the years went by. They seldom saw other people, and seldom went into town. The two of them were happy just being alone together on the top of the mountain. After that first Sunday all they could think of was one another. The next Sunday, after the service ended, after all the congregants had greeted one another, after everyone had shaken the preacher’s hand, when the parking lot was empty, and no one remained but the two of them they stood, six feet apart. Neither had spoken to the other. There were no words that needed to be spoken. They knew. He turned and began to walk towards his old pick up truck. She just stood there staring at him. A sad smile on her face. He reached his truck, opened the squeaky passenger door, turned to her and said, “Well, are you coming or not?” A smile broke out on her face, so bright, so shiny, so wide he thought his eyes would burst out of his head. His heart soared as she took first one step and then another. The closer she came the lighter his heart became. He could feel the love radiating off her. She stepped up into the truck seat and settled back as if that truck seat had been made just for her. The cab of the truck was warm even though the sky was cloudy, and a cool mist fell. By the time they reached his cabin the desire between them had grown exponentially. On the ride, somehow, without words, their souls had joined into one. It was as if they were the other part of the other. They were one person from that moment on. He never knew her name. She never knew his. He called her, “woman”, almost reverently. She simply called him, “husband.” Years later they migrated to pet names such as, “baby”, “honey”, and other meaningless words that meant everything to them. They worked side-by-side for years. Their love never waned; they never spoke a cross word to one another. It was as if their union had been ordained by God, although neither one was particularly religious. All the salvation they needed was found in one another. Each day was a new adventure. Sometimes they didn’t speak for days. Each knew in their heart what the other was thinking and reacted accordingly. Their lovemaking was passionate and fiery, and they became one. Their love was the most perfect under the heavens. Had Adam and Eve, Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, and all the great couples thought history been on the mountain they all would have envied this couple. Years passed by slowly and at the same time way too fast. They treasured every minute they were together and not a moment was wasted. Over the years his beard grew white, along with his hair. Hers stayed bright and blonde and shiny. Their eyesight grew strained, but they only saw one another and that view never changed. His back became bowed from years of hard work, but he never complained. Her hands shook but she still massaged his tired, aching muscles at the end of the day. He picked wildflowers for her from the mountainside and she thought she’d rather have that flower arrangement than the most expensive gift he could buy from the most expensive store in the biggest city. Every meal she cooked for him would surpass any gourmet meal ordered from the finest restaurant anywhere in the world. He savored every bite and never failed to tell her how delicious the food was and never forgot to thank her for her hard work. The days passed ordered and serene but there was an excitement and a spark whenever they touched or heard one another’s voice. It had been years since they had made a trip into the valley. He often wondered if his old truck would even start after so long. But there was never a need to go down the mountain. Everything they needed was right there at the mountain top. As long as they had one another, life was perfect. The seasons passed, day by day, month upon month, year after year. They braved the weather whatever it brought. On cold days they would stay inside the cabin by the fire. They would hold hands as they read books. Time was their friend. And their enemy. Somewhere way back in their minds they knew that someday this bliss would end. They had talked about it. They had a plan. When it was time for one of them to go, they would lie side-by-side on their bed, hold hands and quietly, silently say goodbye, I love you and drift off. That was the plan, but plans don’t always work out the way you want them to. One day, like today, it was bitterly cold, snow piled high against the side of the cabin. The windows were frosted from the outside cold and the inside warmth. But the firewood was running low, so he dressed in layers of clothes and went outside to gather logs from the woodpile. For the first time in many, many years he had walked out of the door without saying, I love you, and giving her a kiss. That was a mistake. One that he would regret for the rest of his days. It was the first day in years that tears had run from his eyes. It wouldn’t be the last time. When her husband went through the door she said, “I love you!” out loud. He never heard those words as the wind and snow whipped past him. If only he had heard. If only she had called him back. But the moment was done, and they’d never get another chance. And while he fought the snowdrifts, she realized that the water pipes had frozen and they had no water for the house. So, she too bundled in many layers of clothes, covered her head, and put on her gloves. She grabbed two buckets and made her way to the stream to get water. She slogged through the snow at a snail’s pace until she finally reached what she thought was the edge of the stream. The snow had covered the banks though and the ice would not hold her weight. She fell through the thin ice and slipped under the water. The current caught her and with the weight of her layers of clothing she floated down the stream, under the ice, and drowned. Her body wasn’t found until the next Spring. Today is just like that day. Snow piled high, wind howling, tears flow down his cheeks as he dresses warmly. Layer upon layer of clothes. It feels like he is wearing a ton of clothes. He steps out of the door, leaving it open. He makes his way down to the stream battling the knee-high snow. He reaches the edge of the stream. It is bitterly cold. He shivers and he cries for his lost love. He continues to walk until he is at the middle of the stream. He stands there for a moment. He whispers, “Here I come, my love.” He stomps as hard as he can on the ice. Once, Twice, Three times and the ice shatters. He falls through into the freezing cold water and is caught in the current of the swift stream. His heavy clothes hold him down as he slips under the ice. He does not fight or struggle. His last thought was of his beautiful woman.


