Golden Springs, another backwood village that doesn’t make the requirements to be worth a spot on a map, Vania thought as her blue Citroen reached the first sign of civilisation, saying ‘Welcome to Golden Springs’. The GPS had left her in the middle of nowhere about twenty minutes ago, unable to find a signal. The moment Chief Richards stood in front of her desk and announced the news of her temporary assignment to the police force, Vania thought that it was probably one of his usual pranks. Driving blind, Vania was almost certain she got lost in the vast green of the suburbs. All she could see since she made that left turn on the split was a line of tar road slowly fading to a raw, bumpy brown. A huge veil of trees so high, that they could easily reach the clouds, the scenery was outstandingly intimidating. This cocoon of green was welcoming and threatening at the same time. Not quite persuaded that she was going in the right direction, Vania kept going straight. The route seemed endless. A time loop where she passed from the same spot again and again. The icon at the top left corner of the dashboard screen was showing a line crossing out the signal bars of her phone. Perfect. Something appears between the dense plantation. Vania thought she saw something red. As the road was turning to a sharp left, Vania sighed in relief. A red pickup truck was parked further down on the side. A man, wearing a dark pair of trousers and a light blue shirt was standing outside the vehicle. The moment he saw her car he raised his left arm, signaling her. Stopping before the red pickup truck, Vania turns off the engine and discreetly retrieves her gun, putting it behind her waistband before she opens the car’s door and steps outside. Meeting a total stranger in the middle of nowhere was always creeping her out. “Good morning” the man through her a bright welcoming smile, taking a few steps towards her. Vania responded to the greeting with a nod and a reserved smile. “You must be Vania. I’m Rob Carson, chief of Golden Springs police station” the man adds extending his hand to her. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Vania grabs his hand in a firm handshake. Something in the man’s face was saying that he was expecting her to say something more but Vania was not a very talkative person. “Under normal circumstances, we should prepare a proper welcome but I’m afraid time is a luxury we don’t have at the moment.” Chief Carson’s face lost some of its former brightness. The chief turns his right wrist, looking at his watch. “We should head to the station. The rest I’ll tell you once we’re there.” Vania returns to her car and turns on the engine, following the red truck to the police station. Passing the natural wall of high trees, Vania nearly gasped upon the view that lay behind them. The place looked like a small paradise. Picturesque houses were spread on both sides of the main road, with a sea of flowers in all colours and shapes spread, resting in pots hanging from the terraces’ ceilings. Little shops, lodged between the houses, with colourful signs and eye-catching fronts.

Blocks of green grass were scattered in various spots - hosting swings and seesaws or little slides - as the car went straight ahead. Vania looked in question when she saw the red truck's brake lights on. But how could she have missed that? A massive fountain structure was thrown right in the middle of the road, forming a large roundabout. The water sound was loud enough not to pay attention to, but just enough to add a calming tone to the whole atmosphere. Chief Carson’s red truck preceded, taking the second exit that came to a dead end outside a small sand-coloured brick building. Vania stopped next to Chief Carson, following him in tow as he entered the building. Inside, the building was as plain as the exterior. A large open space welcomed Vania the moment she stepped into the police station. Four cubicle desks were spread in each corner. By the level of dust the two of them were having, Vania assumed that they’d never been used. Two blurred glass walls formed a smaller room in the open space, where the Chief’s desk must be.

