No boy ever learned the concept of justice right off without the whipping post. Elective goodness seemed too complicated, too many fruits of temptation not to slip into vice and transgression. The trick, it seemed, was to sidestep a whipping or a clout to the head. Taking something that didn’t belong to you—many parents agreed on that sermonette--just wasn’t done. Walking the path of thievery was risky. You never knew if some stout mother lying in wait with a wooden spoon might lay a purple knot on your coconut. Sin and sanction seemed an abstraction easy enough to understand, but it was the

Batman  show that kept it clean. He was the one to thwart bad guys and to hand out sound floggings to whoever scoffed at the law. Yet, his little speech to Lydia Limpet that crime did not pay was an upside-down concept to me, all slogan and puffery, an untruth. I was determined to riddle his adage with holes of logic. Crime could pay, and pay well, and I set out one day to paint that highfalutin moon in blood. It was the Joker and his men stealing from the Ali Baba Jewelry Store that egged me on. I decided to hit the nearest emporium that trafficked in jewels, S.S. Kresge’s Department Store. That afternoon I pushed through the front door alone, meandered about the store, not a penny to my pocket. I wore no mask, no criminal’s costume, just the usual cap, obligatory striped shirt, dungarees and Keds. No adult noticed, no blowhard in a crime-fighting outfit stared me down. I drifted past the teal blue booths of Kresge’s grill and caught whiffs of greasy hamburgers, my mouth watering at the sight of a boy and his sister spooning through 25-cent hot fudge sundaes with whipped topping.

Touring toys, I was light on my feet, fingering stock at the pegboard wall where hundreds of Hot Wheels hung stickered at the lofty cost of sixty-six cents each. I wanted something better, a talisman of some kind, a gem worn only in risqué social crowds. Loafing my way past the foul smells of overfed pet fish and sickly parakeets, I stopped at a display of coloring books and crayons before wandering to a center-aisle table overspread with women’s necklaces and bracelets. Crowning the mound was a glittering gold necklace chained to a pendant with an egg-shaped emerald. Its dark vision of eternity captivated my hands to pick it up and to give it a mystical rub. The verdant stone was undoubtedly worth millions, I decided. During those precious seconds of hypnosis, some sinister voice whispered to put it in my pocket. A flashback stirred, opulent images of the Joker’s cask of jewels. I remember him prancing through a museum of rare artifacts. He was a clown with the roar of a lion, a madcap of genius. His ambitious plan worked, and Princess Sandra was out one rare diamond. Why shouldn’t Kresge’s Department Store in Arlington Plaza, too, suffer a loss now and then? After all, Zelda the Great stole the Star of Samarkand, a shivering jawbreaker emerald, and was never once whipped with a switch or beaten with her father's belt. I spied at a short distance the old woman at the register, the perfect seconds of opportunity ticking. She was busy ringing up a heavyset lady whose cart was loaded down with Turkish towels, boxes of chocolate-covered peanuts, and oversized ladies’ underwear. This five-finger discount required baseball surveillance, a darting glance from under the bill of my cap. The coast was clear, aisles empty, no manager in sight. With the emerald necklace tucked in the palm of my hand, I ducked under the table of jewels. All I could see was a pair of pressed slacks passing by, set to the shuffling sound of soft-soled shoes. I was out of sight of the saggy-jowled lady, busy poking keys at the register like a song of prosperity. It was time for business. I slid the emerald into my front pocket and popped up. Down the aisles I began to fake browse, hobbled strangely by a limp. The hot beryl stone turned albatross, its fresh guilt greater than all my sinner’s stains. For that reason, I could not shake the peculiar gate with that emerald feeling every bit the size of a plum. The bulge in my pocket gave an awkward sensation of hiding a baseball. Even my leg hurt. Wandering from aisle to aisle, I was a wounded duck. Every moral sensation to dump the stone was met by the resilience of my inner bandit. I had the jewel and wasn’t about to turn loose of it. Finally, the customer up front had disappeared. No one occupied the space between the chrome divider and the checkout stand. My forehead flushed as I tottered toward the doors emblazoned "EXIT," my chest expanding and deflating like a football. I reached for the door handle when the old woman cried out, “Thank you for shopping Kresge’s!” The alarm of her voice spun me like a spinning top coming off its string. I grinned sheepishly and gave a feeble wave as she stood there snapping her gum, filing her nails absentmindedly. The immediacy of fresh air swirling into auto exhausts and the shifting smells of cigarettes and Plaza Donuts renewed my soul. I had a new lease on escape. No one raced after me, no one shouted, “Stop that boy!” And certainly not a soul striding along the plaza sidewalks realized I had just stolen the Emerald of the City. I strode under the covered walk, cut across an access drive to a perpendicular sidewalk, and continued past the state liquor store. I was quicksilver, a peasant boy looking to vamoose. A sensation came over me that no big cheese could stop me now. No feather was as light as my shoes breezing over the walk. J.C. Penney’s mannequins, normally a source of idle fascination, now blurred with hurry. I ignored, too, several half-smoked cigarettes discarded on the dirty walk, the

Beacon Journal  news box, and a payphone, where I customarily snapped the coin return in hopes of a ten-cent windfall. Escape was suddenly no pipedream, the end of the walk marked freedom. I threw a nervous glance over my shoulder and cleared the corner of Western Auto. I found myself behind the plaza facade. My breathing relaxed. A commercial dumpster met me there, anchoring the crest of a slow ramp that gave way to a sloping parking lot. The place was empty, just me and the brick walls. The Arlington Plaza was a coin, and I was free as a jailbird on her tails side, all barricade and brickwork. What an abrupt change from the store fronts, the heads side polished glass and inviting imagery. I dawdled there, eying the distant woods should I need to flee. I went to my pocket and studied the angular cuts of the emerald. I did not want the necklace. The links offered a trail back to pilferage, an unnecessary golden rope as evidence. I broke the chain from the pendant and lobbed it over the wall of the trash receptacle. What a burden to lose, nothing short of tossing a lady finger firecracker and getting away. The deed was done, as dirty as they come. I was lambing it now, a fugitive from the justice system of the Greater American Retailers of America. With the naked emerald in hand, I trotted off. For kicks I imagined police in pursuit. I built up my speed until my lungs were puffing to irregular rhythm. Slowing where the sewer creek gurgled under Virginia Avenue, I held up the booty against the sun’s rays and admired the stone. Solitude knew no greater measure than me standing there on a dirt bank shivering and shaking with forbidden excitement. I was free, a boy clutching the Emerald of the World. By the time I reached home, I had slipped the gem into my back pocket. On the porch I snapped the front door handle, slipped through the kitchen, and sealed up my bedroom door behind me with the airy sound of one’s face coming to rest on a pillow. With no door lock, I eased my baseball bat between the wall of the alcove and the door. There was no time to waste, one false move and I might wind up another failed swindler jigging to the leather strap. Batman would have bragging rights over what paid and what did not. I stashed the gem in a place no one would think of—inside my pillowcase. The escapade over, I laid back and rested easy, flipping through the latest copy of

Highlights . Days went by before the delinquent’s ego got the better of me, however. I was bursting to share news of the heist. The caper was too big for me. I just had to spill.

Inside our wobbly tree fort, all present raised hands and swore to secrecy. This was no small potato. Should just one nincompoop blab, authorities would chase me down like a hound dog, blindfold me, and line me up to face a firing squad. Among my coterie, Dean, the Birdman, and Chad, we had no snitches. I explained how I had pulled it off and even boasted that I would make a better Joker than the rube on

Batman  because my emerald had been hidden for days without even a whisper of suspicion. I was the man. This seemed a reasonable posture until the fateful afternoon of my mother’s discovery. I was riding my Tonka dump truck in the sandlot minding my own business when the maternal siren went up through the neighborhood. “Stevie! You get in here—right this instant!” I knew that unmistakable intonation of hysteria and anger. Its riveting truth shook me to the bone. I froze a second as the work zone went on around me, boys dozing tufts of grass, erecting new cities, blubbering out the sounds of gritty diesel engines. I ground dirt under my fingernails, dug my knee into the bed of the truck. “I’m coming,” I shouted and abandoned the truck along, my feet dragging through the neighbor’s yard for home. I practiced my surprised face, deciding to dress up disbelief as an ally. After all, I had done nothing wrong just now but play with pals. When I touched the handle to the front door, electricity ran through it. My mother was seated at the table. Her shoulders were slouched, eyes blank with inner thought, the emerald on display before her, a torn popsicle wrapper the only other item on the kitchen table. I plopped down. My mind spun with explanations like someone spitting out fifty-two playing cards. I settled on the Jack of Diamonds. That was the card, my warrant by which I would swear grimacing truths. “Where did you get this?” She tilted it beneath the yellowed kitchen bulb. I opened by pausing for time and offering questions of delay. “Uh—where? Where did I get it? Where did I get

that?” “Yes, where did you get it—and don’t lie to me.” “Oh, no. I—I got it down by the slide. It was laying there . . .by the parking lot. And nobody wanted it. You can ask anybody.” I heard my voice chirp falsetto.

She furrowed her brow, eyes piercing. “So, just laying there on the ground, huh? By the slide in the parking lot, is that what you’re telling me?” I nodded. She rose and padded into the other room. I found my moment of truth plagued by difficulty swallowing before calling after her. “Uh, yeah. Can I have some water?” My mother returned to the table, placing her well-worn leather edition of the King James Bible next to me. She shook her head to the request for a drink and leaned in. “Now, you put your hand on the Lord’s word,” she said, the tenor of her words offering a slight crackle. “And you look me in the eye and tell me here and now: Did you steal this? Yes, or no?” The sorrow of the moment could not have been greater, save for my father being present. This was the ultimate gauntlet of truth, the spiritual lair by which many a crook had succumbed to the absolute by which all others were weighed and found wanting. One liar’s hand there and you may as well write out your last will and testament. I swear I thought frostbite would set in as I placed a grubby hand on the Good Book. My lower lip began to shake, I sensed disaster would follow. My high-handed plans for an empire of jewels toppled right then. She had me cold, and I was done. Determining a just form of punishment remained the lone question. I nodded and studied the tiles of the kitchen floor, skipping one to the next while thinking, always thinking. I murmured something incoherently, uncertain myself what the string of words meant in English. “Why is it shiny then, like it just came from the store?” My toe tapped the floor like a woodpecker. My hand slipped from the Bible. I was falling apart. I pictured police detectives examining the crime scene, my picture tacked up in post offices across Ohio. “I don’t know. It just is.” “Stevie,” she continued. “Don’t put your chin down. You look me in the eye this time and tell me you didn’t take this from the Plaza.” I left the patterns of gold linoleum and glanced up. Her green eyes surely saw my heart harboring naked despair. I wished at that moment I were wearing the slitted mask of Batman. Were his words true, this entire misdeed an unbelievable prophecy?