“There is not a guidebook for knowing how long is long enough to feel OK after someone passes on. There should be, it would make everything so much simpler and provide a clear and obvious goal to work toward. It is infuriating that such a set marker doesn’t exist. It’s not that I cannot stop mourning, it’s that I don’t know when I’m allowed to put it down and stop picking it up. I was at our bar last night; it was trivia night, and I was sitting in our booth, and everyone knew it. It took a little while, roughly 3 beers and two trivia rounds, I couldn’t tell you what that equals in time on a clock, but I don’t have to do I? You know exactly how long that is. “Anyway, it took that much time, but I was having fun you know, the category was sci-fi films and literature, I was kicking all of the ass, and I had a good buzz going. I laughed at a question, got it right in less than 3 seconds and secured the win for the round. So, of course I did a fist pump and whooped and called for another beer. The looks I got… these are our friends and I know they miss you, but it feels like I’m supposed to carry the collective grief of the room every time I’m there. All of them were laughing and cutting up just like always and as long as I had my long face on and gave an occasional sad smirk, they were fine. But as soon as I cut loose it was like I had violated your memory and the energy in the room changed from sympathy to anger. They were actually pissed off at me because I was having fun while you’re rotting in the ground, I don’t know what to do with that. “Oh well, screw it all anyway. It’s been a year today and your ghost just keeps lingering. I’m not mad about it, it’s nice having you here to talk to about you not being here hehe. I’m going to call it long enough, if you ever have to mourn me go ahead and knock a few months off the requisite period, give me 9 months. If a human can grow from conception to birth in that time frame, surely you can grieve adequately and send them back to the stuff they came from in the same window. It feels incredibly stupid to drive all the way out to the canal to meet you tonight, but you always were half stupid, so I packed a bottle of Jameson and the good ice, and I’m headed that way. I guess I’ll see you there, if you have some haunting lined up it better not be lame. I want some proper floating specters and flickering lights to make the trip worth my while.” … “Was it always this dark out here? I could have sworn there was a lamppost or two along here once upon a time, but my memory has been through too much for it to be a reliable witness. You know what’s really unfair is that I don’t even like Jameson, this is your whiskey. Why didn’t I bring some gin and tonic, why didn’t you recommend it? Selfish bastard. Well, I’m here now and here’s to you. What do they say in the movies? Pour one out for the homies. “You know what I don’t get, and what you were too preoccupied with breathing your last to tell me, is why 10pm. I guess I can understand the canal, we spent the worst parts of our youth out here being shitheads, I told you things I swore I’d never tell anyone sitting right here. And you told me about the diagnosis sitting right over there. It’s a fitting place to celebrate a year without you. But you didn’t die at 10pm, you shuffled off midmorning. And try as I might, I cannot for the life of me remember anything of significance that happened at 10pm specifically out here, or anywhere for that matter. It’s such an odd thing to be so insistent about and to tell you the truth I almost didn’t come tonight. I’d rather have driven out here in daylight and I’d much rather drive home with some illumination. In the end I decided to camp out in the truck and that’s the only reason you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night. Damn it, I really should have brought the gin, or at least something to mix this swill with. Not only does it taste like Irish piss, but it’s also going to give me a righteous hangover, I can already feel the headache. Your taste in alcohol is as bad as your taste in women. “Did you know that the old gal found herself a new man not two months after the funeral? I saw them at Chili’s snuggled up in a booth bold as you please. She pretended not to see me when I walked by, and I returned the favor. I guess that’s hypocritical of me, I was just bitching and moaning about people’s expectations of my grief. But listen, maybe there isn’t a set time but certainly it’s more than two months, right? Oh well, she never was as good for you as you thought she was anyway, she just had a fantastic ass and a wardrobe to accentuate it and you’re simple enough for that to work. “OK, listen up I have to tell you something and I know you’re not going to like it because I hate it. I told you earlier that I had made up my mind, that I have decided to call an end to my period of mourning. I have a confession to make, I didn’t come to that conclusion on my own. You know I’ve been talking to someone to help me sort through this mess. She’s a pretty sharp lady and if I wasn’t paying her good money to help me out, I’d even say she genuinely cares about me. Yeah, yeah, I’m a nasty minded cynic and she probably does care, at least a little bit anyway. Stop changing the subject, I have to get this out. I told her you and I have been talking, that we never stopped talking, that you just vacated your corporeal presence in favor of a mystical vapor. She didn’t laugh at the joke, said it wasn’t a joke and that was OK but that I needed to consider something. She said you were a coping mechanism and that was OK too, but that if I kept coping forever the limp would become permanent. She said I had to let you go Lee, that I have to say goodbye again and this time for good. I didn’t say anything sooner because I had no intention of listening to her. I told her where she could stuff it that day and I missed several meetings after that, dodged her calls, blocked her number, so on and so forth. “But that was a couple months ago and after a while I started to see the signs she was talking about. I don’t talk to anyone else anymore. Why would I? You’re always here, always listening and I always know what you’re going to say. If I’d known how much easier it was to be friends with a dead guy I would have killed you off a long time ago. Shit, see that’s the kind of stuff… I’ve gotten really dark and spooky lately Lee. At first no one said anything because it was just how things go when someone you love dies hard. But somewhere back there I crossed the invisible line and went too far, waited too long to get over it. I don’t know, maybe they’re all wrong, maybe she’s as dumb, or dumber, than I am, and this is exactly the right way to cope. But I suspect not, and I have decided that a year anniversary is as good a point as any to do something about it. “You and I are going to finish this bottle tonight, Lee, I’m probably going to puke before it’s over because I don’t drink like you do and this shit is nasty. But I’m going to get utterly shitfaced, then I’m going to say goodbye