The seemingly empty building was filled with light chatting, echoing on the sand brick walls. Vania could see the face of a woman but the other two tall figures were standing with their backs to Vania. “No more bets, please! Your new colleague has arrived!” Chief Carson shouts clapping his hands one time and all whispers cease at once. The three figures stand straight as spears, turning to face their boss. “Everyone, this is Vania Conti. She’ll be with us for a while.” Vania stared as the three of them turned. The two towering men were almost blocking the petite woman from view. She has a bright smile on her face, but something about it tells Vania it must be pretending. Her chin was way too clenched to be genuinely happy. The men, however, don’t care so much to pretend. Taking a better look at the two of them Vania found a clear connection between them. They must be siblings. The one standing on the right had auburn hair lightly tanned skin and emerald green eyes. A warm smile was resting on his full lips. The uniform seemed to have a tough time under all this bulgy muscle. “I’m Eithan Woods” he nods. “Welcome to our team.” The woman next to him had vibrant red hair, fair skin and amber eyes full of suspicion. Her sight followed Vania all the time, smiling whenever they crossed looks. “Natalie, nice to meet you.” she chimed joyfully, waving her hand. Leaving Natalie, Vania’s eyes landed on the tall and lean physique of the man standing on the other side of her. Dark brown eyes, pale skin and a cloudy sky for eyes. The man looked distanced from the other two. A permanent frown on his brows made him look always angry. “Stephen” he nods. “Well,” Chief Carson begins, “as Richards already told you, we need your aid with the recent missing persons’ reports. The frequency of these disappearances has increased exponentially. If this continues, the situation will be out of control sooner than we can handle it.” The group fell silent. An invisible shadow cast above them, losing the joyful aura of some. Nataly’s smile drew back to a thin line. Eithan’s shoulders fell in disappointment. Stephen remained rigid. Vania immediately felt the weight of this assignment crushing her shoulders. That case was terrorising them for more time than they wanted to admit. “All I can say is that I’ll do my best and I hope my contribution is enough to assist you.” Chief Carson turns to Vania and the group, a soft smile on his face. “We all count on that. Richards told me you have the highest rate of solved cases in the records of the force. If there’s anyone who can help Stephen with this, it’s you.” Vania blushed at the chief’s words. She knew her results, but having someone praising her was always something she wasn’t very comfortable with. “Well, let’s get to work then.” Carson addresses the group before he turns and vanishes behind the blurred glass walls. Nataly turns to Eithan. Folding her arm around his thick bicep, she dragged him behind one of the desks. Stephen moved closer to Vania. “Please follow me.” With a stern nod, Vania follows Stephen as he makes his way past the open area, heading to a door that didn’t notice was there before. Bright white lights blinded her as she stepped in. Vania blinked a few times, before she found herself in a room with a large round table in the middle, three chairs and giant floor-to-ceiling boards on each wall with various diagrams, tables and X marks on a map of Golden Springs. Vania looked around nodding in agreement. She had to give it to him, the guy knew his job. A plethora of different photographs of various people was scattered on the walls. “Oh god,” Vania breathed out. Stephen briefly paused upon her comment. “These are the disappearances of the last two weeks.” he points to the wall behind him. At least a dozen people. The night seemed endless. Vania pushed her chair back as far as her arms could stretch. Her temples were banging to a constant beat. The missing persons’ list was far bigger than Chief Carson had initially informed her superior.

Stephen was scrutinising her. Every time Vania lifted her head from the piles of files, she was meeting his examining look. “Ok, now that I have a clearer image of the case, what are your thoughts on this?” Vania leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Stephen took a moment longer to respond. “At first I thought that the culprit was one, but this seems not to be the case. Twelve disappearances in two weeks are in no way a one-man show.” Vania shook her head slightly, giving him a motion to continue. “It may sound weird, but maybe it’s a family thing?” Stephen’s brows shot up in confusion. “I noticed that the mass disappearances happen every twelve years.” “True” Stephen agreed. “There’s more though.” Reaching forward, he retrieved a green folder from one of the piles of files on the table. “At first, I was watching no resemblance between them all. Then I did some digging. Even though they all have different surnames, changed through court orders. Tracing back to their true ones, they all relate to twelve families, that were particularly prominent in medieval times and all were native-born of Golden Springs. “So, we are talking about a vendetta that goes back to medieval times?” Vania dared to ask, although this idea seemed quite absurd. Stephen remained silent. Looking around, he seemed to be searching for the right words. “I was wondering… what if we have to deal with the supernatural?” “Supernatural?” she laughed. “Do you think that an evil spirit or an immortal creature kidnapped all those people? What I see here so far is a serial killer family that has a huge grudge for those families.” “But they all disappeared in the Willow Forest at the north outskirts. And the reports don’t refer to two sets of footprints.” Although Vania thought she hit a nerve when she mocked his assumptions, Stephen retained his former expression. ** One week already in Golden Springs and Vania was feeling more tired than her routine in the city. She was leaving the small apartment above the bookshop - owned by Carla, the chief’s wife - at dawn and was not going back until past midnight. In the police station, things were pretty stable. She had spent a lot of time to be up to date with the case. Apart from that, the progress was little to none. Stephen had agreed to leave aside his assumptions that the solution to those disappearances was far beyond the sphere of reason but Vania could see that he was burning inside him for this to be true. Vania on the other hand, could not believe for a moment those allegations. Being a fond supporter of logic, there was no way to believe Stephen's nonsense. As for the latter, he was on edge as the days were passing. According to his information, there was one more person to be reported missing. He had informed Eithan and Natalie to keep their eyes and ears open in case something occurred but nothing was happening. Like hunting in a barren field. Until a call, sets everything in motion. Eithan run into the back room, stating that a person is missing. Stephen jolted up from his seat, grabbing his coat. “Let’s go.” he turns to Vania. Natalie was already in contact with the registry, only to validate a few moments later that the person missing had connections with one of the twelve families Stephen had located.

