Gunfire rattled intermittently outside the conference room. Whenever the shots sounded the ministers looked at the doorway, hoping that wasn’t the moment the fight would spill inside. The tables and lecterns they normally sat behind had been pushed against the door to serve as a barricade. Allen Willard knew that the plywood and plastic would be no more than a moments protection against the bullets of an assault rifle. As a tall, skinny man, he wasn’t much of a target but that was little comfort to him.             He looked at the other men and women who had been shedding layers since the power had died and the air conditioning with it. As darkness fell, they saw by the light of their phones in the darkness but none of them had any signal to make a call.             Allen felt guilty that soldiers were fighting and dying outside to save his life. From the sour expressions on other faces, he knew that other people felt the same.             The meeting to discuss trade agreements had been interrupted by violence hours before. The recent ceasefire was not to everyone’s liking. Those burning down the world outside had plenty of gripes about suits like Allen shaking hands and signing documents.             “Does anyone have any food?” Agriculture Minister Boreanaz asked. Her stomach had been rumbling for half an hour. Hers wasn’t the only one.             Boreanaz was a small woman in every sense but personality. Her hair was a no nonsense buzzcut. All she wore for makeup was barely noticeable lipstick to show off her golden skin. Simple silver stud earrings somehow suited her perfectly.             “I have a few breakfast bars in my briefcase,” Fishing Minister Al-Baghdadi said. He opened his briefcase and set the four unopened breakfast bars out on the carpet in the centre of the room where the stepped floor hid them a little from the doorway.             Al-Baghdadi was the second oldest of them. His hair was as grey and black. From the lines on his face it was obvious he smiled and frowned in equal measure. His suit was expensive but simple. He wore the best but didn’t need to show it off.             “I have half a bottle of water,” said opposition Chief of Agriculture, Selena Argento.             Argento was average in height but towered over Boreanaz. She had long silky black hair which had been tied up. She liked to wear more colour than any of them. Her suit was a deep blue. The shirt she wore was a sky blue to compliment it. In each ear she gold earrings with a blue stone Allen guessed were sapphires.             “You have anything Chief of Fisheries?” Allen asked David Coulter, the opposition counterpart to Al-Baghdadi. Coulter was a rugged looking man with tattoos visible beneath the collar of his shirt. Allen had seen old photos of the man with his arms covered in tattoos that supported the armed rebellion which had split the country for decades at the cost of thousands of lives.             Allen Willard knew that both sides had been monstrous. Both sides had been accused of war crimes by foreign nations over land either side of a river. It all seemed so ridiculous to fight about when the ink was dry on the peace treaty.             Coulter took almost two minutes to acknowledge that Allen had spoken as the sweaty man stared off into space. When his head snapped around, he nodded that he had something.             “Care to share?” Allen asked.             “No. I don’t,” said the man coldly. He didn’t quite make eye contact with Willard who was unbuttoning his shirt more. Temperatures outside were around 42 degrees Celsius and starting to catch up with that inside.             Allen’s shirt was sticking to him. He didn’t want to imagine what he would smell like to anyone else. They all looked a mess. Anyone wearing makeup looked like a clown in the rain. The oldest of them, Chief of Finance Mitchell, was asleep. Allen hoped it wasn’t heatstroke.             Mitchell was the only one of them older than the civil war. He probably couldn’t remember a time before the conflict, but it was a nice token of peace to have him there anyway. He was a thin man as well with a slight gut that was perfectly respectable for a man in his late seventies. All his hair was white and as far as Allen knew it had been for years. He was a kind man until someone crossed a line with him, a dog with a bone if he thought someone was trying to cheat his people.             Fisheries Chief Coulter eventually pulled a packet of roasted peanuts from one pocket and some melting boiled sweets from another. He threw the food into the pile in the middle of them.             “Should we eat? Or wait a bit longer?” Selena Argento asked. She had long black hair bound up into a bun. Her hairline was shimmering from the sweat on her scalp. A simple gold band adorned her marriage finger and a gold chain with a crucifix hung from her neck. She’d pulled the cross out where everyone could see it when she first heard gunfire. As it had been driven further away from the embassy, she had stopped praying with her eyes closed.             “It’s been like this for five hours now. Who knows how long it will last?” said Minister Boreanaz. She took off her glasses to clean them as she had continually to soothe herself.             “The army will be here soon. One way or another this can’t last much longer,” said Al-Baghdadi, smiling slightly as if it gave him hope.             “Is that a good or a bad thing? It just means more idiots with guns outside,” David said, he scratched the short grey hairs on his head. He looked at his sweets with hunger in his eyes. He let out a grunting sigh. “Perhaps our Chief of Finance has the right idea. Waking up to this being over wouldn’t be so bad. Sleeping through our execution wouldn’t be the worst thing either.”             “Pessimist,” said Argento. “God will see us through.” She touched her cross again and looked at the ceiling.             “Plenty of the kids I went to school with believed in god. It didn’t stop them from dying in battle. I don’t think God takes sides. I don’t think he exists either.” Argento gasped at the statement and turned away as if to hide her golden crucifix from the blasphemer.             “Philosophy aside what are everyone’s thoughts on eating?” Allen asked. His stomach was making a bubbling sound. Whatever it was saying he agreed.             As Mitchel passed wind in his sleep Argento began laughing as Boreanaz made a face and covered his face with his sweaty sleeve.             “Most interesting thing he’s said all day!” Argento laughed. Despite himself the Chief of Fisheries cracked a smile. Bang! Crash. The sound of glass breaking outside made every head turn. Somewhere nearby, someone had fired a gun towards the building and destroyed one of the artful stained-glass windows which had been rescued from a condemned church.             Everyone pressed themselves to the floor. Allen tasted sick in his mouth, wondering if he was about to die. He hoped he wasn’t about to wet himself and be found in a puddle of his own blood and piss.             Quiet. Perfect silence but for the breathing of the fearful and the snoring of the old man who had somehow slept through the shot. After a while the sleeper had all eyes on him, all of them disbelieving.             “How could he sleep through that?” asked the Chief of Agriculture, still clutching her crucifix. She shook her head. Then she said they should all make an agreement right there and then to spite the people killing each other outside.             Allen was all for it. Minister Al-Baghdadi shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything better to do. There were no more sounds of gunfire. David Coulter, Chief of Fisheries for the opposition agreed. Agriculture Minister Boreanaz said he would talk if they could eat first.             Everything was counted and divided six ways. Selena woke her Chief of Finance by shaking him gently and explaining that they had agreed to continue the trade negotiations after food.             Javier Mitchell yawned as he nodded his agreement. He groaned as he stretched and rubbed his back. Selena was joined in saying grace by Boreanaz, Coulter and Mitchel. Al-Baghdadi said a du’a. Watching them all, Allen saw some judgement from the believers, divided as they were between different faiths but united in seeing him as faithless.             Hoping his hands were clean, Allen broke the four breakfast bars into three pieces as equally as he could. All of them ate, eyes swivelling around and nodding to Fahad Al-Baghdadi for the most nourishing portion of the meal.             As he ate Coulter rolled up his sleeves to reveal more of the tattoos. When he caught them looking at the writing, he rolled the sleeves up further and rolled his arms to show everyone. They could see the raw pink of his skin where he said he was having the tattoos removed with laser surgery.             After finishing four little bites of cereal bound together by honey David Coulter admitted he had a pocket full of boiled sweets. He placed the opened bag on the floor and counted them out in their multi-coloured wrappers. There were nine remaining. Coulter suggested that Boreanaz, Al-Baghdadi and Willard get an extra each as a show of good will. Argento and Mitchell agreed.             Nodding and muttering thanks Allen and his fellow ministers took two sweets while the opposition took one. Allen’s first boiled sweet was lemon flavoured. Despite normally being the one he hated most the energy from it alone made it taste miraculous. He was thankful that the second was grape flavoured and that he could smile genuinely as he let it dissolve slowly in his mouth.             Allen’s packet of mints had been in the pile from the beginning. They had all agreed that mints should be eaten after everything else for the sake of taste. It was from eating those and too little else that Willard was so thin in the first place.             Fanning himself with his sodden shirt as he asked how they would divide Selena’s half bottle of water. The mention of swigging it brought a grimace to the faces of Al-Baghdadi and Coulter. All of them had been given bottles of water. Allen’s was still in the drawer of his desk, pressed against the door. He pulled it from the drawer and let out a cry of joy to see a cup inside that he had not noticed before. As he searched the other drawers, he found a cup in each.             Argento measured out water for each of them as they held out their cups. Little by little she filled them with a drip and a drop, face screwed up in concentration. Like the rest of them Allen thought that there was more water soaked into her shirt than left in the little bottle.             All of them raised their plastic cups as if making a toast and drank their share of the water. It was gone too soon. All of them had looks of concern on their face as they stared at their empty cups.             Once again Al-Baghdadi said that the army would arrive soon. He popped a mint into his mouth from the pile and gave a little smile and shrug.             Argento told them all that after high school she had considered joining the rebel army which had been fighting the government for decades. She flushed with shame as she said so. Mitchel reached across the circle of ministers and placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder, telling her that there was no point in worrying about things she might have done.             “The war went on forever. It took my cousin. Some of my friends.” Selena had a distant look in her brown eyes as she spoke. “It was a waste. Pointless.”             “All war is pointless,” said Mitchell, “it’s over now, even if the idiots outside wish it wasn’t.”             “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent,” said Allen. All eyes turned to him, and he shrank back.             “Who said that?” Mitchell asked. “Ghandi?”             “Isaac Asimov,” said Willard, giving a wry smile as five faces frowned at him.             “You’re one of those then?” Boreanaz asked.             “I guess so.”             “What do you think Asimov would do just now?” Selena asked.             “Write you as a man for one thing,” said Allen. “There aren’t many women in his stories.” He shrugged to say he thought it was a bad idea as well.             “There are only two women here. That’s not so great either,” she said. “We still have a long way to go for equality.”             “I’d drink to that if there was any water left,” said Boreanaz. She checked her phone again. The long sigh she let out afterward said clearly that there was still no signal.             Having eaten they retrieved the papers which had been scattered in the scramble to bar the doors. In their sweaty shirts, tired and still hungry despite the small meal. They hammered out agreements for two hours.             There was less arguing than there had been. Haggling over rates of tax and import and export limits was more forgiving because somehow it seemed they had become friends. They couldn’t formalise the agreement, but it was down on paper at least. Night fell. One by one they fell asleep. Allen saw Selena checking her phone again without a hint of joy as his eyelids locked down for a few hours.             When he woke there were soldiers banging on the doors. He rushed to help the others move the barricade out of the way. As the doors opened the six ministers let out a gasp of horror, seeing the mess outside.             Windows were smashed. Furniture had been ripped up by the mob. Threats and slogans were written on the walls. Spray paint called them traitors, to which side they didn’t know. There were splashes of blood here and there, though the bodies were gone.             Tanks sat amidst the chaos of the car park outside. Every car had been set on fire. Most were still trailing smoke into the sky. Placards lay broken on the ground. There seemed to be more glass than there had been windows.