to you and I’m going to climb in the back of my truck here and pass out. And tomorrow morning when I wake up and hurl again and squint at the bastard morning light, I’ll be alone. This is goodbye old pal, it’s time for you to head on your way and for me to stumble down the road on my own. I’ll never have another glass of whiskey I can tell you that much, it will be reserved for you for all time in my heart. Thanks for everything, for all of it, you were the kind of friend you only get one of in a lifetime and I got mine early, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Cheers and goodbye!” The night crept along, the minutes crawling by and the whiskey did its job. Terrance toasted many more times, each toast involving more tears, less sarcasm and bravado. As the 10 th hour of the night approached Terrance was completely unaware, it had been roughly 8pm when he poured the first glass, and a guy can get a long way towards blackout in two hours. Most of the bottle was gone, half of it poured out into the canal but it was a large bottle and Terrance was, as he said, a lightweight. I want you to know that I had no idea that he planned to get liquored up out here, it isn’t the kind of thing he normally does, and I didn’t anticipate it. If I had I would have arrived early and saved him a lot of physical pain and myself a lot of repetition. But hindsight is 20/20 and I have only a limited capacity to view things from that vantage point. I had not, of course, heard any of the things he had been saying to me in the hours leading up to the appointed time of our rendezvous. I hadn’t heard any of the things he’d been saying to me in the year since my death, but he had spoken them and in his mind I had been there for all of them. I could not know how hard this would make the next couple of weeks. He kept referring to conversations we had in his mind, and I would stare at him clueless until he realized it. Then he'd be mad, I don’t think at me, necessarily, just mad and I can understand that. But that meant that he was mad a lot and I couldn’t blame him, but I also couldn’t help him. Anyway, at precisely 10pm CST on the banks of a little canal off an abandoned mining road in East Texas I stepped back through the veil of tears. I am not the first to do so, though it is exceedingly rare. And it is even rarer that someone gets to choose the time and place of their return. But the job I had been given was as rare as this opportunity and to do it I needed Terrance. There is no linear pull of time on the other side, I can’t describe what there actually is because the concept cannot fit inside of a human mind, I only know it is entirely foreign to everything we know. There are inflection points that link that place to this one and the stability of one is dependent on the other. A stream that is in constant flux, flowing both ways. I was back here to nudge that stream in a critical direction. But first I needed to get Terrance back on his feet and in his right mind and that looked like it was going to be my first Herculean task. “Terrance, why are you puking on that ant mound? Did they do something to deserve a vomit tsunami from the gods?” I feel like I had the right to expect more of a reaction from him. All I got was a vacant stare with bile drooling from his mouth, followed by another round of dry heaving. “I’m trying to decide if I’m flattered or insulted that you thought the best way to honor my memory was to drink till you puked. Is that all I was to you? The friend you got hammered with?” I walked over and took hold of his shoulders and when I touched him, I finally got the reaction I had been waiting for. “Jesus H. Christ! Who the hell are you and how did you get out here? God, Lee was a sick asshole, but this is low even for him! How long ago was he planning this? Did he pay you money? Cause if he did that’s messed up, he owed me three months’ worth of his rent when he died! Was he holding out on me so he could pay you to prank me a year after he died! God damn, what a sick fuck!” “Terrance, I need you to dig deep now. I don’t know why you thought a bottle of whiskey was going to do you any favors, but this is not a prank, you are not hallucinating, and I am actually here. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more, but I honestly didn’t know any more at the time, I don’t even know how I knew what I did. Those last weeks were strange, and they are blurred together with what came after. I need your help, but first I need you to sleep this off and shower. You smell worse than you look and that’s saying a lot.” Terrance wobbled there uncertainly for several seconds, his mind kept grasping for sense and logic and kept missing, it was damn illusive. His therapist was going to have a field day with this one when he told her, if he told her. He bet it would end up with him on some powerful meds, he wondered if he’d like that. Lee took another step toward him, and he put out a warding hand, he had felt real physical hands on his shoulders when this guy grabbed him, that was impossible, and it was a first. He usually didn’t see him either, he was just a presence inside of his head that he talked to, how had he pushed that inner presence out into the world? How could he put him back in the jar he came out of? It was too much; he was too drunk. His warding hand came down to his knee and he doubled over in another dry heave spell. The last thing he saw was Lee rushing to catch him as he tipped forward and blacked out.


Day 1 Something rather weird happened tonight - while I was out in Paceville, I took a shortcut through the stairs on ‘Strip Row’, and I saw that creep Daniel Savona standing in the entry to ‘Sensations’. I think that was the name; these clubs all seem to have similar names - Sensations, Steam, Angels, Darlings.... He might have been on duty, but somehow I don’t think so. He was chatting with another guy like they were mates. He had a drink in one hand, and a girl’s arse in the other. My impression was that he’s a regular. Hmmm... that could be interesting; a cop dropping into a strip club to unwind, after a hard day’s work. Then again, Daniel’s a slimy creep, so maybe, I shouldn’t be surprised. Still though, he’s a police officer - isn’t there some rule about cops hanging out in places like that? I mean, if he were to bust that girl he was with, it could constitute conflict of interest. I actually need to check this out.

Day 2 I asked auntie Google, and she turned up the Malta Police Force Code of Ethics - revamped and re-issued this year apparently. It makes reference to something called ‘conduct unbecoming’ but then does not go on to specify what that would be.

‘Conduct unbecoming Malta police force’ only yielded a few complaining letters to the local papers, all signed with pseudonyms. For the purposes of research, I read all four of them - all complaining about officers either being too brusque or too keen to write parking tickets. I didn’t know police officers still dealt with parking offences; I was under the impression that had been outsourced to traffic wardens.