Stephen and Vania first went to the person who reported the disappearance, Gina Green, the school teacher. Poor her, she started crying the moment she saw the duet standing by her door. From what Vania deciphered between the sobs, Gina had a day and a half to speak with her mother, which was something impossible for a person who was calling her three times a day. Getting back to the police station, Vania had enough of Stephen’s supernatural assertions. “You need proof? I’m going to the Willow Forest and get them for you.” Stephen spitted before banging the door behind him. The night came and still no sign of Stephen. Vania paced back and forth in the room, looking at the charts, tables and maps. All the trails were leading to the Willow Forest. But that couldn’t mean that the place is the centre of supernatural powers. It could be the killer’s location. Getting into her car, she decided to follow her stubborn colleague’s words and headed to the Willow Forest. A sudden chill brushed through the leaves as the car reached the end of the road leading there. Getting out, Vania retrieved a flashlight she grabbed at the station. Carefully, she let the ray of light scan the entry of the forest. Her hand moved left and right until the sign of a footprint came into view. Getting a closer look, the prints were matching Stephen’s boots. She kept walking deeper into the forest. The willow trees surrounding her were making her skin crawl. Never before she had seen so many willow trees assembled. Everything was very silent. Nothing except her footsteps on the crisp grass were breaking it. “Stephen, I’m warning you. If this is a prank I’m going to kick your ass!” Vania shouted but received nothing in reply.

The footprints led her to a giant Willow tree. Vania went around the massive trunk, searching for the direction the prints took, but to no avail. The footprints stopped right there. No sign of another set of footprints.

Stephen stopped right there. An unprecedented urge flew into her system. The more she looked at the tree, the more she wanted to go near and touch it. As Vania’s hand touches the tree’s surface, everything vanishes from view, leaving her in the middle of a dark void. Whispers surround her. Voices that speak a language she cannot understand. Until the eerie voice of a woman silences all. “Do you want to save them? After everything they’ve done to us? You have the blood of druids. How can you care for paladins?” “Who are you?” Vania shouts. “What do you want?” “I’m the one who saw the world crushing upon our heads. I’m the last who followed our people to the spirit realm. I’m the one who swore justice. The debt is paid. Let them go.” Vania opened her mouth to protest but a loud vibration threw her off her feet. The darkness started to take form, revealing a different place. The air smells of blood. The sky has turned red, mirroring the monstrosity spread on the barren lands. Once a piece of paradise on Earth, with an admirable variety of flora and fauna. Now the land is sick of drinking the blood of innocent people losing their lives in this massacre. The Druids, caretakers of the Golden Spring of Zetar and gatekeepers of the spirit portal were facing the verge of extinction. Silence floats over the village. Those who managed to escape the first attack, seek refuge in the Forest of the Sacred Willows. The paladins of Vodaan would not be stupid to bring a curse above their heads. Korakia, the great priestess of Zetar was under the giant Willow - at the centre, with a circle of druids around her - chanting protection prayers, calling the gods and deities of nature, sky and earth to protect those who survive and perish the intruders. A flock of crows launches up to the sky. Shortly after, the rhythmic stomp of the paladins resonates in the distance. They cannot hurt them while they’re in the holy forest. Or so they thought.