            Bullet holes pocked the brickwork. Soldiers swarmed to make a wall around them and herded them into an armoured vehicle before the heavy doors were slammed shut.             They drove through the city for another hour. When they stopped at last the light outside seemed blinding. As Allen’s eyes adjusted he saw his three new friends being handcuffed by the soldiers and dragged away.             “What are you doing?” he shouted.             “Arresting them,” said a soldier who was pushing Allen in the opposite direction.             “What for? We have a peace treaty. They’re ministers in the new government.”             “They broke the peace. The junta is in power now. They’re prisoners. You’re civilians. No more peace.” He spat the word peace as if it was the worst blasphemy to stop killing. He was a young man, early twenties if he was out of his teens.             Allen looked back and saw Coulter and Mitchell’s heads disappearing beneath black sacks and heard Argento’s scream from beneath her hood as she was lifted off her feet kicking and screaming by more grim-faced soldiers.             “This is bullshit,” Allen roared. “They have rights. I am the finance minister. Let them go.” The air in his lungs was whipped out as a fist hit him in the gut. Another punch from a different man broke his nose sending a warm fizz of pain across his face.             Falling hard to the ground Allen saw the dance of light between the camouflage of trousers and felt the hard steel caps of booted feet hitting him in the stomach. He curled up into a ball and felt the sting of kicks for several minutes as he counted in his head. They called him a traitor. Some of them spat on him.             Eventually the soldiers seemed bored. He lay on concrete ground, turning over. His head was spinning. One eye would not open. When he looked at his hand, he saw blood more than his own skin.             Allen saw Al-Baghdadi in his own pool of blood, but the man wasn’t moving. Crawling along the ground he pulled himself towards the man who had fed them with breakfast bars. Trying to check for a pulse Allen wasn’t sure who’s pulse he really felt. He looked around. The boys with guns were still there, mocking the bloody men. Boreanaz was gone. Where had they taken her? Why were teenage boys allowed to have guns? Hearing a scream Willard whipped his hear around towards the noise but the motion made him sick and after throwing up blood and teeth he felt darkness take him as the sound of a gunshot echoed off nearby walls.


9 year old Johnny Jones lived in an old and spacious Victorian home with his grandmother, Nana Jones. It sat on 10 acres of oak trees in the hills overlooking the city. Ever since he could remember the atmosphere in the house and the surrounding grounds was heavy, giving the inhabitants a feeling of dread. It gave off a kind of creepiness that once it stuck to you it was hard to shake off. Even though he brushed off all of the unexplained and mysterious events that would happen to him there, Johnny knew that most of them were beyond rational answers, so he didn’t bother to ask any questions. Even his grandmother couldn’t explain them. It was 3 am that night when Johnny awoke suddenly with the feeling of being on a boat in stormy seas. He was experiencing the ebb and flow of being on a ship sailing on the ocean. He knew that he wasn’t near anything that could float because he was in his own bed and in his own room where he belonged. The reason for thinking he was on a boat was that his bed was actually moving. It was tipping to one side the room then swayed to the other side, then it began shaking violently. The air in the room was unusually cold as his breath was visible. He tried to gather up his blankets to cover himself but they kept on slipping from his grip. While the tremors grew stronger Johnny had to hang on to his mattress so he wouldn’t fall out of bed to the floor. He shouted out to his grandmother who was hard of hearing. But he took the chance that his screams would reach her. Of course, there was no response from Nana. Suddenly he heard a scraping sound as a dark misty shadow began to slowly ooze out from underneath his trundle, growing tall and wide. The dark figure that stood before him had no humanoid characteristics but did appear to be threatening him. He knew that he couldn’t wait for someone to intervene for there was no time. So Johnny decided to do something immediately to save himself. He gathered every Tonka Toy and GI Joe that were nearest to him and began throwing them at the dark intruder, scaring it away. When his grandmother reached him the monster was gone. And when she asked Johnny what was wrong, he responded in a stutter that a monster crawled out from under his bed. Nana Jones began to inspect the room. She searched behind the curtains, inside the closet, behind the dresser and then approached the bed. To look under it, she had to slowly raise the quilt as not to provoke anything that may be hiding there. What she saw was a conglomeration of Johnny’s out-grown toys clustered together displaying the different ways that were used to behead and amputate them. This created an impasse that blocked her view. She came to the conclusion that there was no possibility that anything sizable could ever successfully fit underneath his bed. “It was just a dream, Johnny.” Nana said softly. All of his life Nana over-protected Johnny. His Aunt Ruth used to say, “Johnny was never permitted a self-entertaining belch without being subjected to his pediatrician. " And then everyone would laugh. That being the case, Nana worried that she may have to consult a psychiatrist if Johnny was seeing things that weren’t there. Since she didn’t believe in monsters she feared he was losing the remaining marbles that currently existed (and for which he needed) in his head. She felt it was only a matter of time when Johnny would exhibit symptoms of the hereditary family secret. If that happened she would be forced to disclose that the sap of insanity flowed through the Jones’ bloodline at the volume and velocity of Niagara Falls. And she didn’t want to do that! “That monster, he he had no face.” Stuttered Johnny. “It ca came at me.” ”It wanted to to hurt me.” He stuttered again. The elaborate and often contradictory descriptions of what he saw that night, to him, weren’t stark enough to induce anyone into perceiving the same degree of horror that he was feeling. So he went on and on trying to get it right about how it really happened. He recounted how the bed shook in the darkness of his bedroom, how a scraping sound came before the sight of a dark figure that arose from under his bed. But as the night wore on he grew weary of scaring himself and finally fell asleep on the couch in the living room. The next day Johnny awoke with a sigh of relief. He felt safe in the daylight. After wiping his eyes, he got up and ran into his room. He dived down to the floor landing next to his bed and began clearing out the debris so there would be a clear view to look for clues as to what it was that came to visit him last night. When he was about finished he realized there were still a few remnants of broken plastic leftover. So he peeked further into the space and noticed something that caught his interest. He saw an object that he didn’t recognize. Curious, Johnny stretched out one of his lanky arms to reach for this shiny metal thing-a-ma-jig. As he wrapped his fingers around it to pull it out, it began to tingle in his hand. Johnny stood up staring at his palm where the object was resting. It looked to be about 1 inch x 1 inch in measurement, made of gold or brass and was oval shaped with strange writing carved into it. The top was chiseled in such a way that rendered it into an almost key-like state. He wondered, 'Was it a key?’ ‘But a key to open what?’ Nana called to him from downstairs so he slipped the object into his pajama pocket. “Come and have breakfast, Johnny.” Nana shouted. “Okay, Nana.” Johnny answered. After his morning meal, Johnny got ready for the day. He decided to go into town to show Mr. Hanson the strange thing-a-ma-jig he found. Since Mr. Hanson owned an antique shop Johnny was hoping that he might know what the object was and where it came from. The door chimed upon Johnny’s arrival inside Mr. Hanson’s shop, alerting Mr. Hanson of a customer to help. Johnny looked around and marveled at all of the vintage items and artifacts that were displayed for sale. There were dolls, glassware and collectibles in every category imaginable. He also offered antique furniture. There were desks, tables, cupboards, Hoosiers and French settees to name a few. Johnny noticed some glass cases carrying rare gold and brass artifacts. While in the middle of his wonderment he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps, so Johnny turned toward the sound. It was Mr. Hanson appearing before him. Johnny swiftly produced the strange thing-a-ma-jig from his pocket showing it to Mr. Hanson. “Interesting.” Mr. Hanson stated. “Where did you get this?” He questioned. Johnny explained the events of the night before and detailed just how he came across that thing-a-ma-jig. Mr. Hanson looked puzzled wondering how a rare ancient artifact could have traveled such a long distance only to appear in a 9 year old boys bedroom? Mr. Hanson went on to reveal that the object was certainly old and looked to be Egyptian. He said it was indeed a key, but didn’t know what it opened. Then Mr. Hanson recommended that Johnny leave it with him overnight for research purposes. He said that he needed time to decipher the writing that was carved into the piece. Johnny agreed and made arrangements to come back to the shop the next day. Mr. Hanson took the object and placed it gently into one of the glass cases, locking it up. Johnny then headed for home. On his way he couldn’t help but contemplate what he was about to face when darkness fell tonight. Will it come again? A feeling of dread washed over him. At home, Johnny begins to prepare for a defense in case the monster returned. He smuggled a steak knife and a mallet into his room, placing them close to his bed. After that, he went to his top drawer and retrieved a dog whistle to wear around his neck. Before turning out the light he notated the time to be 10:00 p.m., then he got into bed and waited. It seemed like time had stood still with nothing happening. But Johnny still patiently waited. What was he waiting for? The answer to that question gave Johnny the shivers and a twinge of fright. At 3:00 a.m. a bright light appeared outside of Johnny’s north window. It beamed brightly as it cast an arrow shaped rod into the room pointing toward his south window, the window that faced the oak forest. So it went in one window and out the other, making its way into the oak forest to strike one of the trees. As soon as Johnny saw it he jumped up to follow it. He ran outside to see where it went and observed in the distance smoke billowing up from one of the trees. Johnny ducked back into the house, grabbed a flash light and headed straight for it. Petrified of the foreboding darkness and the scary trees, Johnny was grateful for the light he was holding which helped him see his way through the forest. When Johnny reached the scorched and still-smoking oak tree he was astonished to see that the tree was burnt in such a way that an outline resembling an oval doorway had imprinted itself into the bark of the tree. It looked like a doorway that was sealed. Junior tried to pry the door open, but the tree was too hot to the touch, so he backed away. Suddenly a strange whirring sound surrounded Johnny which caused a strong wind to blow him off his feet. In a daze he got up and ran back to the house, locking the door behind him. The next day Johnny couldn’t wait to see Mr. Hanson to tell him about the events of the night before and to find out what information he had uncovered regarding the thing-a-ma-jig. On his way, Johnny felt uneasy and kept looking over his shoulder as if someone or something was following behind him. Every time he stopped to look nothing was there. But when he passed one of the store fronts that was built with a with a large plate glass window, Johnny decided to use it to his advantage. He looked into the glass to see what was behind him. This was Johnny’s way of checking on what was following him without actually having to physically turn around. The trick worked. This time he caught a glimpse of the shadow monster peeking at him from behind a lamp post. Horrified, Johnny started to run. Out of breath and panting Johnny barged into Mr. Hanson’s antique shop. “Are you alright?” Said Mr. Hanson. Johnny replied, “It followed me, the monster, it followed me here.” Mr. Hanson took Johnny’s hand and led him to a chair and sat him down. “Listen to me.” Mr. Hanson pleaded. He went on, “You must be careful and heed what I have to tell you.” Mr. Hanson explained to Johnny that an Egyptian curse was put upon him by the thing-a-ma-jig’s owner. He went on to say that as far as he could tell the monster wanted it for some reason. But if you give it to him the monster will stay permanently. “So what should I do?” Johnny implored. Mr. Hanson replied, “You must take the key and find out what it opens-then open it.” Mr. Hanson added, “But you must leave the key there.” Mr. Hanson unlocked the glass case and gave the thing-a-ma-jig back to Johnny. “Here, go find the lock.” Mr. Hanson instructed. Johnny went on his way carrying with him a new goal and intention. He must find the lock and banish the monster. Johnny wondered, ‘Did the oak tree’s magical door display a lock?’ ‘Was it put there by the Divine in order to save him from the monster?’ Johnny stepped up his speed to get to the oak forest faster. Night was about to descend and the only light source was the full moon. He wandered among the oaks until he found the one he was looking for. Johnny felt the bark which now had cooled enabling him to reattempt the opening of the magical door. Looking closely, Johnny discovered a hollowed out knot-hole that was similar in shape to the thing-a-ma-jig he had in his pocket. So Johnny pulled it out and stuck it in the knot-hole. Suddenly, the same gust of wind and whirring sound encircled Johnny but this time he held his ground. Hurriedly, he twisted the key halfway in the lock, but was forced to stop. The monster was behind him hovering over his shoulder and breathing upon him a rancid aroma. Growing taller and more menacing the monster tried to grab the key from Johnny’s hand. Shaking and barely keeping the key steady enough to finish the last half of its required revolution to unlock the door, Johnny pushed down on the hand holding the key using his other hand to put pressure on it and CLICK!-it was unlocked. To be successful at opening the door to slide the key inside while a wrestling match was taking place between Johnny and the monster took a lot of strength, determination and of course, performing a Half-Nelson to achieve. But Johnny was clever. He managed to open the door slightly to wedge the key into the crevice between the door jam and the door itself. Then he quickly closed it. Suddenly the whirring sound and strong wind ceased. The stench that was previously languishing around Johnny was replaced by the scent of Honeysuckle. Johnny turned around to see if the monster was anywhere around. Not seeing it, Johnny concluded that it was gone-and hopefully it was gone for good. But who is that standing by the magical door? Why, it looks like Nana! The End