Haha.. at the end of the code of ethics there’s actually an address where ‘an aggrieved member of the general public may file a report for unethical behaviour allegedly committed by a police officer’. I wonder, has anyone ever used that email address - somehow, I cannot see too many people willing to put their name to an official complaint. And if anyone has, have they ever gotten a reply. I wonder what really happens when the Professional Standards Office of the Police Force becomes aware of possible ‘conduct unbecoming’. I know I’m more than slightly biased, but I do not trust them to not ‘protect their own’. Day 3 I thought I could let it go. I thought I could forget about seeing Daniel in a strip ...ahem, gentleman’s club. After all, Paceville is hardly my scene anymore. I was only there the other day because Martina asked me to meet her there after work. And Daniel gives me the creeps, ffs. Why would I want to run into him again? But nah, I can’t help my stupid self.. and here I am two days later, incognito, lurking on the Strip Row stairs. I’ve been up and down them about six times already. No sighting of Daniel yet - thank god for small mercies - but the club is definitely ‘Sensations’. I remember the elaborate cornicing over the doorway, because it reminds me of my nana’s house. Only hers was the real thing; this is probably some cheap polystyrene crap.

Maybe I’m on a wild goose chase. Maybe he really was on duty, and the other day, he’d simply run into someone he knows. And even if he is a regular here, what does that mean? I’m uncomfortable; straightening down my denim skirt, and trying to look ordinary, all the while being careful not tumble over my heels. Already two men have asked me if I’m looking for ‘a good time’ - this is beyond absurd; I’m going home. That’s when I see him - he’s on the steps up to the club, with a group of men, and two women today, his hand draped across the shoulders of one of them, openly groping her chest. I wonder, how does she keep so impassive. As the men all clink bottles, Daniel looks in my general direction, and I shrink into the shadows, afraid he might see me. I needn’t worry. He might be looking but his attention is elsewhere.

I hurry past and head home. Day 4 I’ve been thinking about it all day. Daniel definitely is at home there. As I went past last night, he called to someone inside, and seconds later, another girl materialised at his side, holding a tiny tray with a tumbler of whiskey on it.

Okay, so he hangs out at a strip place. So? The code of ethics doesn’t specifically list that as unethical behaviour. And don’t most men ogle scantily-dressed women, either in real life, or on a screen? It’s not as if I didn’t know Daniel’s a class-A sleaze.

I open the fridge, looking for something to eat. There’s fresh veg. I did my weekly shop the other day, before I met up with Martina. But I’m not in the mood for veg. I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. My mind keeps going round in circles. And coming back to the same thing. A glimmer of a feeling, intuition maybe, that there’s more to this. But what?

And for heaven’s sake, why am I so stuck on it? On Daniel? I know, I know. I’ve never liked the guy, ever since he tried it on with me, while we were both at work.

It was one of our fundraisers, and he was on security duty. As fundraising manager, I was responsible for the housekeeping of the day, among other things, and I’d briefed him about what was where. A few hours later, I was pinning up some winning tickets to the board near the exit, when I felt someone grope me. I turned, ready to smack the creep, only to find the uniformed cop I’d been briefing earlier. I was lost for words. What cheek! He didn’t even care that he was conspicuous in his uniform. He didn’t offer an apology either; instead he’d said he’d been thinking about me all that time. Now, I wonder if my intuition is not just my antipathy towards Daniel. Am I just imagining things? Is it just because I know him to be creepy? Am I making more of this than it really is? Oh heck! Day 5 I spent all day going over and over my thoughts. Still no clarity.

I need to do something about this; if I don’t, it will just eat away at me. Of this I’m certain. But what?

~~~~~~~~~~ Thank god for Brian. I called him, explained what I needed, and he was up for it. Wouldn’t miss it, he said. He even called off a date, to come with me. And here we are, me in my loosest-fitting jeans, and an oversized hoodie. I’ve squeezed my chest into the tightest bandau top I could find. With some artful contouring, I’ve given myself what looks like a somewhat manly jaw. The usually muted (‘sensuous’) lighting in the club and my buzz cut - it seems to have been enough for us to look like a pair of blokes looking for a good time. I paid for my entrance ticket.

There’s girls everywhere.. girls taking orders, girls bringing drinks, girls giving lap dances, girls gyrating around poles. The patrons are all men, in all shapes and sizes, and ages; unlike the girls who are all slim, pretty and young, some younger than me. The gender divide couldn’t be more stark. I remind myself I’m meant to be a guy, and look like I’ve been to places like this. I keep my eyes peeled for Daniel. I really want him to be here tonight. But I am also scared he’ll recognise me. Brian complains that the price of the drinks has gone up. I’m bored.

Then I see him - like the last time I saw him, Daniel’s wearing a suit. He walks up to one of the tables, and exchanges a few words with the men. He gestures to one of the girls, and she hurries over, tablet in hand. While she’s taking orders, Daniel palms her arse before moving on. The same thing happens as he moves from table to table, chatting, groping, joking.

‘That is not someone who’s just hanging out,’ Brian’s voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘That’s someone with an interest in seeing the customers satisfied.’

Suddenly, I just need to leave. I’ve had my fill of this tawdry club with its pretense of classiness Before going to bed, I open up the link from the Code of Ethics and using my untraceable email account, fire off a complaint about How I think it is unethical behaviour for a police officer to hangout in a club like that one.I sign off with a man’s name.