Screams tear up the skies. Metal pierces the flesh. People are crying for help. But those near them have only one goal. To kill. Soon they reach the giant Willow. From the shadows of the trees, the paladins emerge. The moonlight casts demonic shadows on their faces. They no longer plead to the old faith. Korakia fell on her knees before the paladin that stepped into the circle. She placed one hand on the moist soil beneath her and the other on the paladin’s right knee. She begged to spare them when she saw the sanctity of this place violated. “By the order of the King, the druids are accused of blasphemy by using blood magic against the King and the throne. Therefore, you shall immediately be executed.” Eleven paladins step into the moonlight, catching and forcing each druid around Korakia to fall on their knees. The moonlight reflects on the paladins’ blades, set before the druids’ throats.

Korakia looks around. There are no more screams in the distance. The rest of the druids sit still. Some have already closed their eyes, accepting the inevitable. The sky, sea and earth, all have abandoned them. The paladin standing before her slaps Korakia hard, making her fall to the cold soil. Before she can move, the paladin falls above her, placing her hands behind her back and immobilising them with his knee, while he retrieves his blade, setting it right above her neck. Korakia screams. “I will take revenge for everyone. A thousand and thirty souls. My soul, my energy, my core. I give everything to destroy you! The blood of those killed will fall upon you and your children! Cursed be all!”


1117 words Rated PG; violence, blood, unsettling imagery Prompt: Write a cautionary fable about someone who always lies. Gather ‘round, those old and young. Come closer, and ye will be met with worlds of mystery. Sit at the stream, drink the sweet nectar within, and be reborn as is the phoenix from the ashes of the fire of the night. Stay at my shoes, and ye will be compelled to go forward with nothing but the stick of virtues and the sly hand.

Our story begins when the moon shone above the world, moving downwards, perhaps contemplating crashing into the earth. The village was old. So old that Elder Mcallen could become one with the cracks on the buildings built near the river. The water had begun to chew on the land and spit it out as punishment for the farmers who did not wear belts on their waists.

The folks would stop on their way through a town, not unlike that of the river, and use their forearms to reach the stall that was worth the suffering. There were two who never had to do this because they were already tending to the stand. It was the merchant and her husband.

Their product was one thing of intrigue: a plant. This plant had a top that was reaching for the sun. The bottom looked like a child’s toy that spun with magic. It was so good that the merchant and her husband would only sell to those who wanted legumes with this fantastical plant. The merchant and her husband would jingle as they walked because of it. Every 6th sunrise, the two of them would take a mare and a carriage, and go to harvest their mystical plant. They would be gone until the moon cast shadows in the water lilies for the second time. The merchant and her husband always returned with burlap sacks about to burst, ready for the coming days. The folks wanted to find the magical clouds where these plants fell from. They tried to follow the merchant and her husband into the trees that lapped at the North end of the village. They tried to be mice, to not be spotted. They tried to be snakes, wiggling among mud and root. They tried to be squirrels, pulling themselves up on branches and scurrying. Alas, to no avail. A fog covered the merchant. A mist covered the husband. Their tracks were taken with the wind. Not a soul could find the fabled spot. Those who searched would return with noses, ears, and eyes dripping red. Their hands would have disappeared. Their irises were soulless black husks that might have been portals to the underworld. Those who returned screamed in agony

The nights were never peaceful. For whom the screaming was for was never clear.

This was, at least, was rare. Most did not return at all, but were lost to the everlasting wood, which most likely only ended when the merchant saw fit. There were rumours that she who could not share a secret was a witch. She might need to be burned to leave the village to its tasks. The issue was that the harvest she and her husband provided was too important to the town, so she was left to do as she pleased.  The merchant’s long hair was covered by a dirt coloured cloth that never moved. Her skirts were always stained by grass. Her face had not been washed in moons, yet she carried elegance. The villagers would cry out to her. How did she find the wonderful roots that could feed an angel?