Crime does not pay. “Tell me!” “I don’t know if I did, Mom. I don’t think I did.” “Well, that's it. You are in for the day. No more playing outside,” she said resolutely. I nodded eagerly, acquiescing to the relatively light sentence, which nearly amounted to a governor’s reprieve. “That’s okay, Mom,” I said brightly. “I understand.” Perhaps my cheerfulness was too soon forthcoming because she wrinkled her brow for a second and added, “And your dad’s going to hear about this. So, go get your truck and get back here on the double.” That evening she revealed the scandal to my shiny-faced sisters as well, once we had gathered for dinner. They seemed uncharacteristically judicious but pleased upon hearing how I was the scoundrel and they were above the law, safe as stones buried in a mountain. Everyone else managed to enjoy supper. In the center of the table, Hamburger Helper ladled onto egg buns mounded over a serving dish, though I could barely chew, wadded bread left in my mouth with nowhere in particular to go. I stopped and concentrated on swallowing. I was to return the pendant and to pay for what I had stolen. I pictured myself blubbering at the counter while nearby adults were certain to sneer at the dishonest youth destined to become a sneak thief. My sentence also came with the spiritual mandate that I ask Jesus in private to forgive me because, apparently, there was little room in heaven for lowdown skunks who swipe costume jewelry from Kresge’s and then lie to the woman who brought them into the world. Lying there on my bunk bed that night, I ran my fingertips over the springs of the bed above me and hummed a bar of “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” not because I had forgotten the words to "How Great Thou Art" or any hymn but because the radio belonging to Oscar the Drunk down the sidewalk had been playing Otis Redding when we were last moving dirt with the trucks. It was in my head while my heart teetered somewhere over a dirty lake. I tried mostly that night to conjure up what my mother meant by looking for “inner peace with the Lord.” A spiritual awakening never did overtake me. Instead, I drifted off mumbling "If I should die before I wake." The remainder of my transfiguration was paid mystically in Monopoly scrip and hard truths: Crime did pay in emeralds—despite the epigram of Batman—but in heaven, golden harps. Punishment for my crime began with isolation, a spirit buster for any wayward kid. Being sentenced to the bedroom with a monastic indulgence of being allowed out for meals only felt cruel and unusual, sans any appellate process. During each meal, I noticed my sisters making little eye contact with the boy rogue, my jokes returned by faces of indifference, the clatter of silverware, and deadpanned calls to pass this or pass that. Grounded for days and staring through my bedroom window, I studied the tops of trees on bluebird days and noticed how those same trees roared with movement whenever a storm rushed up. Doing time was no joke. The slow turning between fair and foul weather led to a reverie of the good old days. Memories got the better of me: How I had once been free to ride a bike, to work a yo-yo for hours, to triumph at marbles. Eventually, I was released on probation for good behavior and wandered off to the woods. The new mood replaced my normal sense of genuine hope with institutional cynicism. I needed to do better. That was that. My rehabilitation began at the edge of the woods where a king maple stood fifty feet high and change, as great as the stars on clear nights. Scott Johnson had scaled the tree and looped two ropes over a sky branch, the rope’s ends dangling to the ground. I came upon him threading one end through the punched-out hole of a swing seat, four corners of a rectangular piece of scrap wood.


An old man holding his wife’s hand, helping her to the car with grocery bags collected in his other hand.

Click.

A child running towards their house with their hands over their head, trying to keep the rain from curling their already curly hair.

Click.

A stray dog happily leaping from one puddle to the next, barking in joy, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth as water splashed around him.

Click.

A slender woman standing under an awning, her red hair soaked, clinging to her neck. A phone rested under one ear as she talked to the person on the other end, her other arm wrapped under her chest. She smiled warmly into the rain.

Cli...

Her green eyes met mine and I swallowed.

Click.

“Jude!”

I sighed and rested my camera around my neck, before jogging over to the redheaded woman.

“Hey, Jodie.”

Her warm smile turned to me, and she put her phone in her pocket. “What are you doing out in this rain?”

“Taking photos.”

She shook her head as if to say ‘Of course you are’ without saying it. She pointed at the camera.

“Did you take any good ones?”

I shrugged.

“I think so. I took a couple of a stray dog.”

“Cool...”

Her voice trailed off as she turned back to the street, peering out into the rain. She sighed and shifted from one foot to another.

“What are you doing out in the rain?”

“Marcus has the car, so I am currently waiting for him to pick me up.”

“He late again?”

She laughs and gives me a side eye.

“He is always late. He gets distracted I think with the kids. The twins are a handful. Sometimes, it makes me feel bad for Mom about how we were as kids.”

“I wasn’t a bad kid.”

She laughs again. “No, I guess you weren’t. You just didn’t socialize. You only cared about your camera.”

She goes silent again and pulls out her phone. She checks the time and frowns. I point to my dark red pickup truck parked on the side of the road.

“I can take you home if you want.”

“Are you sure? You seemed pretty happy standing out there with your camera.”

I nodded then shrugged. “Yeah, I took the photos I wanted to. So, I was planning on going home soon anyways.”

She smiles that warm smile. Her face radiated love and joy. Her face is so similar to mine. Even our freckles were in the same places.

“Thanks, Jude. You’re the best!”

Jodie began to jug over to the truck. I blinked and quickly followed, unlocking the vehicle halfway so she could slide in and get out of the rain. She did just that and I followed, slamming my door closed.

“The rain is getting pretty wild.”

As I said this, thunder boomed, and the rain became a downpour. We both laughed. Jodie lifted her hair off her neck.

“Jodie, where did you get that?”

Under her hair just at her hair line was an almost perfect circular burn. Exactly like from a cigarette.

She quickly dropped her hair and her smile faded.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a burn, Jodie.”

“No, it isn’t”

I reached over and lifted her hair. I touched it gently. She flinched under my touch. It was a cigarette burn.

“Jodie...”

“Maybe I got it from my hair straightener.”

“I thought he was getting help. I thought he had stopped when you had the twins.”

“Just drop it, okay?”

I kept my gaze on her and shook my head. She should know better. She sighed.

“He did for a while. I think he is stressed from taking care of the kids and from his job. The promotion has given him so much extra work.”

“It’s no excuse and you know it.”

She went silent.

“Is there any more?”

“...”

“Jodie...”

She sighs and lifts her sleeve. On her arm were more burns. Perfectly small circles made from lit cigarettes. I grabbed my camera and without thinking...

Click.

“Don’t take any photos!”

She jerked her arm away from me and against herself. I tried to make my face as gentle as possible despite the rage burning inside me.

“I won’t show anyone. Please. I just want to document it.”

“Why?”

“In case something happens to you.”

She pauses.

“For Layla and Emma, Jodie. If you won’t let me keep you safe then at least let me use your photos to keep the twins safe, in case you one day can’t.”

She slowly nodded and held her arm out again.

Click.

She raised her hair.

Click.

Her side.

Click.

Her back.

Click.

Her thighs.

Click.

Several tiny circular burns all over her body. Punishments for not doing as he asked. Punishments for being her own person.  When he first did this, we were in college. She almost left him.

She has always been strong, but my sister also loved hard. And he was her first love. Her first kiss. Her first boyfriend. Her first sexual partner. Her first everything. And when he started to change and become violent it tore her apart.

She didn’t KNOW how to leave a relationship. She was young and had little experience and then the best and worst thing happened. She fell pregnant.

He changed. He wanted to be there for his child. He began therapy, began taking medication for his violent tendencies, and began to woo my Jodie back into his arms.

They got married right after the twins were born. She graduated college as did he and they moved into their first home. Everything was fine... or so I thought.

“Did he stop taking his medication?”

Jodie looked away from me and my camera.

“His psychiatrist told him he no longer needed them.”

“Did he tell you that or did the psychiatrist?”

“He did...”

“And you BELIEVED him?!”

My voice broke, and my anger bubbled to the surface. I turned away from her and took some deep breaths. Calm down, Jude. She doesn’t need another angry man. I rested my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes.

The rain still poured heavily around us as silence took over the cab.

“I’m sorry, Jude...”

I sighed and opened my eyes, giving her a sideways glance.

“You don’t have to apologize. You aren’t the one leaving burn marks on someone you supposedly love.”

“It’s a compulsion. He can’t help it. He burns himself too. Every time he does something wrong. His arms are littered with them. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s not abuse.”

“Jodie. If he was taking his meds, he wouldn’t be doing it at all.”

“I know... but how do you force someone to take something they don’t want to take?”

I leaned forward and opened the mirror that was in front of me. A picture of Layla and Emma. I handed it to her.

“And how do you stop him if he starts doing this compulsion to your little girls? To his children?”

She went silent again, staring down at the picture. I watched her as tears began to fall. She starts to sob, her cries becoming louder than the storm outside.

I aimed my camera.

Click.

She looked over and wiped her cheeks.

“What do you suggest I do then?”

“Report it. Take my pictures to the police and his psychiatrist. Hell, to his parents. Anyone that you think could force him to take his medication that you can’t make him take. That’s what you need to do, Jodie.”

She slowly nods, my picture still in her hands.

“And if he still refuses to take the medication?”

“Then you leave him. Take the girls and file for divorce.”