Day 6

I called in sick today. Truly, I feel sick. Last night made me, as a woman, feel like I was living in a different dimension. It made me feel sullied somehow. I showered the minute I got in last night, and again this morning, and I still feel it like a layer on my skin. Brian is sure Daniel has - how shall I put it, a ‘business interest’ in the club.

I wonder if someone has read my email from last night. I have no reply, not even an acknowledgement of receipt. Would I have gotten a response had I mentioned a stake in a strip club? Would that be ‘in line with the Force’s Business Interests & Additional Occupations Policy’? Brian thinks we should go again, and get pictures. I think Brian just wants to go there again. I think we need something more substantial than photos taken on the fly in a dimly-lit club. I need some sort of proof. Who can I ask to get the info I need?

Day 8 Pay dirt! After a day of digging into various dead ends, I remembered that my friend Tanja works at the Business Registry Office. And today, she came up with the goods. The club is registered to a company called Magick Entertainment; which is in turn, owned by three people, one of whom is Daniel Savona. The other two are both sitting MPs; one on either side of the House. It makes sense, really - given the polarised and volatile nature of Maltese politics, Daniel would want to have partners on both sides of the political divide. It’s how a lot of Maltese businesssmen ensure their business ticks over, regardless of who wins elections. Tanja even sent me a copy of the relevant documents. She knew I’d want them. This is bigger than what I thought it was a week ago. So, now it’s official - this police officer does have a stake in a strip club... how interesting is that? Day 9 Rachel, my editor, wasn’t too impressed when I told her about Daniel, and his stake in a strip joint even though I quite laboured the point on potential conflicts of interest. But she sure sat up when I revealed who Daniel’s business partners are. That got her all fired up. Really, I should have thought of it myself. Considering that both of Daniel’s partners are very keen on pushing their ‘family man’ image, the news that they part-own a strip club should make quite a bit of noise. I’m kicking myself - I should have thought of it; I would have thought of it, if I hadn’t been all laser-focused on Daniel. I need to get a grip. My antipathy for Daniel is personal. Personal is not work. Personal doesn’t pay my bills. Work does. I need to focus.

Although, now that I think of it, writing about the politicians could have a knock-on effect. One thing leads to another, and all that.

Now to settle down to write my piece. Deadline’s tomorrow. Day 10 And.... it’s online. I did my best. Fingers crossed this will generate the response I’m hoping for.


Malls weren’t designed with escapee-androids in mind.            At least, this one wasn’t. There’s a metal-detector blocking every exit, and the exits are all being watched by guards with grim expressions that don’t quite match the cheerful, holiday songs echoing through the mall. I duck into a random store and pretend to be interested in their array of holiday-themed soaps. The sharp, spicy scent of gingerbread is overpowering. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as two technicians from the lab rush past the store without even looking inside. I recognize both of them. My fingers clench tightly around a bar of emerald-green soap sprinkled with fake, crimson cranberries. “Did you need help finding anything, sir?” The saleswoman materialized out of thin-air, wearing a garish, red-striped-white sweater and a lopsided Santa hat. I blink. “Looking for a gift for someone?” she asks, electric-green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to come in today looking a little lost.” “Oh no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I’m not… I don’t need any help. Thank you.” “Of course! Just let me know if you change your mind,” she sings, cheerfully. “My name’s Holly.” I wonder if that’s some holiday-themed humor or if Holly’s her real name. Maybe the store asks their employees to go by seasonal names around this time of year. There’s no way for me to know; I’ve never been in a store before. “Nice to meet you, Holly,” I say, glancing towards the doorway. The technicians have yet to reappear. “I’m, uh…” I don’t have a name; they never gave me one. How do I introduce myself? My eyes flicker over to a nearby display and search the bubble-bath labels for a name. “Sage,” I say. “My name’s Sage.” “Nice to meet you, Sage! Let me know if you need anything, okay?” “I will. Thanks.”            As soon as she’s gone, I toss the bar of soap back onto the counter and leave; my hands are now covered in pastel-green powder, and I grimace, trying to wipe the residue off on my pants. There has to be a way out of here that doesn’t involve a metal-detector. I scan the map of the mall, in my mind, finding a fire-escape on the far side of the food-court. That’s one of the most crowded places in the mall. How can I make it through without being seen? Another store catches my eye.            There are a lot of people in here, but none from the lab. Groups of humans, young and old, sorting through racks of clothes. There’s more music in here, but it’s mostly drowned out by bell-like laughter and loud chattering. I look for something to wear that’s not the bleak, hospital-white outfit from the lab. I decide on a pair of black jeans, a light-gray sweater, and a scarf, purple and interwoven with shining, silver threads. The scarf is soft, like cool water, against my skin. I cover my bare feet with a pair of comfy, black sneakers. My old clothes go into a nearby trash can. “Hello,” I say quietly, approaching the register. “I’d like to, uh… wear these out. If that’s okay?” “That’s fine,” the man says, nodding. He doesn’t look up from his phone to meet my eyes until the last possible second. “Let me ring you up.” While he’s scanning the tag on my sleeve, my eyes drift over to a long, black coat. It looks warm and comfortable, like the blankets they kept in the lab’s medical-wing probably were. “This too.” He raises his eyebrows, but nods. He scans the coat and asks me how I want to pay; his tone is bored, I decide, after I’ve compared it to millions of sound-recordings in my head. I pull some bills out of the wallet I swiped from one of the techs. “Keep the change,” I say quickly. “Happy holidays.” Slipping the long coat on, I head for the food court.            Time to make my escape. If I can manage to wind my way through this sea of plastic tables and spindly chairs with metal legs without being caught, I am free. More or less. I recognize some of the scents around me. Cinnamon, because of the day some of the techs brought cinnamon-buns, glazed with frosting, into the office. I recognize the bitter scent of coffee for similar reasons.            