Fallon caught a glimpse of her reflection as she finished washing down the last sink in the first-floor bathroom. Fallon’s bruise surrounding her left eye was a patchy red but fading to yellow at the edges. She looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t missing her last job where all the other girls on shift would pepper her with questions about her life. She didn’t like explaining her situation. It had always been complicated. She graduated from high school last month and she was determined to find something else. Mrs. Waltham, her English teacher, suggested she look for jobs on campus at the university she had chosen. She had been accepted at all eight universities she applied to, but Utah State University was the one she wanted. Their biology program was known for its study of genetics and that was her passion. Fallon was studying what made her who she was, down at the cellular level. She was determined to know what she was made of. She jumped on Mrs. Waltham’s idea and started applying that night. She was going to miss the dentists she worked for, especially Dr. Kapener, but not the complicated congress of women she worked with at the front desk and hygienists that came and went. The morning after graduation, she was offered an interview on campus. That week she had six interviews on campus. The minute she walked into the Museum of Fine Arts, she knew she wanted to work there. No matter the job. The UMFA was looking for a night custodian. The statuesque woman in the deep grey suit who interviewed her, Carolyn Parkinson-Coles, the executive director of the museum, emphasized the fact that she would be alone in the building. She would be locked in the building; campus security was in the building next door should she have any problems; and they were only a phone call away. Ms. Parkinson-Coles had interviewed four other candidates who had withdrawn their applications when she explained the situation. She was concerned at Fallon’s young age. Fallon assured her she could do the job and that she was not afraid of the working conditions. She shared her references from all three dentists in the clinic and explained that being alone did not scare her. In fact, she believed she could work more effectively on her own. She had been on her own since she was fifteen. Ms. Parkinson-Coles didn’t press for details, but she looked at Fallon with interest. She knew this girl had a story. She shook Fallon’s hand and let her know she would be in touch within the week. She had three more interviews. She called the next morning and offered her the job. Fallon was right at home. Although intrigued by and fascinated with the science she studied every day, she was moved by the art in this building. She cleaned the building five nights a week and she was never bored by the canvases, statues, and rotating collections which surrounded her. She scanned her card at the back entrance and let herself in the building. Fallon was still fine tuning her system on all three floors. Todd, who had trained her on the job, could clean the building in six hours, which left time for any special projects they requested and sometimes even time to do homework at the end. The most intimidating part was mopping the floors in the entire building, but he showed her the way he blocked it off into small areas and a way to mop yourself out of the building so there were no footprints when you left. He let her know that she would be slower at first but that she would find her rhythm. She kept most of Todd’s layout for cleaning but found some things worked better for her in another order. Todd was tall and Fallon was only just over five foot six, so she had to compensate. She looked at the bruise in her reflection and touched it. Her eye twitched. It was still tender to the touch. She was still angry that she had let it happen. She shook her head and kept moving, finishing the sinks, and moving on to the toilets. She started with the bathrooms because she liked this chore the least and there wasn’t any art in these rooms. Although not efficient, she did the bathrooms on all three floors from top to bottom. Fallon was beginning to recognize the faces that surrounded her. She was pleased with her silent co-workers. She found herself stopping to look them in the eye. It was as if they were speaking to her. But they didn’t ask about the bruise. They didn’t ask why she was alone. The marble piece, Eve Disconsolate , was the bust of a woman. Her eyes were blank and haunting, yet she looked reticent, almost like she was about to tell her a secret. She promised to share a secret with her too. What would she tell her first? She was ready to tell her more than she had shared at the dentist’s office. There was a brother and a sister sitting with a lunch basket in the grass. The boy is cutting an apple with his pocketknife. His chubby sister, who has flushed pink cheeks, is about to take a bite of her bread with cheese on it. She looks at Fallon like she is afraid she will steal her pastry that is hidden in the basket. Fallon laughs aloud and promises not to take her treat from her. As she walked away, it was like she heard something from the little girl. She turned back and pulled her earbud out of her ear. Shaking her head. The girl did not say something to her. Or did she? She mopped the floor in the first-floor atrium and tried not to gaze transfixed at the mural of a woman who was wearing a mask on her face, clutching desperately to the child in her arms. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face. It was if Fallon could hear her humming to the child with a rocking motion. A rocking motion that she found herself echoing as she mopped the vast floor. Had her mom held her that way before she left? She dusted around the Egyptian sarcophagus with an inner fear that it would one day sit up and say hello to her and she was not prepared for that! The African tribal hats could cover her from head to toe and that made her want to climb up in one and see. The room at the top of the stairs is called the Salt Room and the exhibitions on those walls change. She couldn’t wait to see what would be coming next to talk with her. There is one. One which she has only allowed herself to really look at twice. The first time she looked as she passed. The second time when she stopped to really look, she was mesmerized for nearly a half hour. The man at the center has just lost his son, a soldier. His eyes are huge with disbelief and a grief that is about to bury him also. His hands are intertwined with his sons. A woman is grasping his leg. She has collapsed to the floor and is numb with shock. Fallon did not know if the woman is his wife or his sister. The image is drowning in devastation. Fallon will not look at that painting tonight. She is almost done with her list. She needs to set up tables and chairs in the atrium for tomorrow night’s fundraiser. She has one more thing to do on the second floor. There’s one more painting she must see. It is called Preparation for Dinner. It’s a young woman Fallon’s age. She is seated at a table peeling apples. The sun is streaming in the humble kitchen from the window at her right. She seems lost in thought. Her mind is not on the apple in her hands. There are potatoes to be peeled and work yet to do. She feels like she knows her. Like if she could step into the painting, she could talk to her, and they would be fast friends. Fallon is standing stalk still in front of the painting when the girl’s face rises from the apples in her hand. She is staring back at Fallon. She smiles a soft smile. She places the apple next to the others on the table, the bowl and the knife and comes to the edge of the frame. She holds out her hand. Fallon looks behind her as if the woman in the painting is reaching out to someone else standing behind her. She doesn’t know what to do next. She steps closer to the painting and finds herself lifting her hand. Where she expects to feel canvas and oil, she feels the soft warmth of her hand. The woman in the painting pulls her toward her and in a blink of an eye, she’s standing next to her in the warm kitchen dusted by that same light she had just been looking at moments before. She can smell the food in the oven just out of frame and a loaf of steaming bread. Without a word, she invites her to sit down. She hands her the apples, the knife and bowl and nods to her to keep peeling. She begins chopping the nearby vegetables. Fallon starts to peel the green apples. A woman comes into the kitchen and smiles at the two girls. She is not phased by Fallon’s presence at her table. She wipes her hands on her apron, grabs a towel and pulls the cast iron pan from the oven. It is steaming with what looks like a brothy stew that smells amazing. Fallon wonders if while she was watching this girl in the painting, if she was watching her. A man comes into the room smelling of earth and horses. He nods at Fallon and pulls his wife into an embrace. He bends down and kisses his daughter quickly on the cheek. They begin chatting about their day. Fallon watches the family laugh together about the pig that got out and was discovered in the neighbor’s yard eating apples which had fallen from their tree. She feels more at home in this moment than she has in the four years since her dad died. Places are set at the table and as dinner begins, the mom asks her how her day has been. She begins to tell her about her job at the art museum. The woman is encouraging her to continue. She asks her about her family and Fallon finds herself telling her about when her mom got cancer. And then about how her dad just disappeared inside himself until he was gone too. About the court system and how she pleaded not to be placed in a foster home but granted a guardian who would oversee her education and situation until she turned eighteen. She found an apartment and used the trust to pay the bills. About the boy who she thought loved her. About the fight and how he hit her so hard. She didn’t know that you could actually see stars. She realized she had been talking for a long time. They were looking at her with concern and interest. Like a family. The sun was going down and the apple pie was filling the small kitchen with a magical smell of home, like her mom used to make. They pulled the pie out to cool. The man opened the front door, and they went for a walk across the open field of newly planted seeds. Fallon asked about them. Their animals. The crops. Their family. The land. They ate pie and cleaned up dinner, washing the plates by hand. The day in this world dusted with color was ending. She knew she had the option to step back into her world or stay. The door was open, and the option was hers. Outside the painting, the mop bucket rested on the clean floor. The mop leaning against the wall. And two futures lay before her in time and space. One with answers about who she is deep down and one dusted with color and framed with family.