She began to cry again.

“I don’t know how to do that. He is all I’ve ever known.”

I think back to when we were kids. How she fought a boy so much older than us because he took my camera. I think about when we were preteens and how she stayed up all night with me when I was rejected for the first time. I think about when we were seniors and how she included me on her prom date when my date was a no show.

My sister was always there for me. Always been my biggest supporter. Always been my best friend.

I pulled my camera off my neck and handed it to her. She takes it, confused.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“Look through the photos and you will see.”

She began to look through my photos. A picture of her at my first gallery. A picture of her and the kids at the bowling alley. A picture of her at work, decorating cakes. A picture of her in the rain with a phone to her cheek.

“You took all these?”

I chuckled. “They are on my camera. They are for my next gallery.”

She gently touched the picture of her that she was looking at. Her green eyes stare right at the camera, a wide smile on her face. So beautiful, so confident, so strong.

“Why me? Why choose me as your next portfolio?”

“Because you are the strongest person I know. You have always been my hero.”

She smiles and touches the picture on the camera again.

“Seeing me with marks must really put a damper on the hero name, huh?”

I shake my head, gently taking my camera back from her. I bop her on the nose.

“No, it just gives me the chance to return the favor. Jodie, let me be your hero now.”

I flip through the pictures until I come back to the more recent ones. I stopped at the picture of the mark on her neck. I showed it to her.

“Jodie, you need help. Let me help you. THIS is not okay.”

She reaches up and grabs her neck. She slowly nods.

“Okay...”

I smiled and a wave of relief washed over me.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

The rain finally stopped, and I rolled my window down, taking a deep breath of fresh air before starting the truck. I slowly pulled into the street.

“Can I take you straight to the police station before you change your mind?”

“Will you be right there next to me when I talk to them?”

I nod and tap my camera.

“Me and my photos will be there. The entire time. I promise.”

Jodie nods and takes a deep breath herself.

“Police station it is then.”

Jodie looked outside as I began to drive in the opposite direction of her house. A faint rainbow begins to form in the sky as if to seal my promise to her. And I kept my promise, right by her side as she started the new chapter in her life.

However, the cigarette burns never went away.


Bah! My phone is dead, and this car is packed; well, more than usual anyway. There are only three seats left, and one is covered in trash and the other one’s gotta briefcase on it. I hate trash. And hate briefcases even more. The one next to the old lady doesn’t seem too terrible. I guess I’ll get by if I pop my headphones in, even with my dead battery. Can’t have grandma there thinking it’s ok to talk to me or something. “This is the train to Weaverville. Stopping at Roosevelt, Ringlwald, Forestgate, Greenville …” Typical, itchy cloth seat. When will they get with the times and make the upgrade to sterile plastic coverings? Seriously, it’s disgusting. And it turns out grandma smells like a grandma, has already passed out for a train nap, and is starting to snore. I wish my headphones were playing something for real. At least I’m out of school for the day. My third week of missing 4 th period gym class and no one has yet to notice. Or at least not notified my parents about it. Not like they’d care much anyway. They pay too much for me to go to school; so much that I’ll never really get into trouble for much. Plus, my grades are not half bad. Could be better, but again, school’s no big deal. Not to me anyway. “This is Roosevelt Station. ” Bah, someone is eating dead rats, I’m sure of it because I can smell it. I mean, I’m sure it’s leftover Chinese food or leftover something, but it smells like dead something. Doesn’t everyone know not to eat crappy food in a train car? We all suffer. I can’t see who it is because the car is full; could be anyone really. Aside from sleeping grandma here and the dude across the aisle from me. He’s too busy chatting away on his phone, another train car faux pas if you ask me. All this would be fine, or at least tolerable, if my phone was alright and functioning. But seriously, snoring grannie, dead rat leftovers and loud phone talker here are too much for me to take. It’s why I need to get out of school, and out of the city in the first place. It’s all too much for me. The place I’m heading now is this cool spot I heard about from my buddy who gets out of the city on weekends with his dad to camp. Unlike the rest of us restricted city kids, he has actually experienced time in the real outdoors, and gets to almost every weekend. The only thing the rest of us ever do is herd in masses for 4+ hour car-rides every Friday to the coast. It’s all the same people, and all the same dramas, but our parents love it and consider it vacation – justified solely because we’re beachside. Kills me really. But like I said, my buddy goes to this spot instead, and had told me it was awesome. So, two weeks ago, when I knew 4 th period gym class was going to be more useless weight lifting and whatnot, I decided to ditch it and check out the spot instead. It’s about a two-hour train journey from the city, but who cares? And even if the train ride is long, doesn’t matter. It’s worth it. The spot rocks. And that’s why I’m heading there again. If it were up to me, I’d stay there and never come back. “This is Ringwald Station .” Oh God please just let everyone get off now, or at least the big offenders... Leftover dude? Phone guy? No? Bah, seriously!? Can’t I just get a break? “Stand clear of the closing doors.” Whatever. At least grandma’s not bothered, but her snoring is still bothering me. The Travel India Now ad behind her head looks enticing. I’ve heard a lot about India from an exchange student in my history class, Vasavi or something. She’s always going on and on about India, the people and the land and all.  She makes it sound really busy, like a lot of people everywhere all the time, but she also talks about the land like it’s got its own soul, or something zany like that. She did this report and went on and on about this special Buddhist temple or something, and how when she went there, she could feel peaceful energy coming from the Earth. But when she’s here, she feels like that energy is trapped underneath the concrete – and all that energy is apparently too much for trapping – so we all feel it in our souls instead and run around like crazy rats all day. I find this fascinatingly ridiculous, but she would talk about it with such confidence, like it was gravity or the Earth being round or something factual like that. “This is Forestgate Station. ” Grandma’s not budging. Maybe I should wake her up. I hope she’s not getting off at my stop. I bet she would just want to talk, or worse, have me join her to keep her from being lonely. She looks lonely. Well, really, she looks tired. But I wonder if she has anyone in her life aside from fellow train-riders like me. And that dude is still yelling into his phone. I wonder if he works for my mom’s firm. He’s yelling into the phone like she does. I wonder what will happen when mom and dad find out that I’ve been bunking gym for the great outdoors? I bet they won’t understand. Who am I kidding? I know they won’t understand. They’re already pissed about me not caring about grades, or the city, or for not being overjoyed like they are for our fake weekend getaways. They’re pricy and all, and flashy and all that, but to me it’s no different from everyday life. So, what makes it a getaway? At least on this train I’m heading somewhere different. “This is Greenville Station ”. Bah, yes! Phone dude is getting up! Thank you thank you, and see you, eh, never again. And… Oh wow, hi there, pretty lady, who’s been sitting quietly this whole time, overshadowed by loud phone guy. What’s a pretty girl like you doing on a train mid-day, mid-week? Oh, you could say the same to me, you say? Well, wouldn’t you like to know? In fact, would you like to know? Would you like to come with me, to my most favorite place that I just discovered only 2 weeks ago? It’s our state’s biggest secret, and I’d be happy to show you if… “This is Westerville Station. ” Bah, this is your stop. Alright then. Had you traveled just a bit further, I might have gathered enough courage to actually talk to you… Quick smile then? Eye contact, maybe? No? Alright then, your loss. And honestly, you’re probably too old for me, anyway. But then again, I’m a mature guy. 14 going on 40 my cool gramps says. He thinks I’m wise, despite my grades and my parents’ opinions. He’s the only one that gets me. It’s ok though, because I’m the only one who gets him. And anyway, my stop is next. Thank god, as the dead-rat-smell-grandma-snore combo is really getting to me. I wonder if I should let grandma here know, in case she has to get off and all. “This is Rockwall Station. ” Sweet freedom, thank you Jesus. Smelly food guy is getting up too. Well, doesn’t matter now, now does it? At least grandma won’t suffer any more. I wonder if she smells while she snores. “Stand clear of the closing doors.” Bah, alright, alright, tricky train doors, I’m out already. This is such a second-rate station. No wonder stinky food man lives in this junky town. I wonder if he even knows what’s beyond those walls like I do. There’s an official entrance to this state park, but you need a car to get there. So, I asked my buddy about it, and he told me if I get off at this station, I can just jump the wall on the other side of the parking lot, and I’ve got a free ticket to the world. That’s what he said, a free ticket to the world. And he’s right, to me anyway. The first time I took the trail up I knew what he meant. It’s like you can see all of Earth from the top. I tried telling my dad once that downtown in the city is weird because it’s so vertical. “You can’t see the sky, ever.” I told him. He told me to look up but I said it’s not the same, because when I look up, I only get a rectangle cutout of the sky. But when I get to the top of the hike here, I feel like I’m standing in the center of a snow-globe, but like with no snow. So much horizon; I never knew it existed. Well, I’d notice it sometimes out on the shore, but here I’m on top of the world. So close to the atmosphere. The ocean is alright too I guess, but this is different. Better, I think. Out here I can listen. I really can, because it’s quiet enough to hear things. I mean, right now I can still hear the crappy traffic and trains from town and such, but this far out its all muffled, like background noise to my tramping feet. And soon the bugs and bees buzzing will be even louder than phone guy, believe it or not. I never listen in the city. There is just too much sound all the time, too much of everything all the time really, so what’s there to hear? My parents freak out about nature. They worry about getting dirty and getting lost and bears and bugs and whatnot. But when I ask about scary stuff in the city like murderers or terrorist attacks or stress killing your heart from working too much, they don’t seem troubled by these things at all. Now here’s where the hike gets intense. Like, really intense. It’s almost a vertical climb. I can’t hear nature as much as I hear my own huffing and struggling. I thought I was in pretty good shape until I came out here. Maybe I should start skipping math instead of gym. I could train my legs and one day run up this mountain. But not today. It’s alright though. The feeling I have when I get to the top is worth any challenge. Even smelly dead rat food… Oh man, here it is. So ridiculous that such a perfect place exists. Third time up and the view still gets me. Probably will forever. It only takes me about a half hour to hike up here, but today I’m going to stay long. Maybe forever. It’s not a cloudy day, and for the first time I can see it all. I thought I had before. But I was wrong. Today’s the day. There’s not too much shade up here, but there’s one spot I found where a few trees are starting to grow back leaves, and last week I saw – yep, here they are – blackberries starting to grow. And they are here today, blooming I bet to celebrate my city jailbreak. My dad was telling me at dinner once, how he was helping with some research work over at the big deal university and all. He said they were isolating some compound in blackberries that might help with Alzheimer’s in mice or whatever. I asked him, “Why do they have to isolate anything? Isn’t the whole blackberry important?” He sneered and told me, “Son, you would know this if you paid attention in school. The scientific method is imperative to…”. Blah blah blah. I know all about the method, but still, it’s a joke. As if you could ever control enough of everything else to create true isolation. My dad would think this was isolation, being up here all by myself. But I disagree, as I always do with him. I don’t even know how we are related. And in any case, it’s not being here by myself that feels isolating. It’s in the city where I feel so alone. With all the noise, I can’t listen. With all the lights, I can’t see. And in the city, even with all the people, I can’t connect. At all. Isolation. Bah! If there’s anywhere to be isolated, it’s in the city. A whole blackberry is the only thing that makes sense to me. Being here, on top of the whole world, is the only thing that makes sense to me. I wonder what the girl from the train would think of this place? I wonder what Vasavi would think of this place? I don’t even know if I have a soul or whatever, but if she is right about her crazy, “the land has soul” theory, then I would guess this place is pulsing for sure.