Most people don’t look up as I slip across the court. Their eyes are glued to one of the countless screens suspended above them, on which they’re watching sports or the news or never-ending sequences of ads. When I see my face on one of the screens, my mouth falls open. “Oh no…” I breathe. Could I make it, if I ran, to the fire-escape? I’m only about a fourth of the way across the food court, and there are screens everywhere with my photo plastered to them. Splashed across the monitors, like paint on a blank canvas. They have my name listed as “Sage”, like I told the woman back at the store with the colorful soaps. They have my age listed as twenty, which I guess suits my appearance well enough. I need a new hiding spot. There’s a storage room in the bookstore, at the very back, that hardly anyone ever goes into. I know it’s rarely-used because I can see how many times employees swipe into the room per day; this information is not readily available to the public, so I got it through somewhat questionable methods.            This is where I’m hiding now, after hacking the swipe card system to get inside. Silently, I shift piles of heavy books, moving them around so that they conceal me from sight. Whenever one of the piles teeters a little, threatens to topple over, I feel like my artificial-heart will beat out through my chest. “Hey, Brad!” someone shouts, and I shut my eyes tight. “Go check the backroom. They’re putting the whole mall on lockdown till closing, looking for some thief.” I hope that Brad isn’t the most thorough of employees. As quietly as I can, I drape my coat over myself, hoping to resemble a pile of books covered in a blanket. A human-shaped pile of books, covered in a blanket for no apparent reason. Great plan. The sound of Brad’s footsteps makes me inhale sharply, and I reach up to cover my mouth before remembering that I don’t have to breathe. Brad opens the door, talking on the phone; I detect the device as he approaches. “So, here I am at work, minding my own business,” he’s narrating. “I mean, I work in the bookstore, so it’s usually pretty quiet in here. Then, I find out they’ve locked the whole mall down to look for some thief? Now, my boss is having me check the backroom, just to see if the dude’s in here-” I can hear him moving about the room, doing a perfunctory, little search as he goes. It sounds like he’s just picking up the odd book every few seconds, as though he expects the “thief” to spring out from underneath one of them. “I mean, who the hell would hide in the bookstore?” he laughs, and then I hear the tumbling sound of books falling over. “Uh oh, not good…” “Brad!” someone yells from the front of the store. “Find anything?” “Nope! Dude’s not here.” “You sure?” “Yeah!” Brad shouts, then lowers his voice to continue speaking into his phone. “Alright, guys, I gotta go. See you later.” He pulls the door shut behind him as he goes; the sound of the door slamming, heavy and clanging and final, is comforting. Until I remember that I’m stuck in this locked-room till the mall’s closing, that the people from the lab are still looking for me, and that someone might double-check this room at some point. I am trapped here, like a spider under a water-glass. I pull my legs up to hug them to my chest, sighing into my boneless kneecaps. It’s dark in this room, but my night-vision setting is enabled. I read about six books in the span of two hours before I realize that I could try and trick the people following me into thinking I’ve left the mall.            First, I send an anonymous tip stating that I saw the "thief" at a nearby train-station. Then, I use one of the tech’s credit card information, obtained through some more questionable methods, to purchase a ticket for a trip to a neighboring city. I’m well-aware now that I’ve broken a few laws during my escape. Still, if your password is “PASSWORD”, it's hard to feel bad for you. Anyway, according to the ticket I bought using the guy’s card, the "thief" would have departed the station around 5:20 PM; it is now 5:45 PM, and they’re probably searching the station. I consider making a fake social media account to let people know of a sighting of the thief from someone allegedly on the train, but I decide against it. Less is more. Every time I hear footsteps, I shudder. I won’t go back to the lab. By the time it’s safe to leave the room, it’s three in the morning.            I’ve disabled all the cameras in the mall, showing the night-guards recycled footage with altered timestamps to keep them from being suspicious. Then, I slip out of the storage-room; the bookstore is completely dark around me, cloaked in hazy, violet shadows, and eerily quiet. I head for the food court.            The mall itself is locked, so most of the stores’ doors are still open. I walk past a candy-store and remember when one of the techs brought a white, paper bag of homemade candies to work once; she shared them with the other employees at the lab. Obviously, no one offered me one: I’m an android that can eat without malfunctioning but does not need to. I’ve never tasted candy before. I fill my very own bag with candies: technicolor jelly-candies in the shapes of animals and insects; saltwater-taffy of varying pastel, Easter-egg colors; and round, chocolate truffles. Then I slip a bill into the cash-register and duck out of the store. I find myself lingering in the mall. There’s no immediate threat of danger, of being found, so I wander from store to store in search of things to take. I won’t take enough to raise suspicions. Just enough, and I'll slip money into the cash registers as I go. I move into a music-store and slip a silver harmonica into one of the large pockets of my coat. I emerge from a department store with a new pair of heart-shaped, gold-rimmed sunglasses with black lenses. And, somehow, I end up leaving a toy-store with a teddy-bear; he has dark, brown fur and friendly, amber eyes, and I name him Sebastian. I make myself an ice-cream cone in the food court, using all the different flavors and piling the ice-cream on until the cone feels heavy in my hand. Cotton-candy is my favorite. I jump over the counter at the cinema, grab a red-striped-white, cardboard container, and fill it with fluffy popcorn that smells like butter. Finally, I climb the fire-escape and emerge on the mall’s roof.            From up here, I can see the entire city. All the pretty lights glitter against the blue, velvet night, like fireflies caught in spiderweb-mesh. For a few minutes, Sebastian and I sit on the roof in companionable silence, watching the view. My legs swing back and forth from where they’re draped over the edge of the building. I munch on popcorn and read the book of poems I smuggled out of the mall. I should get going. I climb down from the ledge, then slip down the fire-escape and into the city. Wander down cobblestone-streets glowing with neon pink and blue signs that read “Exit” and “No Vacancy” and “24/7 Diner”. I can walk over forty-eight hours without malfunctioning, so I will walk all through the night. When morning comes, I will be out of the city. Far away from it. When I feel coolness on my face, like the lightest brush of fingertips, I look up. I’ve never seen the snow before.