Fate. A word that truly depicts the odyssey of life. Life remains a journey of integrity that each breathing person strives through, day after monotonous day. Yet moments of joy can be found even in the darkest of places, as long as one remembers to turn on the light. Unfortunately that was not always as easy as counting to 10. After stepping forth into the blinding daylight, one would expect the sign of a smile, though not for Franco, for his day was declining into the realm of pure madness. Running wild, running free, such ideologies were not currently achievable for him; his few brief moments of glee were snatched away in an instance by the cruel hands of society. As he peered over the ever-apparent cliff-edge of his life, both mentally and physically, a tear strolled down his paling cheek as he fell forth over the edge, his mind in shambles and his body in agony. When your life is flashing before your eyes, most would expect the moments of bliss. All Franco saw as he accompanied the abyss was the negativity that forever imbedded the forsaken shred of life that was his own. Thoughts of thousands fluttered like pigeons in his mindscape, chaotic and wanting an escape. ‘An escape’, an escape from what? His dispiriting escapade of mortality? His discouraging collapse into madness throughout his 30s? Nonetheless, scarper was essential no matter the cause. After a presumed eternity of flailing about in the gale, a supposed image of solid ground materialised beneath his frail skeleton. Thankfully enough, the ground was a familiar clear volume of aquamarine. Bedraggled with fear and salt water, Franco spat out the despair, as well as the solemn goldfish that had found its way past his cyan lips. He suddenly pondered as to how his life was still in his hands, though instantly neglecting the confrontation of notions for he had not a second to waste.

Peering in the assumed direction of North, he acknowledged the fact that the environment around him was all supposedly full of luscious grass and herbs. Although he discouraged his vision for his perception of reality had betrayed him countless times before. Unfortunately his suspicions were correct, for he watched as two solemn squirrels sauntered past him in absolute union. A false sense of serenity lay rest in the palms of his hands for the world was not what it seemed to be. He ambitiously stumbled around glancing momentarily at the birds flying overhead. Tremendous trees of mahogany were planted northbound; creating a canopy of corruption, for once again the exact same squirrels ran past Franco. “I’m not going crazy.” He now had upmost confirmation for the sake of his sanity for the shoddy design of this presumed prison was evidently not up to standards. Henceforth escapade was now a necessity. The first sign the failure in the circuits, was truly the aura of solemnity he had experienced when arriving on the hardened terra firma of the place. Life had never truly been at peace for Franco, not since the very day he arrived on this planet he currently resides upon. As he stumbled forth in the prison of both mentality and physicality, he noticed a peculiar sight, strictly west of his field of view. A solemn rowan tree lay unprovoked and isolated from all of the mahogany, perhaps a sign from whoever was in charge of this stockade. Upon encroaching upon the cocoa roots of the tree, he noticed an array of wires and cables spreading like a virus from the trunk. Since no further harm could be caused to his life, Franco began tearing the wires from their sources and lacerating them as he went along. Strangely no electrocution was in play, at least not to Franco, for in an instant bling of light, the prison appeared to collapse to ashes as its true form took place. All around Franco, the once viridescent and illuminated environment transformed into a greyscale horror of an augmented reality set. Fraud was present and Franco took advantage of this. Sprinting towards the nearest rusted door in sight, a yell could be heard from the ceiling as footsteps shunned his eardrums.

As he escaped the institute of illusions, he arrived at an even more hebetude office block, peculiar yet familiar. He began to saunter around until a sudden sixth sense struck his mindscape. “This isn’t real.” He blurted aloud, realising the horrifying truth and immediately screaming an array of expletives that no living person should be forced to hear. Reality had once again deceived him for it was further becoming apparent that an attempt at escape was fruitless. “Is this a test?” Franco yelled out loud, yet to his assumption no response was active, however that was not his intention. In conjunction with the words leaving his mouth, air accompanied it and he noticed a distinct lack of movement all around him. This information further proving his perception for the stack of paper before him lay restless and seemingly sly. Assuming anything but success, he suddenly sprinted at the nearest wall, yet additional flimsy design led to Franco tearing straight through the combination of electronics and cardboard. He now stood in the opposite of the previous serene environments, for now he was in what once was considered no man’s land. A bleak and disconsolate wasteland. Hope had truly left his ideology and at this rate would never submerge. Franco now lay upon the brink of pure insanity, as he knew not at what end the madness would conclude. He fell to his knees in dismay, apparently too hard for he tore through the ‘soil’ and fell upon a begrimed Victorian style house, further implying the inevitability of his failure. A laugh rang out from far away, not a happy laugh at a humorous joke, but a soulless sinister snicker at the collapse of a man’s mindscape. The laugh belonged to a man sat atop a throne, a throne of human failure for the laugh belonged to the man responsible for Franco’s eternal imprisonment. The man responsible for the beginning and current end of Franco’s life.


There I was walking down the street and all of a sudden I heard a scream like no other, this scream made you think that something was happening to you. After I didn’t hear the scream anymore I went to investigate, where I heard the scream it was coming from behind a house so that's where I went. When I got behind the house I was looking everywhere that i could think of, then i got an idea to look in the house so i went to see if the back door of the house was unlocked and it was. When i got into the house i heard footsteps coming from upstairs, as i was listening for footsteps i saw something on the ground, when i looked around the corner i saw something that i have never seen before a dead body just laying on the ground. When i went into the room of the dead body i was looking for weapons but i couldn’t find anything, as i was still looking for any weapons i heard the footsteps coming down the stairs, so i left the house and i was lucky that nobody saw me. Whenever i walk by that house there is always someone outside watching me walk by like they’re stalking me, and even when i am in a car they watch us drive by as if we did something wrong. So one day my mom walked with me by the house and when we got close to the house I told her that there has been someone watching me walk by for the past couple of days and she said if we see them then i will go talk to them. When we got close to the house there was nobody outside so she didn’t believe me, so I told her the next time I walk by the house I will video the person sitting outside watching me. So the next day came along and i started walking to the store and guess what the guy was outside watching so i stepped back and pulled up my camera on my phone and started a video and put my phone back in my pocket and walked by the house, i walked a little slower that usual and i probably made it look suspicious that i was doing something. When i got to the store i watched the video to make sure that i got a good shot of the guy, as i looked closer i realized that the guy was holding a piece of paper that said, “ I will get you one day.” At this point i am freaking out about the situation, why in the world would someone even do that to an innocent person, i mean ya i was in there house but it was for a good reason. When i got back home i showed my mom the video and she didn’t even care about it so i was like if i get taken its your fault. The next day came along and i wanted to go hang with the boys so i started waking to meet them at the spot, when i was getting close to the guys house he was standing at the fence in his front yard so i took a few steps toward the road to get some distance from the fence, when he saw me move a little farther away he stepped outside of his fence to get closer to me, when i saw him do that i ran to find the boys. When I finally found them I called the police and told them to meet me at a nearby store. When the police arrived I told them what had happened and they went straight to the guy's house. When i was going back home i saw four cop cars in front of the guys house, the police officer that i talked to came over to me and told me that the guy was a serial killer and if i didn’t contact them when i did them i would have been his next victim. After we got done talking my mom showed up and came to gave me a big hug and made sure i was alright, i am so glad that i contacted the police when i did, i am also happy that i don’t have to deal with that guy no more and everyone doesn't have to worry about him anymore because he will be in prison for life. A couple of days later the police showed up at my house and wanted to talk to me, so I went outside and talked to the police officers. They wanted to know everything about what happened and I told them every little detail about what happened. After we got done talking I got to take a picture with the officers, and they were so grateful for what I did. After a couple of days passed, I walked to the store to get something to drink. When I got close to the house I realized that a family had moved into the house, as i got closer to the fence i saw their kids playing in the front yard so i went and talked to them. The oldest kid is Kyle and the younger is Clay, after we got to talking for a little bit their parents came outside and Kyle introduced me to them. They are the Robertsons, i told Mr.Robertson that i was going to go get my parents and introduce them to y’all. When i got back to my house i told my parents that i made some new friends and i want to introduce their parents to you, so we hopped in the car and drove to there house. When we got there i introduced them to the Robertsons and they really like each other, i went to Mrs.Robertson and asked if i could stay over at their house and play with Kyle and Clay for a little while and she said yes. Now our families are like best friends and we are always hanging out together, I am so glad that that creepy guy is not living there anymore.