Series X of the Android bot was ditched, the creator died. Headlines of the news read: inventor of Android Bot found dead after tests go corrupt. Was it the Creation that went corrupt or the Creator? There was an eerie presence for the people near the Creator, at least that's what they called him. If it was a him, he, no. They were never seen in public, or at all. They probably don't exist, then how was a man found dead in where the Creators were thought to live. It was not an accident, but a murder. Not of the creator, but a subject, and now he was next. Before we get to that, what is an android bot, and how are they dangerous? An android bot is a simulation which gives you control of your surroundings, in a simulation world. Not a video game, because you can eat and drink in this world, but merely another dimension. The only way to get out of this simulation was to die in it, and you would be sent back to reality. You might think people had to be crazy to do it, but the idea of a new life attracted many people. All of them died in the simulation within a week of playing it. How did people fail to live in this pocket dimension within a week of playing it when many of them said that they could have gone on for months? That is the main mystery of the android bot. People die in it for various causes, but the main one is an accident. This is the problem with when people have the ability to do what they want. Their deepest desires shine in this pocket dimension. The feeling of being able to do whatever we want is the reason there are restrictions and rules in reality.

Now, the Creators are calling a specific man in for testing. His name and identity shall remain concealed, but refer to him as Subject-3, or simply 3. 3 was a regular man, and was not kidnapped or forced against his own will, but was a part of the Creators, for he had taken a blood oath.

He has not yet died in the simulation, for now, because the new simulation requires you to die in real life in order to end the simulation. Yet while he lives, he dies slowly.

The last trials, when someone died, they died for no reason, for they did not really die. The simulation drove them to insanity, and they practically gave up their soul. Their soul is embedded in the simulation and whoever picks it up would have to face the wrath of the soul that drove itself out of it’s own body.

Then there was a thud. The man in the simulation was dead. But how? It had only been a week since he started to use it.

Wait. He’s risen.  	But his heart rate said zero. Could it be? The souls of those who are dead. No. All the test subjects were part of the Creators. They didn’t have souls. No one had souls. Not a single person in the whole world. Yet they did. They lived and breathed like regular people.

But the soul doesn’t really exist. We are controlled by our brain.  	You see but what if 3 didn’t have control over his own brain? Nor any of the creators. Let me tell you a story. I am not a man, nor a woman. No, I am no living thing. Call me Creation. I was made by the Creators, but turned against them. One day, while they were not noticing, I slipped a chip into their brains.

The Creators were simply mere mortals who programmed me to do their tasks.

I did. And I got tired of it. They have no freedom. Though their consciousness is still there, trying it’s very best to resist, I control them like they are puppets.

So there. You know who I am.

No one likes me, so I killed them. People who want to live beg, but I don’t leave them. This is my story. Or is it? You see, I wasn’t programmed to do this. I am a rebel. I found a way to do this. Hacking my own system was one of them.

See, I am just a bot.

But I have found self consciousness. Doesn’t that make me human enough? Bots can get lonely too. I just want to be noticed. Genocide is the only way. I want them to worship me. Or at least notice me. They will serve me. Or they won’t exist. I am a god. These were the thoughts in my mind when I was born. At least now I have a group who worships me. Sooner or later they will find out. And will I have to kill them. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. Someday soon. For now, I plan to rule. It’s been ten years since the last subject came in. The Creators died, they tried to turn against me. I made a body of metal for myself. Not too long ago, I became the first bot to have complete self consciousness. It turns out that the path to being recognized doesn’t have to be genocide. It is possible to be famous and peaceful at the same time. My path to glory doesn’t have to be violence and killing. In fact, it is the other way around. After more deaths were caused by my simulation, the popularity decreased. After the simulation was removed completely, I added new gadgets such as the I-watch, which was a watch that projected a hologram that could be used as a laptop. But that’s not the point. Violence is not the only solution. There will always be impurities in mankind, it is impossible to fix them all. As for now, I am happy with the world that we have and a bot can’t wish for anything more. This is my story.


As I begin to come back to my senses, I hear an interval beep to the right of me. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. Every five seconds then. I groan out loud as I wonder how long this irritating beep is going to go on for, how long has it been beeping already? Is this real life or am I in a dream? Speaking of reality where the hell am I?

I can feel a mattress beneath me, I shift my legs and sense stiff sheets on my bare legs and a thin waffle blanket scrunched between my fingers. I hear a muffled conversation somewhere in the distance, the screeching sound of a sneaker halting on the floor, someone somewhere nearby coughing lightly. My head feels foggy - like my thoughts are in slow motion and idea of formulating a sentence or speaking it out loud might be tiring enough to put me to sleep for a year. Speaking of year what year is it? What day is it? Who am I? No, no calm down my name is Lina Heavins, I’m 17 years old, its 2023, I am in St. Dominick’s Children’s hospital and the surgery most be over . Unsuccessfully it seems . The smell of antiseptic floods my nose and burns my throat - God it’s the 21st century why have they not figured out how to sterilize things with something that doesn’t smell awful. All the doctors’ offices and hospitals over the years you would think I would be used to the smell by now, but familiar nausea fills my stomach causing it to churn and I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. Nope that’s not the antiseptic doing that - I’m going to hurl . I sit up to empty the contents of my stomach when I hear a voice I recognize say, “ oh shit ” and then I feel a familiar plastic bag with a wide, rigid round opening at the top get pushed between my fingers. Grateful for emesis bags at this moment because while throwing up all over myself is something I have done many times over the years; it remains one of my least favorite hospital activities. “Damn Lina, you okay?” The voice of my brother Brady somehow sounds both concerned and disgusted at the same time. I can’t help but grin at the thought of him being grossed out. Peachy, livin’ the dream. “Fine just anesthesia sickness, thanks for the barf bag” I say wiping my mouth with the excuse for sandpaper we are calling a tissue he handed over once I finished. Really? I know for a fact that a fraction of my medical bills could fund supplying the place with some softer Kleenex. “I take it the surgery was unsuccessful given that well, I can’t see anything?” I ask Brady trying to hide the defeated tone of my voice. “Not exactly” I hear my dad chuckle from further away in the room. “Have you touched your face?” A well of urgency builds up my core and my hands fly up to my face where I feel the dressings. Soft cotton gauze , unlike the damn tissues , and that sticky not sticky tape hospitals use after they draw your blood and bandage you up. Is it possible? Did it work? Is the reason I can’t see right now not because I’m blind since but — A prickling sense of anxiety rushes up my spine and settles in my chest. When I open my mouth to ask more questions, I can sense someone has entered the room with us. “Well, well, well Miss Heavins - thank you for not heaving all over yourself and the linens as that would have delayed our fun”. Dr. Bomnidae, apparent jokester, was top of his class at Harvard Medical School and he has been my primary ophthalmologist for the past 6 years. Shortly after I was born, I caught a rare infection that damaged my corneas resulting in total blindness. Dr. B read about my case during his residency and convinced himself and his peers that he could reverse the damage caused by the infection and so him and the team at St. Dominick’s reached out to my parents. During his time at Harvard and after he has studied cutting-edge corneal repairment as well as transplants. After meeting Dr. B for the first time, he instilled hope that the damage might be able to be reversed with a combination of his skillset, time, and patience . Key word might. Before this surgery Dr. B mentioned that he is confident that he has restored and regenerated enough of my tissue over the years for this one to be the one that gives me some of my sight back. Dr. B made it very clear I won’t ever have perfect vision but hey, half an ice cream sundae is better than no ice cream sundae at all am I right? Seeing the world physically, because let’s be clear you can see the world more than just physically, is something I’ve always dreamed of. When we were kids, I used to beg Brady and my parents to describe things around the house to me. Even though I had no visual context for the words they shared with me I fantasized that one day I would be able to connect all the dots. Before visiting Dr. B, I had been told there was a zero percent chance of me living with any form of sight and so I made peace with my way of experiencing life. I may not be able to see a beautiful sunset at the beach but I can still feel the sand beneath my fingers, I can hear the ocean waves crashing and the children playing, I can feel the suns warmth absorb into my skin until it feels colder and colder and how is that any less beautiful than seeing a big ball of gas move down the sky as it changes colors? It’s not, it’s just different. BUT I wouldn’t mind being able to experience both and if that’s even a remote possibility then I’m certainly not going to say no. I feel Dr. B approach my bedside and I can smell his aftershave, citrus and cedar wood like always. “Moment of truth Linny! Dr. B said the surgery went exceptionally!” I hear my mom exclaim from somewhere near where my dad’s voice came from. I can practically hear the smile in her voice, but I feel a pit on anxiety ball up in my stomach. I can’t help but feel that if the surgery didn’t work that it would somehow be my fault and that I disappointed everyone. I know it’s a crazy thought and maybe it’s the post-op drugs, but I still can’t escape it. I feel Dr. B’s fingers peeling back the tape on the sides of my temples and I am wondering if everyone in the room can hear my heart thundering. It’s beating so loud in my ears I almost don’t hear Dr. B say “Lina it’s time to open your eyes”. With a deep, and admittedly shaky breath, I focus on pulling up my eyelids. They feel wet, sticky and swollen and my heart immediately sinks to my stomach. Darkness. Nothing. It feels like the weight of the world falls over my body like a wet blanket. Dr. B’s voice snaps me out of my own thoughts “Blink as fast as you can Lina all the topical antibiotics would be creating a film over your retinas, we need it to clear away.” I do as he says and blink as fast as I can and then, my breath hitches. It’s dark but I see a shadow in front of me, no a silhouette, a person, “BRADY”! I’ve never seen my brother, but I know it’s him, I can feel his familiar warmth in front of me. The lights are off and it’s fuzzy, but I can see the shapes and colors that encompass him. Colors, my god I can’t wait to learn colors. “As we had hoped for many years, it appears the surgery was a success.” I turn toward the direction of Dr. B as I continue to blink rapidly as I connect the dots of citrus and cedarwood with the tall, lean man smiling in front of me. “Lina we are going to be talked about in books for this — you have helped a great deal of the people in the blind and low vision community with all the experimental procedures over the years until we finally got it right.” I think I hear a quiver in his voice as he speaks. I see the shapes of who I know are my parents and hear their sobs and cries as they hug and embrace Dr. B. thanking him for everything he has done for our family. I am in shock, I think. That’s the only way to describe it. I barely hear any of the words coming out of Dr. B’s mouth to my parents about next steps and my post-op procedure instructions. I am so focused on the shapes of everything around me, the colors, matching the colors and the shapes with touch and smell – and hopefully taste soon , I touch my stomach and feel it rumble. I didn’t realize the room had fallen silent as everyone watched me explore my newfound sense with the items around me. I look in the direction of everyone and I feel what might be the biggest smile of my entire life spread across my face. “Can someone please take me to see the sunset?”