She would never let a word slip past her tongue. It was of no consequence the people who would plead, the length of their groveling, or how often they would fall to their knees and mumble into her filthy boots. The merchant had never opened her mouth to anyone who was not her husband. Even the husband was not one for canards. His small hands would be wiped quietly on an apron that was no longer white so he could touch his products. He would only speak of prices, which would always be wrong. Not one thing he said was ever the truth.

The village was always frustrated by this pair. They had come here once upon a dawn and would leave twice the whisper of the night if the time ever arrived. Most would only interact for the food to give their family, and no more. A blessing from above must not be asked questions. Other whisperers did not agree. They would clench their teeth and breathe small rumors that had no base in any facts.

When the sun left no shadow, a person in a ragged shawl and nothing more approached the stand. The husband and the merchant were speaking silently. The only indication of conversation was the small movement of broken lips. When the person came close, the pair turned toward them slowly. “What will you be needing?” The merchant’s husband demanded. The person, the stranger, did not offer a response. They instead focused on the husband. They traveled down his light yellow hair to his blue shirt. They lingered on a pendant, which might have been glowing with green sparks. The chain it was attached to swung off of the husband’s neck. “What will you be needing?” The voice was louder. The stranger smiled. “The plant you carry so close to your heart.” The husband reached out the skilled hand he always used and picked up the special roots which made lips smack and eyes open. He picked a half dozen and laid them down on the smooth counter. The stranger shook their head. The shawl spun wildly. Their irises sparkled with knowledge. For the merchant’s husband was always one to lie. “You have lied to me.” The stranger purred. “I am asking for the plant that you carry close to your heart.” The merchant’s lips dipped downwards. She glanced at her husband. He returned the special roots to their basket. He next wrapped his fingers around an ear of corn. He lifted it and offered it to this peculiar customer.

The corn was beautiful. The bland day could not reach the smooth bumps on the vegetable. It shone like the butter in the stall to the right of the merchant and her husband. It was very clean, and you might see a reflection on the yellow surface.

The stranger was still not satisfied. They waggled their fingers in disapproval, and a grin showed yellow teeth. The stranger had come prepared for this trick. “You have once again hidden the truth from me. What is closest to your heart, dear man?” The merchant rose from her seat. She cupped her tanned hand and leaned down to advise her husband. He listened quietly and nodded. They exchanged a glance like crystals. The merchant fell back on her stool once more. Puffs of dirt rose from her skirts. The husband knitted his eyebrows and was now ready. “I have not an idea what you speak of.”

The stranger threw back their oval head and laughed into the sky. “You have lied three times, my dear. Once more, a-” The folks who were in the area gasped and stumbled backward. The stranger was now lying on the ground, with a forehead of violet. The merchant’s husband shook out the hand which had been in a fist. Blood fell from his knuckles and dripped on the corn he had placed on the wooden counter. He did not bother to wipe it. It was of no value from this point forward. It would be cooked in a stew once the day fell. The merchant stood once more and embraced her husband. The perfect start to a day of profits. Moral: never pretend you can defeat the merchant and her husband.