There was no bloodshed, splattered walls, or screams of agony. It was the worst battlefield Cerelia had ever stepped foot in. She had walked knee-deep in the blood of her brothers, wrapped their wounds while the light in their eyes faded with the whispers of the lost flying by her ears. Hundreds of dying wishes intrusted in her heart, their lasts breaths of life seen only by her. Cerelia had wept for the lovers of those she had never met before the day she broke the news that families would never reunite. She prayed for the survivors she carried in her arms, just for them to never smile the same again. Cerelia always thought she had seen the worst, but each new fight always proved there was more evil in the world. A symphony played around the twirling skirts, each woman outshining the next with lace and jewels embroidered throughout silk fabric. If she were to close her eyes, the mix of different perfumes would have transported her from the ballroom to a garden of exotic flowers. Cerelia would give anything to be there instead of here where she was about to dip her soul into bloodshed of her own. “Are you going to ask me to dance?” Princess Amelia asked with her stone-cold face, one that was hiding a sinister smile. Her act had always been fake, but her smile was too real. Cerelia offered her hand up in the same fashion a suitor would have and awkwardly led her Princess to the dancefloor. Cerelia’s father had always warned her about getting involved with the royals. He lived his life in severance to the King without ever having a say in his own choices, burdened by the hierarchy and meeting the ever-so-demand needs of his family. Cerelia had been determined to follow her father’s words to her own grave, but that became impossible the day Princess Amelia showed her interest in the simple healer. The youngest of the King’s daughter never listened and ended up seeking out Cerelia’s services so often it was hard to ever say no to any request. Princess Amelia shined brighter than any light. Her skin was irresistible to the hand. When she called Cerelia to her private chambers, there was nothing more Cerelia could do to stop herself from falling. “M’Lady, are you not afriad that the King will repremend you for not dancing with a suitor?” Cerelia whispered in fear that somehow the Royal Highness would hear her faint voice from across the vast room. The Princess scoffed as she spun slowly to the music, her purple gown glimmering in the light of the room. “My father is too distracted with a bottle of wine, besides he cares too much about my brother coronation celebration to worry about who I am dancing with,” Princess Amelia moved the hand on Cerelia’s shoulder and used it to push Cerelia’s hand down harder on her waist. “I wouldn’t let him stop me anyways.” Many feared the fierce hand that King used to rule, the hand that sent so many to their graves through war and starved the poor peddlers on the streets. Cerelia learned to fear him after watching her father being sent to death in a battle that never needed to be fought. Princess Amelia never knew to have that fear of her father, and that both enticed and scared Cerelia. “Are you sure that you want to go through with this, M’Lady? What if soemthing were to go wrong and it was lead back to us? Do you not fear being executed for treason?” Cerelia scarcely whispered as she clung to Princess Amelia. “Stop with this nonsense, you said it yourself that the poison has no cure, does it not?” Princess Amelia tilted her head as she glared in on Cerelia as her mind filled with horrid memories of the many souls she tried to save from the very poison she was about to use to kill many more. She weakly nodded as Princess Amelia gave a wicked smile. “Then all who drink the celebratory wine shall be brought to their death and then the throne shall be mine. All shall go just as we have planned, we have many who stand behind us.” “Of course M’Lady, I shall not question you again.” Cerelia lowered her head, red in shame, before a hand lifted her chin to meet Princess Amelia’s gaze. It was the same look her father would use when he saw her mother, more passionate than any kiss Cerelina had shared with her in the darkness of the night. “Question me all you wish, I shall never be as rigid as my father is. You shall rule by my side not as just a consort, but as my equal.” “Do you truly mean that, M’Lady?” “With all of my heart, for I am yours as you are mine.” The whole room disappeared as the song came to its end. It was just the two of them, dancing together as if they weren’t about to commit treason against their kingdom. For a moment, just a single moment, this was no longer a bloody battlefield. Cerelia had taken a vow to use her hands only to heal. Still, Princess Amelia had brought her reason to defy her own words. “Thank you for the dance,” Princess Amelia curtseyed, smirking as attention was turning to the servants who were passing around goblets of silvery wine to grabbing hands who hardly waited to sip the celebratory brew. She grabbed a goblet of her own before passing it off to another guest who was more than eager to take hold of his oblivious death.

The two lovers watched as the King rattled off his congratulations to his eldest son, preaching his upcoming marriage and coronation where he shall become the new King. Cerelia could feel her heart shaking, watching the mouths of royals, members of the council, and nobles sip her elixir of death. So many of those she had been called to before to heal them from sickness, now here she stands watching them take death from her hands. “This is beauty,” Princess Amelia spoke as she took Cerelia’s hand, grounding her back to the reason for it all. “Now, all we must do is wait.”