THE SOLACE SEEKER

"let me tell you something my friend, hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane"' I did not read this quote in Stephen King's book but rather I heard this confusing yet so relatable dialogue in the movie Shawshank redemption when these words were said in Red's (Morgan Freeman) despairing, despondent voice. It did not make sense to me because baba always said, "Life is worth living and you can always find happiness in people around you" How can baba ever be wrong? Everything he ever said somehow made sense, it gave me confidence it made me believe in this cruel unforgiving world. But I forgot to ask him... baba "what if no one is around? What if I don't find happiness in people? What if they all leave just like you left me?" he was my hero, he never let me down always took care of me no matter what. Despite having a broken bike, torn clothes, and not enough money to buy a new pair of sandals, he never complained he was so optimistic even at the most difficult times. How did he do that? Maybe I can never understand. My cigarette was almost finished I didn't even take a single puff, it kept on burning and burning and eventually, I had to throw it, well I think my life is like this cigarette, I am just waiting for it to completely burn.

"would you like to talk a bit more about your father? It will certainly help you to open up"

Said my therapist Mr. Khan. Six and a half feet tall Pashtun fellow, he is a kind man he took me in therapy when my classmates suggested to the university's health center that I need medical attention.

"I don't think it can" I replied

"did you sleep well last night?" he asked "I haven't slept in 3 days doctor. Whenever I close my eyes, I hear screams, I hear cries of help!" "I should've been there with him when he died, who knows maybe I could have died with him" My voice broke down and tears followed, I couldn't look up to Mr. Khan I felt this great burst of agony and guilt at the same time. "here you go son, have some water" "It's not our fault, there is nothing you could have done" after a long pause he suggested, "Perhaps you should write it down, that will help," he said assumingly. I glanced at him in misery, I whipped off my tears and looked at the clock. "it's 4 pm sir perhaps I should leave, I need to be there, at my job" I work as an International sales agent at a call center. We sell braces, what a pathetic job! it is miserable in every way but so am I so that's why it is a perfect match. It is set up on the 1st floor of the old district office building. They evacuated it because it was as old as the British raj. That thing would surely collapse if there's an earthquake. Walls are cracked up and the roof leaks as if someone had a tap running, there are no windows as the big holes in the wall suffice for ventilation, mosquitos and rats are here for adequate company, the people here were shady, no one would talk with anyone, but it was written all over their faces how much they hated this place and they would kill to get out of here. All you can hear was the busy road, the buses, and rickshaws with their vexatious, galling horns. People would fight almost daily on the streets and that one bloody workshop! Where they repaired car bonnets, all you can hear were bangs and thuds and the sound of the hammer hitting the steel, it is torture, you want to punish someone? Just bring him here and I assure you they will beg for mercy. Who would love to work in such a shit hole, but sometimes you don't have a choice, I needed to pay for my tuition so had to bear with this drenched place or maybe I was attracted to this dark, gloomy, melancholic place. I use to walk home every night at 2 am when my shift ended or should I say I choose to walk, I was never fond of public transport so many new faces all glanced towards you when you enter the bus, it makes me feel anxious and nervous. People—people make me nervous. Walking helps me to ease off. I talk to myself for company, sometimes I cross the road without looking because I am so indulged in my thoughts, often I'd skip streets and then later realize… okay this is not where I am supposed to go… gosh! What were you thinking! But on my way home I always take the 22nd street behind the market, I love this particular place, it's dark but quiet you can see a few junkies sleeping on the footpath a broken light shade at the end of the street, there is no noise, hustle, rush no car horns or hammer banging on steel, no Mr. Khan asking me things I don't want to answer. It's just me far from the city life, from the stress, from all the worries. I always sit on the far side of the street on the footpath along with the broken light shade and I smoke a few cigarettes. "look baba I found happiness in this dark, depressing place I think this is where I belong" "I know you said I can find happiness in people, But I am struggling to find any" "It shatters my soul, but I think you were wrong baba"

"or maybe I am not strong enough!"

I don't know why that day I looked up at the sky and said these words, I cried my heart out that night no one was around to console me except a few wasted junkies. Somehow every night I gathered all the strength I had to pick myself up and go home. To be honest, since that day I never really wanted to go and live in the same house in which I

once lived happily in, I didn't want to corrupt the memory, but sometimes we are just helpless. We use to live in a two-room apartment, the building had 12 floors and we lived on the 7th, I don't have the strength to go in baba's room it reminds me of him so I decided to leave the room untouched and locked it until the day I have enough strength to go inside. I still remember that day we did breakfast together, "How is your class going?" baba asked that day,

"well you know I get nervous around people baba, also I don't like how rude and show off some of the students are all they talk about is money—money—money"

"Bahahaha" he burst out laughing

"son remember, all five fingers are not equal. You will find different sorts of people everywhere you go! Some might be bad with you others might not! Always try to look at the good that is in people's heart" he followed

"Oh! Look at the time I am already late! Finish up and do the dishes before you go, I will see you in the evening" he went off, And never came back, that day I received a call around 5 pm from the hospital, I reached there all drenched in sweat I did not know what to do, my senses were fading nothing made sense to me, what was going on? What did I do to deserve this! A thousand thoughts escaped my mind. Until the doctors came and told me he couldn't make it! He was hit a truck on the way to his office that's all I was told. After that day my life was never the same. That day it had been 5 months and 17 days since the incident, as I walk towards my apartment's gate I unlock the door with trembling hands, I walk into my dusty messed up space, my coffee cup unwashed, dirty clothes lying on the sofa, water dripping drop by drop from the sink's tap. The cracked oil paint on the walls, the broken tiles on the kitchen floor is all I lived with. I decided to take Mr. Khans advise although I never visited him ever again, I don't know why but I decided to write it all down I don't know what I was writing or why. Believe me, I was clueless, but these are the words that came pouring out of my mind. Confused, I don't know what to do. I don't know whom to talk, is anyone even alive? Will I even survive? I have lost every ounce of breath I had. These walls are covered in marks, blood may be mine. my hands crawled upon the walls throughout the night trying to escape now my fingers bleed, My eyes have dried out, My voice has faded, My soul is shattered. Drowning in the sea of sorrows someone awaits me, it's the only warmth that I'll ever get, Waiting for me is death! In these last moments of misery as I'm about to die, time seemed to have stopped suddenly, I remembered all the bullies, I remembered all the lies, I remembered all those who left, I remembered every tear that I cried, I remembered all the pain I bared, I remembered all those lonely nights, I remembered the time when I said I am fine. I couldn't sleep because of the pain, Every time I closed my eyes I saw my failures I realized the lies I realized that I was forbidden, That happiness was kept away from me, hidden. I couldn't look up to anyone, I was a complete failure, A disguise at times, Having committed so many crimes, Finally, death has prevailed, and my misery has now come to an end. I hereby write to you from hell, Where god has sent me to dwell, I like this dark place, I like the fire and I like the people maybe we all are very similar, This place seems very familiar, Sometimes I wonder if I'm even dead?? No one should suffer as I did, No one should be in such despair. And if you're reading this then I want you to hear, There's nothing to fear, I hope it's not contagious, Well don't take any chances it's time for you to flea, Just make sure to stay away from me.


Money is the root of all evil. At least that’s what my pop always told me growing up. “For outlaws there ain’t nothin’ more important than money. Everything they do: Lootin, killin, extortion, all just to serve their pockets no matter the cost to anyone else. That’s why outlaws always die in the end.” “Is being rich bad, pop?” The old man chuckled, his graying whiskers twitching with his exhale. “Depends who you ask, boy. Treat people right with it and you’re good in my eyes. Whatever you did to get that money is between you and God.” I didn’t really know what to say to him after that, I was only nine at the time. I remember he sent me to fetch a bottle from his office. He sat in that old wicker chair he kept by the fireplace and I sat by his feet while he poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Promise me you’ll grow up to be a good man, son.” He said before taking a long sip of his drink. “ That’s all you gotta be in this world, because hurting good folk is bad for the soul, so promise me.” “I promise.”