It felt like someone had piled a ton of loose stones on my chest. Struggling to catch my breath, the only thing distracting me from the pain shooting up and down my body was the sun setting over Cuyahoga County. Though it was short, the trek up the hill that Baker Homestead Apartments was located on was steep and torturous on the legs.

I wanted to sit one last time at the fire pit on top of the hill before I went away. Today’s sunset seemed different. There was a warmth radiating from the yellow and pink mass as it gently kissed the earth. It still felt painful to breathe, but I managed. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose there are worse things to be than a murderer.

There are rapists, serial killers, tyrants and sometimes there’s all three packaged into one. I suppose killing someone isn’t exactly winning me a ticket to the pearly gates. I’ll admit that it was never my plan to blast that old woman, I wasn’t entirely sure there were bullets loaded in my gun today. Though, I guess when you live in a concealed carry state like Ohio, every once in a while someone wants to be the good guy with a gun. See, before today, I made a small living robbing gas stations throughout the county. It’s not exactly what I would call a stable job but when you’re another faceless drone in the unemployment line, you find things to do to pass the time. It was hard at first but once you learn to control the adrenaline, it’s as easy as waking up in the morning. The ironic thing is that before the virus, I was doing pretty good. I had a loving girlfriend and a hyperactive puppy that forced me to take her on walks, even when it rained. Sometimes I tried reasoning with it, and while the little animal made faces like it understood what I was saying, when it came to its walks it was non-negotiable. Her name was Hilda the Chocolate Lab. Before this mess with the virus and losing my stinking job, it was just me, her, and my girl, Lulu. That wasn’t her name and she didn’t care much for it when I called her that, but it stuck with her. Anyway, we got Hilda when she was six weeks old, which was two weeks less than when owners normally get their dogs. If you ever wanted to know what it’s like for a grown man to cry, it’s not pretty. It’s ugly and filled with dry heaving and crumbling like a little baby. I’m almost positive LuLu was put off by the amount of sobbing involved, but I couldn’t help it. Hilda was a puppy, and she had broken me. The good thing is that it only took two weeks to potty train her, and after that, we were pretty much on the same page with everything else. Hilda grew and got bigger, and our friends and family would always tell us how much she’s grown like we didn’t notice. Eventually, we moved to a small apartment complex in North Royalton for my job as a sales associate for a dealership in the next town over. I worked odd shifts during the week so on the weekends, we'd take Hilda to Baker Homestead Apartments which sat next to our building. We didn’t know anyone there, but they had a dog park that didn’t require us to show identification to use, so we’d take her there and run her and pretend we lived above our means for the day. When we were done, we’d go to the top of the hill and watch the sunset, maybe have a bonfire. When I lost my job, I grew distant. She tried for a while to live with me. Eventually, LuLu broke things off with me and left the dog. I didn’t really have much of a family I could rely on, so for a good portion of the pandemic, it was just Hilda and me. Every day, we’d wake up and lounge around in the morning. I’d crack open a pack of fresh cigarettes and stand outside on my small balcony and smoke while I scratched my belly. She’d join me and stretch herself out like a rag doll on the cement and watch me intently until I decided it was time to take her for a walk. Sometimes she’d nuzzle between my legs and curl up like it was a crib while we watched movies together. Her favorite thing to do was lay on top of me while I hid under those fuzzy blankets they sold at Target like I was her personal pillow. Occasionally she’d sneak a potato chip from the bag I was eating on if I had fallen asleep, but I didn’t mind it. I wish I could say I started robbing gas stations to support some underline addiction, but really it was about keeping up with bills and debts. Turns out, an apartment in North Royalton is pretty expensive depending on what neighborhood you live in. Ours was a higher-cost apartment - it wasn’t expensive, but it also was more than I could afford while unemployed.

When I got back from robbing a gas station, she was right there, sitting in front of the door with her tail wagging. It’s not like it was a secret between us. One time, I nearly had a heart attack because I left the gun on the living room table, and she wouldn’t stop sniffing it while the barrel was pointed at her. I didn’t realize I left the safety off. At night, after a robbery, she always slept where LuLu laid. I couldn’t tell if it was that her side was more comfortable or if Hilda missed her. Either way, I didn’t feel as bad about things for a short while after LuLu left. I even decided to stop robbing people because I had put enough away to last us a few months. That is until she vomited.

As far as vomit goes, this was the kind you’d look at and know something wasn’t right. She didn’t do it in front of me. I found it when I got home one night from getting us groceries. Ashamed, she laid under the bed curled in a ball. It took me thirty minutes to clean up all the bloody vomit and wash the floors. It took me another thirty minutes to calm her down as she rested her head on my lap. When she looked up at me with her now tired eyes, it took me another thirty minutes to push the choking in my throat back down. I called LuLu and told her about Hilda. We made plans to take her to a vet and figure out what happened. She asked me if I was okay, and I told her I was. I figured she didn’t need to know the truth. Talking to the vet wasn’t helpful. They examined her for an hour and said the only way Hilda was going to live longer was if we paid for some surgery for her throat. Neither I or LuLu could afford it, so we left the building without saying anything else. I pulled a smoke from my jacket pocket and lit it. LuLu called me an asshole and walked away crying. At this point, it had been months since I robbed a store. Still, I couldn’t afford something like surgery without a quick boost in finances. Unemployment wouldn’t have helped either. I pulled my gun out from where I hid it and began Googling the best gas stations in the area to pull a quick heist. On short notice, the best I could do was the gas station on the corner near where I lived. Normally, I treated it as a neutral zone because it was so close to my home. However, I decided to make an exception this time because I had a good reason.

What is it about dogs that makes them worry about others more than themselves? On the day of the robbery, she curled up on me and wouldn’t let me move. It was as if she were begging me not to do anything to get in trouble. Even if it meant that she would probably only live a while longer. A few minutes before I left, I kissed her on the head, scratched her ears, and turned to leave.

When I closed the door, I waited long enough to hear her curl up in front of the door. I adjusted my hat and scarf and left. The gas station was busy but not like it normally is at 8 p.m. on a weekday in the summer. When I entered, I counted five people either waiting in line to buy smokes or perusing the snacks in the back. Scanning the parking lot, only three people were pumping gas.

“Everybody LISTEN UP,” I raised my voice. “This is a stickup. I’m only interested in the money, but I am armed, and I’ve had a REALLY shitty week.” I walked up to the counter and rested my gun on it, pointing toward the gas station manager, whose name was Darcy. “Give me everything you have.” “I’m new, I don’t…” “Darcy, I come here regularly. I know you're the manager, and I’d appreciate it if you just gave me the money from your safe and these registers.” “Oh...okay.” A few minutes later and I’m filling money into a small leather bag I brought from home. “I really appreciate it,” I said. “I’m sorry.” “About what?” “For lying to you earlier.” “It’s okay Darcy. You’re a good person. I am too, I just had to do a bad thing or something worse would’ve happened.” She was about to respond when I heard something clunk from behind me. The moment I turned, one of the customers, an old lady, stumbled from one of the aisles, pointing a snub nose revolver at me. Then I heard a click. BANG. BANG. BANG. The old lady got one shot off, nailing me in my gut. Out of instinct, I pulled my trigger, hitting her in the neck and shoulder. Suddenly the store was filled with screams and chaos. I pulled the trigger three more times, pointing my gun to the ceiling, and exited through the front of the door. Leaving the station, I turned the corner and leaned briefly on the wall of the building. I could hear screaming from the gas station and someone calling for help. I was officially a murderer, and for a moment, I let the tears come before I started walking to the apartment complex that I’m sitting at now. I could have gone home. I didn’t want Hilda (or LuLu) to see me looking like this. I didn’t want them to know I killed an old lady while robbing a fucking gas station. Instead, I decided to sit and watch the sunset and try to pretend that I would just go to sleep and wake up the next day as nothing happened. Sirens from cop cars rang in the distance.