Homer Eliza Washington sat in his rocking chair on his front porch rocking and smoking his pipe. If there were anywhere in the world Homer would like to be it was here,  looking out upon the large expanse of well cut grass that was his front lawn and taking scope of the surrounding landscape. Far down the slight slope of his front yard ran Hitch Road; a narrow piece of dirt that bent and curved every so often yet lay hidden from his view by the long row of Maple trees with their branches spreading out and intertwining with the one another to form a natural screen extending as far left and right as Homer could see, hiding Hitch with their array of crimson, brown, burnt orange, tinged yellow and red leaves. Ever since Spring replaced Winter and gave way to Summer three months ago Hitch Road remained nearly invisible to Homer from his perch on the porch. Oh it existed all right. Every so often a car would pass with their tires grinding down on pebbles or fallen twigs making a pinging noise as the debris hit the metal bodies of their cars as they passed in front of his house, sometimes at a fearful speed confirming Hitch still afforded a road people could travel upon on their way into town or points east or west. A forgotten and seldom used road perhaps, but nonetheless, a road.

From the round, white wicker table next to his rocking chair he picked up his Mason jar filled with his homemade hard apple cider and took a gentle sip. At his age he had to be careful the amount of alcohol he consumed. “Not like the ol days uh, Homer. When a pint would go down like water. No sir. No, not like the old days.” He set the jar down and took a puff of his pipe.

A westerly gust ran across the porch and set off the wind chimes hanging from the porch’s ceiling. Homer watched as the Maple trees swayed and bent a bit from the sudden wind.  His eyes followed a flock of  Maple leaves separated from their twigs being flung about without abandon.  Eventually they would land somewhere, turn brown and die.  Homer sighed realizing what was once vibrant and alive will wither and die to corrode and disappear as if they never existed.  “Like us, we live to die.” Homer mused as he tapped his pipe’s bowl clean. When he was younger he didn’t really pay too much attention to the changing of the seasons. During summer he swam in the lake, camped out with his dad at their log cabin, fished the stream or rode his bicycle into town. When fall came and snatched away all the sunshine and warmth he merely switched from wearing shorts to long pants and tennis shoes to hiking boots. In fact, he enjoyed kicking about the fall leaves and playing on Jasper High School’s football team, The Jay Hawks. A smile came to him remembering how good he was. First string halfback. If he hadn’t broke his leg his senior year and if his dad hadn’t died, well, he might have played professional football or baseball. “No use thinking about what could have been Homer. You’ve walked that parade for far too long. Best leave it before it starts. Besides, there ain’t no power on Earth can take you back or  change the hands of time.” He placed his pipe on the wicker table and picked up the jar. “One more sip ain’t gonna hurt nothing. It ain’t like you have somewhere to go now, is it?” He let out a laugh. No, he had nowhere to go for sure. His eighty years of life have led him here and here is where he will stay until he dies.  He took a cautious sip and set down the Mason jar. Another gust, this one a bit cool, brushed up against him and set off the chimes again. September was only four days old and here the winter winds were trying to push out the little warmth left in the air.  Damn Winter.  “Now that is one cruel season. It sucks all the energy you stored up during spring and summer right out of you. There ain’t nothing good about winter.” He shivered at the thought of hunkering down, being snowed in and not being able to walk to the lake or across his land or sit here rocking and smoking his pipe.

Being a fossil didn’t help either .  He looked to his right and mentally measured the racks of wood he had stacked up at the end of the porch to get ready for winter. He had enough wood to last until March if Winter dug in deep this year. He rocked a bit and listened to the chair’s curved slats creak against the wood floor of the porch. The repetitive creaks and motion of the back and forth of his body being rocked, the soft notes of the wind chime as a breath of wind played against it began to set his mind at ease. And though he always knew he was powerless to stop the changing of the seasons or turn back the hands of time he had reached a certain peace in his life long ago accepting the things he could not alter.

What was done, was done. No use fretting about what was.   Another breeze, much warmer than the previous others, caressed his body reminding him summer is still hanging about as it danced across the porch setting the chimes alive before scurrying down his front lawn to rustle the Maple trees.

He noticed again that a few of the Maple leaves, even with a mild touch of wind, were falling, some floating straight down while others taking flight. A car sped by, its image pulsating like a strobe light between the Maple trees. “Young folks no doubt in a rush to get to nowhere.”

Homer leaned back in the rocker and rocked some more remembering those days in his youth when his dad let him take the car into town. He was only thirteen then and had a hard time reaching the gas pedal let alone remembering to push the clutch in, shift into gear then step on the gas. Like the seasons he was powerless to remain young and filled with that great optimism of youth.  I could have done anything, I suppose. Been anyone.  He put the mental brake on hard. “Damn it man. Stop that type of thinking.”

Just then a cloud blocked the sun turning the sky a light gray. A brisk wind swept across the porch sending a chill through Homer. “Time to go in young man.” He slowly got to his feet. Took hold of his mason jar and walked to his front door. He turned to look out at his front lawn. The sky was growing darker and a few drops of rain were starting to fall. “Might as well go in, make your tea and settle down for the night Maybe the son will call. Maybe.” He sighed as he turned the doorknob of the screen door. Like the seasons, growing old and thinking about the past was a futile endeavor. And the future. Well, maybe one day something will change it, but for today he could only live for what is now.  He’ll never change his son nor will his son ever change when it came to him. Homer opened the door leading into foyer.  Nor will he ever call.