He smiled and handed me the glass, a puddle of the liquor sat in the bottom. He gave me a shallow nod and I had my first sip of drink that day. I remember it fondly cause it wasn’t more than three years later that my ol’ pop passed away. Took his life while I was at the schoolhouse, sat right in that wicker chair with the same bottle of hooch next to him that I had sipped from. My father’s affinity for religion never took with me, see I never much believed in superstition, until a particular story caught my ear. =========================================================== There was a town in Kentucky by the name of “Buckwheat” that was on its way to the grave. The installation of the railroad made it so their stopgap town was an afterthought, a place more people went than came, with business drying up most of the people figured they’d have to move. Entire generations uprooted by rich men from the cities. They weren’t the only people suffering, the Natives in the area were in constant conflict with Railway enforcers surveying land and had received word from the US Army that they were to be relocated to the West. In Buckwheat rumors and news spread like a bad rash, everyone got it whether you wanted it or not, and some of the men who heard this news were the town outlaws. The “Buckwheat Boys” they called themselves, children who fancied themselves grown on account of the iron on their hips. They took to petty theft and the occasional bout of rustling cattle but nobody in town said a word, every dollar they robbed or fenced was fed into the saloon which then fed into the town, a drip feed that just barely kept the town limping onwards. The rumor was that the Natives had gathered up all their belongings in preparation for their journey and a few people even whispered that they held gems and Spanish gold from the earliest days. The bounty was also said to be cursed, either by native spirits or the Spaniard’s god. The Buckwheat Boys heard this whisper and concocted themselves a plan. They plotted for two days and in the dark stifling heat of a shed they: drew maps of the area from memory, they cleaned and polished their guns, and more importantly they studied. They studied when US Army patrols edged close to the Native camps and recorded the times each day. They were boys playing at being men and their cowardice showed it. Not wanting to risk involvement from the Army they planned to ride in during the night and take everything they could, if anyone got in the way the answer was simple: “Shoot 'em dead, who’s gonna care about a couple of Indians? Long as we avoid the Army we’ll be fine.” Their leader, Clay, said flippantly. “What if they shoot back?” Logan asked, his white hat tipped far back on his greasy long hair. “With what? Bows and arrows?” Mitch snorted and slapped his knee. “Clay’s right, what we need to be on the lookout for is the damn Army. We pick a fight with soldier boys and we all end up with posters and ropes. No, we make 'em hand over the loot and then we take the long way back to town.” “What about the curse?” A meek voice called out from the back. “The priest said that money they had was cursed.” “The priest also says that if you spend your whole life rapin’ and killin’ that as long as you apologize for it in the end you’ll get to go to heaven. Does that sound right to you, Leroy?” Mitch teased. “I don’t know.” “Well now you’ve said something that makes sense.” Logan guffaws, letting loose a glob of yellow spit into a dented pot. Leroy’s face went a funny shade of pink as the other two laughed at him, but then Clay spoke up. “Y’all think it’s funny? Speaking down on God and on Leroy?” He slowly walked across the shack, his thick soled boots clunking against the old wooden floor before dropping a heavy hand onto his shoulder.

“Leroy here is our little brother.” He said, rattling Leroy around. “Which gives him the right to ask silly questions every now and again. Understood?” “Uh-huh.” Logan mumbled. Mitch simply grunted. “Good, now then Leroy. To answer your question; ain’t no such thing as curses. Ain’t no Spanish god that’s gonna hurt us. You got my word. This money will be good for us and the town, once it’s ours we can get to spending it. The saloon, the tailor, hell even the church can get a little in the sunday basket. It’ll keep this place going. Can you abide by that?” Leroy simply nodded while avoiding the probing stare of Clay. A clap to his shoulder let him know it was safe to raise his eyes as Clay walked away and rolled up the paper on the table. “Get your things together, tell your families that you’ll be out tonight. I don’t care what lie you feed em, long as it’s believable. Clay left the shed with the plans tucked in his pocket and all the others followed, just as they always had, just as they did later that night when they rode into Native land to raid whatever valuables they could get. The raid went off without a hitch, initially, only women and children stood between them and their fortune. Logan and Mitch hollered, bullied, and beat anyone who got between them and their prize but the whole time Leroy felt uneasy; not just in his actions but in the situation as a whole. Why were there no men of fighting age? Why did they seem to call out in their strange language not at the gang but into the darkness of the night? As Clay caught bags from the two and stuffed whatever he could into the saddlebags, Leroy nervously peered into the darkness, until the slightest glint caught his eye. Directly behind the two men rummaging through the central tent. “MITCH, LOGAN, BEHIND-” Leroy called out as his sweaty hand fumbled with the rough grip of his revolver. His warning was cut short however, as a pillar of white smoke rose from a bright flash of light in the darkness. Logan screamed like a man possessed and clutched his side which gushed dark thick liquid in pulses. Mitch raised his revolver and fired into the dark, flinging spit and curses along with lead. His taunts were met with another flash and plume of smoke, as a tall muscled native man stepped from the darkness holding a long rifle, putting a lead ball through the base of his neck. The guns were old, probably leftovers from the Civil War, but they were leagues beyond the promised ‘Bows and Arrows’ that Clay had mentioned. Leroy turned his head to Clay who was finishing a tight knot, securing a thick bag to the hind of his horse. Mitch and Logan lay screaming in the dark while Clay muttered beneath his breath. Another volley of shots as more men stepped from the darkness bearing similar rifles, thankfully what they had in numbers they lost in accuracy. Leroy ducked low and covered his head as the horses reared and let out shrill cries of terror. “Clay!?” Leroy screamed over the cacophony, all while the eyes of a reloading native man pierced him. A grunt of exertion and a smack on the shoulder drew Leroy’s attention. A grimy hand was extended in the darkness. “Get on the horse, Leroy!” Clay called, another explosion made him double over and press his cheek to the neck of his mount. “Shit. Get on, goddamnit before I leave you!” Leroy didn’t need to hear anything else, he flung his hand out and was yanked to the rear of the horse, Clay’s spurs collided with solid muscle and the beast took off for the fields. The scent of gunpowder, blood, and sweat left far behind as the warm Kentucky air blew past in a rush. “I told you it was cursed! I told you dammit!” Leroy shouted with tears in his eyes, his head was tucked and pressed firmly against Clay’s back. “It ain’t no fuckin curse, Leroy.” “Mitch and Logan are-” “I know what the hell happened to them.” He growled. A snap of the reins pushed his horse to move even faster. “What’s important now is we make distance, if any of the horses are unwounded then they could mount up and come after us.” “Will they?” “I would.” He said grimly. “Will they find us, though?” “Their people know how to track, been doing it longer than we’ve been around.” Clay said thoughtfully. “But I may got something that can help with that.” The two rode on in relative silence for the next two hours, Clay coughed and groaned at times writhing in his saddle while Leroy clutched onto his back with eyes squeezed tight to suppress the burning tears trying to force their way through. Eventually the horse began to slow and Clay with labored breath eased the animal as it fidgeted. “Easy now.” He whispered to it as he worked on deconstructing the knot around one of the bags Logan had tossed him. “What’re you doing, Clay? Why are we stopped?” “Getting what we came here for and making sure they don’t know where we’re headin.” His pale fingers struggled with the knot until it eventually fell away and the crimped edges of the bag opened. “Goddamn.” He mumbled staring into it. Leroy peered over his shoulder and his mouth fell open. Gold coins layered in thick piles stared back, glittering even with only the moon and starlight to illuminate them. The sight was quickly cut off by a hacking cough from Clay, the bag’s opening was clenched shut in his fist as he hacked. In the distance a faint clattering came followed by a lonely horn echoing across the hills. “They really had gold..” Leroy muttered to himself. “Leroy..” Clay whispered, turning in his saddle. “Leroy, we’re gonna take that train.” Leroy gasped, thin splotches of blood encrusted the corners of Clay’s mouth and his hand was firmly pressed against a dark patch of blood soaked shirt. “Holy shit, Clay. They shot you!” “No shit? It’s just a scratch, when we get back to town I can pay the Doc to fix me up.” He groaned. The clattering grew louder as the light of the train shone from around a hill. “We just gotta get aboard, come on.” The reins snap again and his horse starts a slow amble forward as he slips his foot from a stirrup and sits sideways, his injured side leaning against the thick neck of his mount. The train drew closer. “Clay? This is a bad idea..” Leroy moaned. The train drew closer. “Shut up, Leroy. My plans always work out in the end.” A spur sends the horse into a light gallop. “We can’t do it..” The sound of the train began to drown out their conversation. “That’s why you’re going first..” Clay mumbled. A slap to its hind sent his horse into a full gallop. “What!? I can’t hear you.”

The front of the train passed them, the cars behind it passed as well with each one slower than the last as Clay’s steed tried its best to match speed. “I said.” Clay repeated loudly as he pressed a hand to the back of Leroy. “That you go first!” He screamed in a mixture of pain and exertion as he shoved with all of his might against Leroy’s back, dismounting him from the Horse. Leroy screamed and wailed but instinctively kicked off from the saddle and sent himself chest first into the rough iron bars of the caboose. “You…you…you asshole!” Leroy screamed back after he finished scrambling over the railing and onto the small platform that hung off the back. “Yer alive, ain’t cha!? I’m throwing the bag next.” He called back. His hand went to his lap and grasped the bag before chucking it underhand to Leroy and positioning himself to take the leap. “I told you my plans always work, now scoot over.” Leroy scuttled backwards, his back pressed to the caboose to stay steady, he watched as Clay pushed off his horse and lunged forward. He watched as Clay slammed into the railing, directly on top of his wound, and sent the whole thing rattling. Leroy watched as Clay’s face contorted in pain and his eyes rolled into his head, he watched as his body limply dropped and fell towards the tracks. And Leroy watched as Clay’s unconscious body ragdolled against the stone, steel, and wood of the tracks. His still form grew more and more distant as Leroy watched with an open mouth but a frozen voice. He slid to the floor and drew his knees close, he rocked himself on the floor of that caboose until the sun began to peek over and let the smallest rays of light across the landscape. He whispered prayers for forgiveness, for mercy, for the men he watched die not hours before. But he wasn’t convinced anyone was listening as all he could hear was the jingle of the gold coins in the closed sack. It was infuriating. “This is your fault..” He said to the bag. “You and your damn curse...they can have you back.” He extended a foot violently and sent the bag sliding over the edge, he watched as the bag hit the ground and exploded into a shower of glittering light. He let loose a sigh and closed his eyes. Was it a mistake to throw away the only reason any of this had happened? He didn’t care anymore, his thoughts were of his home and his family. Until he heard the jingling. His eyes shot open and looked to his side, where a familiar bag leaned lovingly on his thigh. He scrambled up from his seated position and once again kicked the bag between the rail posts and watched it scatter along the tracks, reflecting the new morning light. He watched the faint glinting pile of coins until he couldn’t any longer but the moment it was out of his view he heard it again. That jingle. He tried throwing the bag, but it returned. He dumped the coins from the sack only for it to refill itself once he looked away. He did anything he could think of but the moment he wasn’t looking those coins came right back to him. He was cursed and he knew it, he had done folk wrong and this was his punishment. A final, grim, thought came to his mind. His hand inched down to the rough handle of his revolver. He swallowed harshly and drew from his holster. “Merciful Father, I come before you with a repentant heart, I recognize my sins. I confess my need for your forgiveness and mercy. Wash me clean, O Lord, and create in me a pure heart.” He spoke with a wavering voice as he pulled back the hammer. “ I trust in your unfailing love and rely on your grace to restore and renew me. Jesus Christ. In His name, I pray.” He pressed the cool barrel to his chin. “Amen.” =========================================================== I sip the last of my whiskey and slide the glass forward. The bald face of the boy before me balks. “You can’t stop the story there, old timer. What happened to the gold?” He whispers, pretending to sweep a stray bit of dirt. I laugh and shake my head. “Well death didn’t stick to young Leroy. He woke up back in Buckwheat by the tracks, he spent the rest of his life trying to get rid of the curse.” “Did he ever get away from it?” “Almost.” The boy's eyes glitter.