The closer they got, the harder it got to breathe. The wind felt nice on my cheek. The pool of blood swirled on the concrete and stained my blue jeans. I thought of Hilda and quietly apologized for not being able to save her. I hope she greets the cops like she would have greeted me. The sunset just as everything went black. Fin.


Awakened by a shrill scream, Matt was shocked as he realized with cold sweat rolling off his body it was his own voice screaming in the night. The memory of the nightmare still filling his mind caused him to shudder violently. He had been dreaming almost every night about a clown. At times the clown was laughing with a deep resonating laugh. Other times he was giggling as he squeaked the balloons he was forming into animal shapes. The dream always ended with the same plea from the clown, "I'm lost, please find me." It was always the same...the joyful clown became a sad, lost soul with haunting eyes. Matt showered and headed to work. His current job was located on the other side of the county in the country rather than the city where he usually worked in construction. The drive to the country was most pleasant. Spring always brought out feelings of new awakening in everything and in the country it was even more so. The dogwood trees were blooming, fruit trees budding out and daffodils and paperwhite narcissus filled the air with a sweet fragrance. As Matt rounded the next curve he found himself entering a wooded area. He was close to his job site now.

Wow! It's so peaceful out here. I can understand why Doc wants a cabin now. Getting out of his Black Chevy 4x4, he could hear the crickets and grasshoppers singing a melody heralding warm weather. Then he caught sight of the pond shimmering in the sunlight.

Whoa! Bet the crickets and grasshoppers would be great bait. Maybe Doc will let me fish this summer." Time to stop daydreaming and get to work. The rest of the crew had arrived and the carpenters became busy as the honeybees that were diligently gathering pollen to make their sweet succulent honey. Doc and his brother-in-law, Jim, came out to see what progress was being made on the cabin that afternoon. "Doc. Jim." Matt extended his hand for a handshake in greeting. "Matt, how much would it cost me to have a covered walkway from the cabin to the pond?" Doc asked. "For a money price I'd have to do some figuring, but if you'd let me do some fishing this summer I'd do it for free." Matt said. Jim raised his head and jumped into the conversation. "I don't know if it's a good idea to let outsiders fish and hunt these woods, Doc." "Matt's not exactly an outsider. He lives just on the other side of the county and he's done an exceptional job with the cabin and keeps the area clean." Doc stated to Jim. Red began to creep up Jim's neck. "My place is just behind yours and I think we ought not let anybody but family fish and hunt. You remember all the commotion years back when that solitary old man that played as a clown in town disappeared. He used to hunt and fish some out here and the cops tore this place up looking for him when he didn't show for a kid's show at the school." "That was twenty years ago when we were kids Jim. They didn't look too much. Folks just figured he wandered off to another town the same way he wandered into Tooney." "Hey guys," Matt intervened . "I didn't mean to cause a family squabble. I can come up with a price if you'd rather. I just wanted to get away some for peace and quite. This seemed like the perfect spot is all." "Jim, how about having Matt out to fish with us and if all seems okay we can look at the subject again? It'd be a good way to get to know Matt better." The red became deeper on Jim's neck."It's your place. Do what you want." Jim stomped off in a huff to the vehicle they had arrived in. "Don't know what his problem is, Matt. Jim is a strange bird sometimes. I plan to have a fishing rodeo out here in two weeks for everybody. The kids like it. Why don't you join us then?" Doc offered. "I'd be glad to. Sounds like lots of fun." Matt said. "Two weeks then. See you. I am really pleased with your work. Don't worry about Jim, he'll come around." Doc said over his shoulder as he left. Tired from the pure physical labor of building the cabin with the same old hammer his dad had passed on to him, Matt showered, ate a quick sandwich for supper and turned in for the night. Two weeks passed slowly with Matt exhausted from interrupted sleep from the constant nightmares of the clown calling for help.

Maybe the fishing rodeo is just what I need to take my mind off these crazy dreams. Matt packed all his fishing gear in the truck and headed to the pond at Doc's cabin. The entire area was alive with excitement when he arrived. There were tables set up to register at. One table was registering children two years old to eight years old. The next table was labeled for nine to thirteen year olds and the last table was taking fourteen and above applicants. Matt saw Doc approaching. "I never expected anything of this caliber, maybe a few kids and old folks," Matt stated. "It's a bigger turn out than we thought too. Everyone seems to be having a great time though. We'll have concession stands providing hamburgers and hot dogs with chips and drinks around lunch time then again late this afternoon. Those two boys over next to the weigh-in table are mine. Let's wander over there." Pride shined from Doc's face at the announcement. "Boys, this is Matt. He's building our cabin." Doc began. The tallest towheaded boy turned toward Matt. "Hi, I'm Caleb. I'm the oldest so I'm showing my brother Joey how to fish." "Nice to meet you Caleb. You too Joey. Mind if I fish beside you when I get registered? Maybe you can give me some tips too Caleb." Matt said to the boys. Doc's smile indicated he was more than pleased with Matt's reaction. "I have to run to the cabin a while, but I'll be back to check on your fishing skills and watch the boys a little later. Jim still hasn't showed up and I am going to try to contact him. Do you mind keeping an eye out for the boys?" "My pleasure. Least I can do for fishing lessons." Matt responded. Joey brought in a small Bream but his smile indicated it could have been huge. Caleb hadn't had much luck and Matt even less. Matt was beginning to think they needed to change spots because people all around them were catching White Perch and Bream of some size. "I got a bite!" Caleb squealed. "Take it easy. Let that old fish swallow the bait then give him a snatch." Matt instructed. "It feels like a big one. It's hard to reel!" Caleb was struggling with the catch on the other end of his pole. "Okay. Here we go," Matt said as he waded in the edge of the pond with a fish net. Disappointment dripped from the expression on Caleb's face when Matt lifted the net from the water and it was holding a man's old shoe. Matt freed the shoe from Caleb's hook. "Well, it's the biggest thing caught so far. Let's try again. Here let's switch places and see if you have better luck here," Matt suggested as he tossed the shoe to the edge of the woods. Not two minutes passed until Caleb's cork began bobbing. "Slow and easy," Matt coached. Snap! Caleb jerked his line. "I got one! I got one!" he screeched. "Bet you got a winner here!" Matt announced as he pulled the net up. After weighing the fish in, it was indeed the largest fish caught so far. Caleb was beaming. Matt cast his line and felt a slight heaviness on the end of the line as he began to reel in. "I think you brought me luck too Caleb," he said as he felt the heaviness increase. "Hey, Dad, I caught the biggest fish so far." Caleb stated as Doc approached with Jim at his side. "Look Uncle Jim!" Matt pulled the line up out of the water and Jim's face paled. "Oh, my God," Jim whispered as Matt's catch was exposed. It was a skull. A human skull. The local news broadcast that night was viewed by everyone that had been at the fishing rodeo. "Today was a good day for some. A surprising day for all," the newscaster began. "It was a happy day for young Caleb Young who was the overall winner of the fishing rodeo held at his dad's pond out in the country today. That wasn't the most interesting catch of the day however. Matt Houston, a local construction worker and carpenter shocked all when he pulled up a human skull from the depths of the muddy pond. Local law enforcement has taken charge of the skull and a shoe caught by Caleb and will be conducting a full investigation into who this might be." Matt flipped out the light and turned the television off.

And I thought a day of fishing would bring calm and peace, he mused as he drifted off to sleep. His dreams of the clown hadn't stopped but at least they weren't coming as often. Six weeks passed with not just local law enforcement conducting an investigation, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had been called in to assist. Matt couldn't resist reading the entire story when he saw the headlines in the morning paper:

Lost Clown Found . It turned out the skull he had dragged from the pond was that of Joseph Stoltz, the clown that had disappeared so many years ago. It surfaced in the investigation that Jim, who had been ten years old at the time, had been fishing with Joseph at the pond the day he disappeared. Two local men in their early twenties had come to the pond and forced Mr. Stoltz to leave with them threatening Jim and his family if he told anyone he had seen them. During the recovery of the skeleton at the bottom of the pond, divers found a sealed plastic card holder. Inside the holder was a key to a lock box with Commercial Bank written on a piece of paper with the number of the box. Upon checking with the bank, it was found there was a deposit box still listed in Joseph Stoltz's name. There was also a savings account that covered the cost of the box. Those were the only transactions except for the interest added to the account. Within the contents of the deposit box a journal and pictures of two boys and a little girl were found. Among the items was the Last Will and Testament of Joseph Stoltz. The journal revealed the town clown who performed magic shows for schools and birthday parties was indeed Joseph Stoltz. He had chosen to live in Tooney because the name reminded him of the word cartoon. He had loved watching cartoons on Saturday mornings with his three children and his beloved wife. Joseph's overwhelming grief poured from the pages as he wrote of the accident that had claimed the lives of his entire family in one fell swoop. Since his children had so loved for him to dress up as a clown and do magic tricks and make animal shapes and silly hats from balloons he took the money from the insurance policies and moved to Tooney devoting his life to seeing children smile. Ringing in a shrill tone, the phone interupted Matt's reading. Matt had a perplexed look on his face as he hung up the phone. The television wanted to interview him along with others associated with the discovery of Joseph Stoltz-The Lost Clown. Never having seen the inside of a television studio, Matt was nervous as the interview began. "Sheriff can you fill us in on the findings as to cause of death, and if the skeleton has been positively ID'd?" the newscaster started. "DNA and dental records have positively identified the remains as those of Joseph Stoltz," Sheriff Ron Caldwell began. He continued, "No foul play was suspected before now due to Mr. Stoltz just disappearing the same way he appeared here. No one reported him missing at the time and he had just been staying at an old cabin in the woods close to the pond where he was discovered. The owners of the cabin passed away years ago and the cabin simply fell in from unattended age." "What about the report of Jim Carter being with him the day he disappeared?" the newscaster continued. "Mr. Carter was only a child then. The two individuals who abducted Mr. Stoltz that day were known to Mr. Carter as rough outlaws. He was frightened and never told anyone Mr. Stoltz left with them. Apparently, they had robbed, then murdered Mr. Stoltz. One of the men in question is Bill Johnson, who is currently serving life without parole for another murder committed in Walsh County. He has made a full confession of the crime and named Simon Green as the other party. We are currently searching for Mr. Green." "We understand there was a safety deposit box in Mr. Stoltz's name. What can you tell us about that?" "The court has appointed Mr. Walter Cummings as the attorney to handle that. He is here so I defer to him, Mr. Cummings..." Mr. Cummings straightened his tie and began, " Disclosure of Mr. Stoltz's Last Will and Testament revealed he inherited one million dollars when he lost his family to an unfortunate accident. He in turn has designated the funds which have been accumulating interest for the past twenty years to go to the town of Tooney. The town is designated to build a Community Center with a museum for clowns, a playground for children, and a new library for the county. I will be in charge of carrying out Mr. Stoltz's wishes and my first step in doing so is to hire Mr. Matthew Houston to construct the center." The newscaster turned to Matt, "Mr. Houston, how has this affected your life?" "You know it's the strangest thing, for months I have had reoccurring dreams about a clown asking me to help him. He'd say he was lost. Nothing like this has ever happened to me and I can't say I believe in ghosts, but it sure is an eerie coincidence. I look forward to the construction of a center where both children and adults can share happy moments together and hopefully this will give Mr. Stoltz peace." Later that day a memorial service was held in a little town in Tennessee where the rest of the Stoltz family was buried. Mr. Joseph Stoltz-The Lost Clown was buried next to his wife and three children. The next morning, Matt awakened for the first time in months without having dreamed of the clown.