“How?” I lean forward and whisper with whiskey scented breath. “Following the plan.” The boy opens his mouth to speak but a sharp voice cuts him off. “Bill! Goddamnit, I told you to stop getting friendly with the customers, if you got time to chat you got time for cleaning.” I hold up a hand and speak gently. “Easy now, I was just telling the boy a story. You get to my age and you have loads of em. I’ll pay my tab and get out of your hair.” The bartender gives me a sour face but shrugs. “What’s the name for your tab, sir.” “It’s Lee.” I tell him. The boy’s eyebrows raise and he gives me a glance. I just smile and fish in my pocket until I feel it. A single gold coin. “Will this cover it?” I ask.


Well, Halloween was cancelled 2 weeks ago in our small New Hampshire town. This Covid 19 crisis was taking all the enjoyment out of the holidays. I don't want to even think about Thanksgiving and especially Christmas. My mother says I was being selfish and if we do not follow the guidelines then we won't have a life to enjoy anything. Blah, blah, blah I hear as I walk away. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and my best friend Soosie too. We cannot let it slip by and not celebrate it, and no, not by ordering a pizza and watching a bunch of scary movies on TV, as my mother suggests. Soosie comes over and we decide to think of something really spooky to do. We google scary things around town and besides boring stuff we see something about 'Blood Cemetery' it is really called Pine Hill Cemetery, in Hollis. I have heard the stories of this place but never been there. The ghost of Abel Blood haunts it. Supposedly Abel's gravestone changes at night so the finger on the stone points down instead of heavenward. It says it is closed dusk till dawn, and the police patrol regularly especially at Halloween. We decide to drive by it anyway, I call Soosie and we make plans for the next night, Halloween. Our parents already think we are sleeping at each other's house, so our secret plan can not be deterred by our meddling parents.   I fill my backpack with snacks, drinks, a flashlight, fill my gas tank and make sure my phone has a full charge just in case we get lost on the dark unlit back roads. I'm the most cautious of the 2 of us. If Soosie was in charge we would be stuck in a ditch in the unholy darkness, right in front of Blood Cemetery. I shiver at that thought.  I tell my mom "I'm leaving" she waves bye never looking up from her phone. I feel slightly guilty lying to her, but more excited about the fun and scary night ahead for Soosie and I. So I text Soosie, "On my way" and back out of my driveway and the song 'Thriller' comes on and I laugh out loud. I wonder if we will see any zombies come out of the graves. Soosie is already outside waiting for me when I pull in her driveway. I just love her purple curly hair she must of dyed it today for she had her natural red hair yesterday. She is tall and skinny as opposed to me. I'm short and fun sized, my stupid brother says. But I hate my too straight brown hair. The door opens and we both start talking and laughing about our Halloween adventure.   Wow, pitch black is a great adjective to describe this night. As we approach our destination the fog gets thicker, where did that come from. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I listen to Waze direct us not to our deaths I hope. Soosie is oblivious to our surroundings, thinking all this is so cool. "You have reached you destination on the right "Waze whispers. I pull over onto the leave covered grass and we try to see thru the fog that seems to arise from the graves. Soosie puts down her window like that will make a difference. We squint and the fog magically thins out and we see the old crooked grave stones. Now that we are here I think we are both afraid to get out. Soosie senses my fear and locks her door, forgetting her window is half way down. Soosie turns to me pretending she is glad we are here, I ask her "wanna get out, we came all this way? It's suppose to be spooky." She answers bravely "It's just the fog that makes it so spooky." I reply "and the dead people," as we open our doors slowly, and try to walk quietly into the den of the dead. I hand a flashlight to Soosie and we feel a little braver. We are not alone for an owl spooks us. We look around with our high powered flashlights and spot him high up on a long thin leafless branch, he stares back at us. We keep scanning our surroundings, there are lots of trees and nothing else. Not a light of any kind for as far as we can see. It starts to lightly mist and it gives the air a smell of the woods just beyond this graveyard.   We are starting to feel a little at ease and start taking selfies with the gravestones as our backdrop. There is some very old gravestones here, as we search for Abel Bloods grave. I hope we are not disrespecting the dead, we decide to turn off our flashlights and enjoy the natural environment we are in, but we hold onto each other for comfort. Just then we see a light in the distance and then hear the sound of a truck. We duck down instinctively, I say "someone had the same idea as us, unless the police have a truck." Soosie nods and we wait very quietly to see if they drive by or stop. They stop and we slowly raise our heads above the grave stone we ducked behind. I tell Soosie be quiet for we don't know who they are or what they are up to. She nods as she squeezes a tight grip on my arm.  As we watch we see 2 people, male voices we know, but not what they are saying, for we are too far away. The rain is coming down in a steady stream, but we stay where we are waiting and watching. Soosie says she feels like we are on a stake-out, obviously excited by the events. Not me, I am wary of what they are doing here. We keep watching and one of them opens the back gate of the truck, they grabs shovels and start digging. "Are they grave robbing?" asks Soosie. We watch which seemed liked a long time and we are soaked to the bone, but we are not leaving till we see what they are up to. Just then they stop and one of them jumps into the bed of the truck. He is doing something we can't see, I grab my phone and open camera and zoom in, I see the other man grab something and it must be heavy for the other man jumps out of the truck. I relay what is happening to Soosie, she grabs her phone to see it too. Just then an arm falls out of it's encasement. We can't look away even though we are traumafied. A word I just read in a book, describes this scene exactly. We continue watching when they uncover their secret, a dead body. It seems a woman by her long hair. Just then Soosie takes a picture, her flash is on and the flash of light attracts the attention of these 2 grave diggers and probably murderers too.. They look our way, "What have you done Soosie, run." We get up as fast as we can and start running for the car, too afraid to see if they are giving chase. I can here Soosie behind me crying and I reach for her hand. As we see my car I reach for my car keys and I can't find them. I stop backtrack a bit, but it is so dark and everything is wet. I look up and I can see 2 figures getting closer, I turn on my flashlight to see my lost keys or it is certain death for us. Soosie is screaming by now wanting to know what I am doing. As I bend down searching, I look up and see the shovel aiming for my head.   I wake up with such a headache, Soosie shaking me asking "you ok?" I realize I am home in my room, "what are we doing tonight for Halloween Jenny, Blood Cemetery still?" I instantly reply, "no Soosie, let's stay in and order a pizza and watch scary movies." She looks confused, I tell her you are not going to believe the dream I just had. She smiles and we live another day by listening to my mother.


What did I think of her? Well, she was just sort of there. Our sisters introduced us and we were both too shy to speak. I think we were six. I didn’t even know they were our neighbors. They lived a couple houses down, next to my gramma’s house. Actually, her house was more like an apartment attached to the back of a beauty shop. When I started going over there I thought it was so cool, like a maze. I would enter through the garage into her living room and kitchen. From there I went straight down a back hallway and turned left then right for the bathroom, or just turned right and went through one bedroom to get to her bedroom. But then, the first bedroom had another door that led to a “play area,” which was really a walkway where the washer and dryer sat. But if I turned right and then left, there was a storage area that led to the beauty shop, and even though her aunt worked there, we were prohibited. Her bedroom was cool too. It seemed the same size as mine only cooler. Her bed was just a mattress on the floor and we could fall into it. She burned incense and candles and had a lot of it. She probably had twenty long candles on top of her dresser and with the mirror behind them it looked like a scene from a vampire movie. The candles were pressed into bottles of all shapes and sizes and when lit, she let the wax melt to the base of the candle, drip over the lip of the glass, and run down the neck and body of the bottle where it congealed. She had wine bottles with wax of blue and white, pop bottles with green and purple, and my favorite was the Jack Daniel’s bottle. There was something about the square bottle, black label, and red wax spewing over it. The wick was always lit and she only used red candles for this one. I could just sit there mesmerized forever. Watching it melt was intriguing, like watching blood coagulate. I picked up a lot from her. Her shirts were tightly crammed into her closet and some were inside out but hung up nonetheless. It made sense. Why waste time turning the clothes the right way when you can do it when you wear it? She had a lot of clothes compared to me. I remember the first time I went with her to the thrift store. Looking back, I think it’s funny I was in shock she was buying other people’s clothes. Apparently my face betrayed me because she asked, “Are you okay? We can leave if you want.” But like anyone hiding embarrassment, I denied my own feelings. Now I only go to thrift stores. You can buy more when you don’t buy name brand. She never really seemed to care. But I guess it’s different when you shop there because you want to verses you have to.  What was she like? Well…I just told you. She was what she was. She was a maze like her house, yet simple. Real. She was like her clothes- inside out but still cool. She was second hand. An off-brand that if you give it a chance you love it, like blue jeans that are already broken in, or a shirt washed so many times that the cotton is soft and faded. What do I mean by tightly pressed? Hmmm. There was this one time that we were chilling in her room. Her mom was always asleep on the couch but we still blasted music and it didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, I was looking at all the candles and slowly moved down the dresser. There was a picture of a man in a cheap plastic frame that I hadn’t noticed before- a clipping from the newspaper. I was about to read it when she silently swept in and put it in her drawer. That let me know there was much more to her than I realized. We never spoke about it. Yes. I did notice changes after that. She asked to go over to my house instead of hers. We had more freedom at her house, but her mom must have gotten a new job because she wasn’t sleeping all the time anymore. She had a new boyfriend too. He looked kind of trashy. He had this blondish, scraggly, long hair just past his shoulders that looked like it had never been brushed. He was missing a couple teeth you could see when he smiled really big, and he always wore the same cut-off, white, jean shorts that must’ve been washed in rusty water- and no shirt. If he went somewhere he threw on an eighty’s looking tank top and flip flops. He always seemed nice though. Anyway, we began hanging out at my house every day after school. I don’t know if it was because of that picture I saw, but I started to notice her more. She never really seemed happy. Well, she was never mad or sad either. I liked being around her because she was just there. It sounds horrible but she was like an old dog. Trusty. Would do whatever I wanted to. Followed me around almost anywhere. Don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t a dog and I didn’t treat her that way. She was just chill. The only thing she asked me to do was go to church on Sundays. I had my own church but her church was neat. They had a separate sanctuary for the teenagers with our own sermon. We felt like adults. I would be trying to stay awake, but she was focused on the message. Once I even saw her hold back tears. My favorite thing to do with her? That’s easy. Play in the rain. I ran in the rain many times. You know, run to the tree and back. Do a lap of the house. Little dares. But I never played in the rain until she showed me. I remember the first time we did. We started with little dares. Then she dared us to run to the barn and back, which by the time I reached the porch half of my body was soaked. I ran under the awning but she didn’t follow me. I turned and saw her just standing in the yard. With her hands spread wide she wistfully waved her arms side to side as if wishing the wind would sweep her away. She spun and twirled while the leaves swirled and I saw something magical, celestial, transcend upon her. As the rain fell she held up her hands like a cup until it was full and running over. When she let go the water fell upon her head and whatever it touched that part of her disappeared. She looked at me and laughed, “Come on!” I just stood there in a daze watching the scene unfold. I shook my head to clear my mind, rubbed my eyes, blinked a few times, and looked again. There she was, the crown of her head gone and lines where streams of water flowed down her face left her looking shattered, fragmented. My face must have been horrified because she stopped suddenly and analyzed my expression. She lowered her hands reluctantly. As she did she noticed her fingers-missing- and now her hands were fading away from the reality surrounding her. She observed one hand then the other, and judging by the movement of her forearms she turned her hands around to see the back. But she saw what I saw. Nothing. With every drop of rain she became more transparent. I stood there scared for both of us. That’s when I saw her for the first time. How did she react? Her look of apathy grew into excitement. She began laughing and yawping throwing her arms higher into the air in praise. “Come, on!” she shouted again, and I smirked at her craziness. I took a deep breath and ran out to her. Twisting and dancing and running and laughing we giggled until we were so exhausted we fell to our hands and knees. I remember the mud squishing between my fingers. The wet blades of grass tickled my wrists. My hair was so wet, thin stands hid my face. I remember suddenly hearing my own laugh as well as silence in the background. I pushed my hair aside and realized I was alone there in the backyard. The wind then blew and I felt her presence dance around my soul- blowing chills up my arms and legs as if listening to a song that sang its message beyond the notes. She was there, but somewhere in the rain, with each drop, she disappeared into a world where she could truly be. I closed my eyes, interlocked my muddied fingers, and thanked God for that moment- it was the happiest she had ever been. I prayed that the light would always shine on her spirit. As the rain became a drizzle, I felt the sun approaching through the clouds. One at a time I cautiously opened my eyes. Water dripped from the leaves while the warm breeze tumbled them dry, and the sunlight streamed through the window of the Maple. Soon just as she faded away in the rain, she reappeared as the sun sparkled around her. No, the new happiness didn’t last. It was strange. It was as if nothing had happened. I mean in spirit. Clearly we both were in awe of the “magic” that seemed to descend on her, but as the sun began to dry our skin, it seemed to dry her spirit up too- like a sponge. So no. My answer is that the rain didn’t really change her. I think the rain just washed it away. You know, washed it away. Like the mud on my hands. The dirt. What dirt? Dirt. You know, anything that made her feel dirty. Anything that tarnished her, or darkened who she was. Dirt. I have no idea. Her house? Her mom? The picture she hid? The thrift store? Her mom’s boyfriend? I don’t know. All I do know is that I saw the real her that day in the rainfall, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Yes, that is all we seemed to do that summer. Or at least the only thing of substance I remember doing. It rained a lot that year. We would race from tree to tree so that even though she would disappear in the rain, she wouldn’t fade away enough I could lose her. That way we could still laugh together. You know, she really opened me up in a lot of ways. I realize now that there is always more to a person than the outside. I know that it doesn’t matter where your clothes come from, where you live, who raises you, what you experience, it’s all trivial. The body is just a shell to house our spirits. I learned that sinking for some is swimming for others. I learned that wearing a raincoat keeps us from feeling the rain. Not a storm in my life goes by that I don’t think about that day. The last time? Yes. I think of that too. It’s not something I talk about often…or ever, but if you think it could help... I just came back from college for the summer. She was a year behind me in school even though we were the same age. She was held back in middle school, I think. I can’t really remember. Anyway, I just got back about a week prior to seeing her. She had put on some weight and was very chatty. Atypical for sure. We bumped into each other and decided to get together, which was nice because we sort of lost touch when I went to high school. Why? Well let’s just say when three girls start hanging around together one always gets left out. In this case, it was me. Her mom accused me of telling her to lie, but it was really my cousin. She was grounded from me for a month. She could’ve easily told the truth but I guess she just rather hang around my cousin instead. That changed things for me. I started doing my own thing in high school and she got a group of friends in the middle school. By the time the year passed we were just different. I didn’t like the friends she had and was too busy preparing for college. Okay where was I? We decided to get together. A friend of mine and his good looking younger brother were throwing a party. I asked her to ride with me. That hour drive, I sat there listening to her talk non- stop. It was as if she needed to pour the last four years of her life out to me, but did so in a manner that mocked happiness. I heard about her boyfriend, her losing her virginity, her friend – the cutter – the time her boyfriend and her held knives to each other during a fight. The weed. The cocaine. Molly. I sat there in disbelief, confused on what to do or say. She spoke of things that in my life, in my family, would never be accepted. A way of life I always viewed as dangerous if not evil. My mind was thrown into overload and I wanted to scream “STOP! What are you doing? This isn’t you?” But then again maybe it was. It had been four years. She seemed so happy, laughing and joking as if it was no big deal. She was so excited telling how her new boyfriend got her a hit of acid this past Christmas. I was truly perplexed. She seemed so happy and yet how could she be? She was chatty, and open, and excited, and free to do what she wanted. The ride home was awkward and quiet. She had too much to drink and I didn’t drink at all. Never did. We got about ten minutes from my parent’s house and it started to sprinkle. The monotony from the wipers painfully slowed time, like listening to a ticking clock. I contemplated many times talking to her, begging her to stop, asking her why she was doing this. I knew in my heart the road she was on I couldn’t follow. I knew if I said nothing I would regret it, but if I said anything I may never see her again. How was I to choose? I spent the entire ride thinking about the pain I would feel when our roads diverged, that I failed to see in that moment we were traveling the same road together. Did we say anything to each other? “Do you remember that time we swam in the pond?” she asked. “It was a retaining pond, “I replied.” “We skinny dipped.” “Yeah it was all fun and games until the guy came out from the building.” “No one was supposed to be there! They were closed!” she retorted. “I just remember being mortified!” “Oh I didn’t care.” “Oh yeah, that’s why we both were under the water up to our necks” I quipped. “See, no harm done. He had no clue we were naked.” “Later on when I learned what a retaining pond was I felt sick.” “I just figured if it was good enough for that muskrat it was good enough for us” she said with a chuckle. No. We didn’t. As I turned down our street, she told me she would walk home from my house. I pulled into the drive and parked the car. The headlights reflected off the garage and blackened the world around us. Thunder roared and lightning struck my heart. She jerked her grey hoodie over her hair and pulled the door handle. “Wait!” She turned toward me, lost and found in the same moment. I hesitated. “It’s raining outside!”Her eyes searched mine back and forth. When she found what she was looking for, she smiled. “I know,” she said with certainty and pushed open the door. The interior light came on and jolted me from my intensity. The bang from the door closing was like a nail through a coffin. I wanted to make sure she made it home, so I quickly jogged to the center of the driveway. She was walking on the road. The street light cast her shadow over the cold, hard asphalt. As the rain fell, I watched her slowly start to disappear, drip by drip, drop by drop. She twirled. I smiled. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I watched her fade away into herself. Into the rain. Into the night. That was the last time I ever saw her. Do I have regrets? Of course. Who doesn’t. Would I do things differently? Maybe. Maybe not. There was something magical, something beautiful in her at the time. Watching the rain fall over her head, gently drip down her face, and then run over her neck and body—watching her circumstance wash away—I just couldn’t. It was like watching the one red candle in the reflection of the mirror. I just didn’t want it to end.