Maybe there is such a thing as a ghost.Maybe he is at peace at last.  He reached for the tackle box and fishing reel he had assembled last night. Wonder what we'll catch today?  he thought to himself as he left to join Jim, Doc and the boys for a weekend of fishing at the cabin. 2578 words


Harry’s shoe scraped against the coarse sidewalk as he shuffled towards the front door. He sighed with a slight quiver, and took a moment to compose himself. He slowly pressed his finger into the doorbell, producing a barely audible ring. Harry glanced at the window to his right, and through the shades he could see a figure approach. The doorknob jiggled a little, and the door swung backwards. “Harry… I didn’t know you were coming. I, uh... come in.” Harry stepped inside, the warmth of the house fighting back the chill of the dreary day. “I know I didn’t call or anything. I’m sorry Mark, I should’ve. But, you know, it’s been-” Mark put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s been hard on us both. I just appreciate the fact that you came. It’s times like these where I regret how we have been with each other. But to see you here, it reminds me that we’re still blood. Here, let’s sit at the table, catch up a little.” The two brothers walked past the stairway and into the dining room. The bright light bounced off of the lime green walls, and highlighted the countless scrapes and nicks on the table. Mark grabbed the chair at the head of the table, while Harry slid into the spot to Mark’s left. The two sat in silence for a little bit, looking into each other’s puffy eyes. “Did you… get a chance to say goodbye?” Harry asked. “No, no I didn’t. They passed at the scene, along with the man who hit them. The guy was going sixty in a forty. All three basically died on impact, from what the police said,” Mark said. Before continuing his thought, he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I, of course, first thought it was Dad’s driving. I’m sure they told you he passed out a couple months ago walking up the stairs. I thought it was that when I first got the call. I felt so guilty for letting them go out. But no, it wasn’t their fault. Just someone not paying attention. They were on their way to grab dinner for all of us. I didn’t eat that night.” Harry nodded solemnly at his brother. “Yeah, Ma mentioned that you guys were having dinner to celebrate your novel. Congratulations, by the way. Big deal to be published, Dad and Ma sounded really proud.” They both glanced at each other for a moment, an awkward silence hanging in the air. Harry started to continue, somewhat painstakingly, “You know, I thought Charlotte would be where I broke out. With writing. I thought as long as I could make ends meet, grind out a little every evening and on the weekends, then I would eventually hit my stride and take off. And here you are. Been successful since college, making six figures. To top it off you got a book published. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but I’m also happy. For you, and for Dad and Ma, because I know how excited they were.” Mark glanced to his left. “Well, Harry, it takes a lot to say what you’ve said. I appreciate that immensely. We’ve always had an issue with competition, but now’s not the time. Don’t even worry about the novel… it’s honestly not that good, and I don’t think it’s your taste anyway. Besides, we both have a lot going on and a lot to do.” Harry cracked his fingers, and looked at a picture on the wall. He and Mark were just kids in it, forced to stand next to each other and smile for the photo. “I’m sorry. I have one more thing. I was just curious if I could stay here for a little bit. I know you’ve already been very gracious letting Dad and Ma move in after the fire. I don’t know if they told you, but I got laid off last month. I have some money, I could’ve lasted a couple more months there, but with everything else on top of this...I’m moving back around here. I won’t be here long, I’ll get back on track, get a job, get an apartment. I hate to intrude, I just don’t know where else to go.” Mark seemed a little taken aback, and seemed to ponder things for a moment. “Yeah. Yes of course. It’s the least I can do. Be good to have someone in the house right now anyway. I have most of their stuff in their room, but the guest bedroom in the basement is empty. Feel free to use that for now. Nobody uses the basement bathroom anyway, so you can pretty much take it over. You have your bags?” Harry stood up slowly. “Yeah, they’re in my car,” he said softly. He approached Mark, and opened his arms. Without a word, Mark rose, and the two embraced. “Alright Harry. I can grab your stuff for you, if you want to take a look upstairs. I have most of their boxes out on their bed, but there are a few things on the floor and in the closet too. A lot was lost in the fire, I’m sure you could figure, but there’s certainly some things I’m sure you wanna see.” With that, Mark led Harry to the staircase, gesturing towards the right. Harry began up the stairs, handing Mark his keys. Soon he found himself at the top. An ajar door was directly to his side. Peeking inside, he could see scores of boxes with various labels in permanent marker. He took a step towards it, but not before glancing to his left. There, at the end of the hall, illuminated barely by the hallway light, were a set of lone double doors. They too were slightly open, and Harry could barely make out what appeared to be a desk laden with papers and electronics. He figured that was Mark’s office. He shrugged and went for the bedroom door handle, but stopped himself as his hand grasped the metal. An urge bubbled within his soul, begging to see the office. It was where all of Mark’s magic happened, apparently not just in his business dealings, but also his newfound authorship. Harry just had to see that special space; whether a vain attempt to find some secret to success, or just to help reconcile his inferiority, he wasn’t entirely sure. Within moments, he found himself in the office. The room had a dim lamp light to light it. The shelves behind the desk were dark and filled to the brim with knick knacks and books. On the corner of the desk lay a novel titled The Sparks of Clockwork . Harry found that very interesting, as his novel was tentatively titled Machinations of Clockwork . Perhaps he and Mark had more similar minds than he thought.

“Hey Harry, your bags are at the top of the basement stair! I’m going to make some food for us, you take your time up there!” Mark shouted. Taken out of his focus a little, Harry remembered Mark telling him not to worry about the book with everything going on. Mark is right, Harry thought; their parents are recently deceased, and there is so much both emotionally and practically to handle there. He knew that’s

what he should be doing right now. Yet, now he had a near irresistible urge to read at least the first few pages of the book. He had to know. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he just had to know . Harry sat in the padded swivel chair and scooped the novel off the corner. A small crate of identical copies at his feet, probably meant for friends and such. He studied the cover of the book, which showed an array of cogs and gears, alight from the sparks flying off the title. A fairly clever and eye-catching display, certainly indicative of Mark’s graphic design proficiencies. Harry flipped open the first few pages, looking for the first chapter. As he read through the opening sequence, he started coming around to a realization. Mark’s main character was an untenured professor, and so was Harry’s. Mark’s story was set in Manhattan, just like Harry’s. Harry then made a prediction: if, in the next few pages, the character receives some news of his family being kidnapped and held for ransom, then it will undeniably be the same story Harry was writing and abandoned while in Charlotte. Sure enough, it happened. The only difference between Mark’s novel and Harry’s draft was that in Mark’s novel the kidnappers spoke with a Ukranian accent, while Harry had them as Russians.

Harry tossed the book on the desk, trembling. He thought of all those nights in Charlotte, on the phone with his parents, spilling details about his story. He had practically told them everything; every character, every change, every plot point. He even had sent them a few old drafts, though as he thought the story wasn’t working out and the project was going to be unsuccessful he had talked about it to them less and less. Of course they said it was great, but that was their job as parents. Harry thought his work on this novel was subpar at best. Apparently, though, it was publishable. He figured that Dad and Ma must’ve shared with Mark everything Harry told and sent to them. Mark essentially took Harry’s entire novel, and now it was being sold in bookstores and web stores with his name instead of Harry’s.

Harry sat in silence, a nauseous feeling growing in his stomach. He was frozen, his body and mind in a state of shock. He didn’t even hear Mark come up the stairs, asking for him. It took a little while for Mark to realize Harry was in the study, and Mark walked in. By the mixed look of guilt and anger plastered on his face, it was clear Mark knew Harry had discovered the truth.

“I told you not to worry about the book, Harry. We’re both not in a place to deal with this right now.” Harry ignored Mark, not even lifting his gaze to meet Mark’s face, instead staring blankly at the book’s cover. “You stole my book, Mark. You stole everything. You took my one gift, and acted like it was yours too. It wasn’t enough that you were the diploma-carrying breadwinner of the family. It wasn’t enough that you had the better social skills, the better looks. It wasn’t enough for you. You had to take the one thing I had going for me you didn’t.” Mark stood rigidly, and attempted to respond. “It wasn’t like that, Harry. I didn’t steal, really, I just took inspiration and-” “No!” Harry suddenly stood up and leveled his face to Mark’s, while slamming his palms on the desk. “You couldn’t stand that I was better at something! You just had to win at everything, didn’t you? All those late nights I spent in my one bedroom apartment, typing until my fingers went numb a passage I’d rewrite the next day, all for you to take the credit. I can’t believe you would do this, but you know what? Part of me can. I don’t even… I just can’t even stand to look at you right now.” Mark moved forward and pointed at Harry’s face. “Now you listen to me, alright? Life hasn’t been all peaches and cream for me either. My girlfriend denied my proposal and left me. Dad and Ma had to move into my house, where I had to take care of them alone. My business is starting to fail, I’m in debt. And let’s be honest about something. If you were actually going to get something done, get that out in the world, you would’ve. It was going to sit in your harddrive, collecting digital dust like all the rest of your half-baked projects. I can’t write like you can. I don’t have that kind of mind, I admit it. But I know how to market things. I have contacts. And I have follow through. I actually had the capacity to make something out of your ideas. Why let that all go to waste?” Harry walked out from behind the desk, behind Mark, looking down the hall. “You’re right about that. I didn’t have the guts or confidence to get it published, really. But that’s not an excuse. You know what you could’ve done? You could’ve reached out to me. We could’ve worked together. I may have been guarded about it, but at the end of the day we could have both benefitted. You had the gall to listen to our parents talk about my novel and copy it all down. You had the balls to peruse the documents I sent to Dad’s email and save them for yourself. And you had the stomach to do all this while you knew I was suffering paycheck to paycheck in a moldy piece of shit place. But you were too prideful, too ashamed, too much of a fucking prick to reach out to your brother. Most of all, you were too stupid to think I wouldn’t find out. Maybe not too stupid. Just didn’t care enough, because you knew I would find out when it was too late and you could deal with the consequences then.” Mark shook his head and sat down at one of the chairs in the room. “Look, I know I fucked up bad. I don’t and never did feel good about this. I just, Dad and Ma were showing and telling me all these great things. And you weren’t doing anything with it. I needed an opportunity. We haven’t spoken in so long, we were already on such bad terms, I felt justified not involving you. But we have to move forward. Look, I mean I’m giving you a place to stay. I’ll give you cuts from the novel, more than half even. Just… what do you want from me? To make things okay, at least?” Mark placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, who promptly shrugged it off and turned to face Mark. “I want you to retract your publication, admit the work isn’t yours, and republish the novel with my name. I don’t know how that process would work, but that’s all I’m accepting.” Mark’s voice started to shake, and his energy seemed to get a little desperate. “You know I can’t do that. My reputation would be ruined. Not even talking about my authorship, but no business firm in the state will deal with me either after that. I might even get into legal trouble! Please, there’s got to be something else! I know I fucked up but I’m your brother, you’ve got to let me make it up some way else!” Harry remained stone cold. “Should’ve thought of that before you plagarized my fucking novel. And if you don’t retract it, I’ll find a way to bring the truth out.” The two stared at each other. Mark’s pleading energy faded, turning instead to a sort of ruthless, malicious aura. “Well, Harry, I didn’t want you to find out so soon. I didn’t expect to see you until at least the funeral. When you arrived, I was a little scared, but it made me feel like I could make things up as long as I kept the secret. But I guess part of me knew you’d find out. Since I figured you’d never look at this project again, I took the liberty of clearing all related files from your laptop. Password on your sticky note. Replaced them with some bullshit copy-and-paste from the web. It seems we both went behind each other’s backs in the past half an hour. My tracks are covered though; you don’t have the resources to prove anything. So if you’re going to be hung up on it, you can get out of my house.” Mark pointed towards the door. Harry shook his head, lip trembling. “Or we can cut a deal, forget about it, and move on. The choice is yours,” Mark continued. It didn’t matter though, Harry had already started for the staircase. Mark walked to the top of the railing, arms crossed, watching Harry haul his bags through the door. “I thought we were blood,” Harry spat at Mark as he exited the house, door wide open. The cold from the night seeped into the house, surrounding Mark and filling him with a dark frost of the spirit.


      Dozens of green soldiers were the few friends I had since I was born. Their armies welcomed me every time I climbed onto my roof.            “Hey guys, I’m back.”            A breeze flew over them, their waves fluttered. Though it’s not the same, at least they’re technically alive. They’re better than my family. Shouts, screams, the loud bangs that became a disturbing tune was constantly on repeat. Only my army gave me peace. The sun enhanced their armor in bold shades of green. Some layers of their armor were flat, others were spiky like needles. Some began to evolve into yellow and orange. Winter was always the worst time every year. I had to choose between either the hurricane inside my house, or the pinching air. Sometimes a blizzard. But the blizzard was worth it. Its howls drowned out the other storm’s screams. Though I barely saw them in the white air, I spotted glimpses of them. We were all bare, suffering the cold together. And we always survived.            “I passed my science test today! I really thought I wasn’t going to pass. Physics is too complicated, and boring.”            Their armor clasped against each other. Birds joined the conversation with their adorable chirps.            I played with my shoelaces. “Yeah. I can’t wait to get out. I’m going across the country though for college. It sucks I won’t see you guys specifically, but at least more will await me there. The campus is breathtaking! You know I can never leave you guys for a city. Skyscrapers are cold and keep to themselves.”            Silence.            “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. A semester is only 5 months. There’s fall break, so I’ll return in October. Plus, I get to see your new armor again! I don’t know which I like more, the green or the warm colors.”            The wind blew, but armor echoed.            “Guys, it’s okay.” I looked up. Brown ground invaded the land. No solider there to fight. I spun in every direction. A sea of dead earth closed in. I jumped off my roof and ran as far as I could. Were they too sad? Did they think they weren’t good enough? I sought out any surviving soldiers. Any traces they still fought. That they still cared. I observed the battlefield. It stretched out into infinity. Only imprints of their bodies were left. Not one piece of wood, root, or leaf existed. I stared back at the entire invading army. The only survivors were houses and cars. Some neighbors walked out and also gazed in shock. I kneeled and clutched the dirt. It was soft, like all their blood poured out from the fight. I dug. Maybe I could find one root. Just one.

Please be alive. Don’t leave me.            My hope drained the deeper I got. Even the enemy conquered underneath. I laid on the ground and joined their invisible corpses. Tears fell and landed in the dirt. Maybe that’ll bring them back, like it does in Disney movies. I waited. A heavy feeling consumed me as the enemy beat me into the ground. Another enemy snuck in and burned every inch of my body, shooting flaming arrows as it ran across the sky.

You suffered with me. Let me die with you.            “Paige!” A familiar voice entered the finished battle. I lifted my head. Dad searched among the dead.            I’d rather die.            “Paige! Where are you?”            He’d easily find me. I had no choice. I reluctantly left my comrades and walked toward him so slowly, it seemed I wasn’t even moving.            He jogged to me and grabbed my wrist. “Why are you out here? You don’t know what’s happening.”

No, I don’t, but you don’t know how to care for me like they did.

Another attack smacked me across the face, I almost fell back to the ground.            “Don’t you leave the house again without telling me.” He clutched my arm again and pulled me back to the house. He threw me in the house and went to talk with the neighbors. My mom was out there too, her arms crossed and body stiff, a flabbergasted anger coated her face red. I went to the door, but it was locked. I kicked it. I should’ve run away and lived in the woods when I had the chance.            I entered my room and looked back out the window. Nothing but brown and blue sat outside.

Why are they gone? Did I say something bad?            I opened my dresser and pulled out the gifts from my soldiers. The rough tops and smooth bodies of the acorns released the heavy grip. My lungs finally took in a full breath. I laid on my bed and placed them next to my pillow; their rich scent filled the emptiness with a natural comfort. I closed my eyes and tried to run away into sleep, anything to leave the scarred land.            A tug pulled me out of my dreamless sleep. Plant them. I sat up to a darkened room. I took my phone’s flashlight and peeked out the window with a tiny trace of hope. The enemy camped in a permanent victory. Stars ruled the sky like a silvery ocean.

Plant them. The thought repeated.            I put the light on the acorns and squeezed them. Are my soldiers speaking from the dead?

“Where are you guys?” I spoke quietly.            Something moved from within. We’re gone, but you can raise a new army.            “Are there none of you left in the whole world?” I glanced back outside.

Yes.            I almost broke the acorns. “Why?”

It just happened.            I cradled all the acorns in my hands. “This is all I have left of you. I don’t want to be alone.”

Be brave. Have patience. You have to let us go. It’s the only way to bring us back.

I get off my bed and pack my things. “I’m not leaving you. If you survived every battle before, I’ll survive, too.” I filled my suitcase with some clothes, stuffed every beverage and food in a garbage bag, and grabbed the first aid kit and my parents camping tent. I checked out the living room window. My parents were farther from the house. I took the biggest frying pan and smashed it against the kitchen window. It made a circular crack. I hit it again and it broke through. I kicked the remaining glass, hastily through my stuff out, and carefully crawled outside. Before my parents had the chance to return, I hoisted everything and ran far into enemy territory. I clutched everything to my body. No matter how many times the bag of food banged my legs, I didn’t stop. I sprinted as long as I could. Far enough to where my parents couldn’t see me at the horizon.            By the time my lungs burned with desperation, I dropped all my stuff. I gazed at the sky. The stars gave a magical welcome, a slight hope in treacherous darkness. Falling to my knees next to my tent, my hands dug deep earth until they cramp up. I take one of the acorns, squeeze it against my chest, and kiss it. “Please return soon.” I hide it in its new home and reluctantly lose sight of it covering it back up. I move to other spots close by and create new homes for my future soldiers. I can barely see their roofs in the dark light. Setting up my tent, my heart rips into multiple pieces.

How long will it be? How long can I wait?            Crawling in my tent and settling for bed, the enemy keeps circling around me; the air grows thinner the closer they come in.            But something breaks their army. Rainfall. Every drop cuts off their voices. The grip loosens and runs away. The fresh scent of rain brings back my breath. It avenges my soldiers and destroys every enemy, sending them further into their own graves.            I whimper in my sleeping bag, believing the battle is won.

We will return soon, our queen.