I would not call myself a pretty woman, and I am not being modest when I say that. I have never had much luck with men. Even my marriage was arranged by my father. I may not be repulsive to look at, but I am most definitely not attractive. But that wasn’t the case with the Collins, apparently. The attractive, happy couple that moved in opposite our home six months ago. Well, six months and three weeks, to be precise. They were a sight to see in this boring old neighborhood. Lucy Collins was a beautiful woman. She was swelled up and toned down in just the right places. I had been observing them from the window in my kitchen very regularly, hoping to find them amid a fight. A couple couldn’t be that perfect, no? But I never could. Two conclusions could be inferred form this observation—either they were very discreet about their arguments, or they never had any. If the latter, Arthur had a lot to live up to. One Tuesday evening, when I was bringing the heavy grocery bags in, Mr. Collins came up near the car and all but snatched the bags from my hand. “These look heavy. Please, let me,” he said with a smile. I waved my hands, “oh no. That is very kid of you, but you don’t need to do that, Mr. Collins.” He’d already started walking towards my house with the bags in hand, “just Vince, please. And where is Arthur anyway?” He asked with a glint in his eye, as if mocking my husband. This is where I defend him, no? “Oh, he’s been having a lot of work lately. He comes home late every day,” I took the bags from him and stood with my back facing the locked door. “That’s a shame,” Mr. Collins sighed, resting his palm on the doorframe. “You must be bored out of your mind all day,” he brought his other hand up too, effectively trapping me between the door and himself. I turned around quickly and started feeling for my keys inside the handbag. As I unlocked the door, I could feel his slow, controlled breaths on my neck the whole time. I could hear his gulps, feel his eyes travel down my body—all of it in the span of a few seconds. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Collins,” I intended to say harshly, but I fear it came out as a soft whisper instead. “If you need any more help, I’m right here, Eleanor,” was the last thing I heard before shutting the door with a bang. That night, I slept with Mr. Collins on my mind. Early next morning, I found myself staring at the night gown in the mirror. Silk, off-white, thigh-length and extremely transparent—it was one of those things I bought online on a whim. He’d never like it, I though as I felt the fabric on my body. It had been months since Arthur and I had had sex. I’d say we had lost the spark, but we didn’t have any to begin with. “What the hell are you wearing?” came an incredulous voice from behind me, and I turned around to face my husband. “Well, don’t you like it?” I asked, with what I hoped was a seductive smile. Taking slow steps forward, I attempted to touch his arm, but Arthur recoiled violently. “I’ve got work,” he said, trying his best—but failing—to hide his disgust. As Arthur made his way to the bathroom to freshen up, I rushed downwards with my cheeks flushed. He hadn’t laid a finger on me, and yet I felt like I’d been slapped. I needed to catch a breath. No sooner had I opened the door than I came face-to-face with Mr. Collins. Only a moment later did it register to me that I was in a wildly inappropriate attire. I instinctively took a step backwards, my eyes trained on the ground. I didn’t dare look up, just pulled my robe tighter around me. Not a word did he speak the whole while. I imagined his eyes were taking a tour down my bare legs, my chest and every other thing on display. Just as I was about to ask him the reason for his arrival, a hysterical voice came from behind Mr. Collins. “Eleanor! Good morning!” “Hello, Lucy,” I sighed, thankful for her interference. “How is it going this morning?” “Well,” Lucy said, slapping her husband’s arm, “we have news!” “Oh?” “But first, here,” she said, extending towards me a white cardboard box. “Strawberry glazed donuts from the new store that opened downtown! They are the best thing ev-er. ” Taking the box, I grinned at her, knowing full well that they were going into the dustbin. Who liked strawberries? “Um, about the special news you were going to tell me?” I prompted. “Oh, yeah," Lucy cleared her throat dramatically, "We’re gonna have a baby!” She all but screamed and leapt to envelope me in a hug. I was stunned for a little while and could only speak once she let go. “That’s—that’s great news! I congratulate you.” “We’re having a party next Friday,” she said handing out a card. “Here’s the invite. Join us!” Lucy said as she dragged her husband away. “The Collins are having a baby,” I said shutting the door. I turned around to face my husband, only to find him fumbling with his tie quite awkwardly. Arthur cleared his throat several times before mumbling a reluctant “right.” “I’m leaving,” he said, reaching for his office bag. “Perhaps, you are,” I replied, earning an incredulous look from my husband. I only shook my head and headed upstairs.

My husband was many thigs, but discreet was not one of them. Arthur didn’t talk to me a lot. He didn’t tell me about the long, tiring traffic jams he was stuck in. He didn’t tell me about that one lousy driver that shouldn’t be allowed on the road. He didn’t even tell me about his promotion, I only found out about it upon hearing a friend of his congratulate him. He didn’t tell me about his day, and it goes without saying, he didn’t care about mine. A lot of what I learnt about him, I learned through his mannerisms and habits. If he bought home fresh chicken or beef, we were going to have a guest home for dinner. If he wanted a shirt ironed for the next day, I’d find it on my side of the bed at night. If he set an alarm for six a.m., it meant ‘wake me up before seven.’ I liked to think that I could read my husband like an open book. But that assumption shattered when I read the words ‘It’s yours’ from Lucy Collins on my husband’s message board. Never the discreet one, as I said. Isn’t it common knowledge that if you are going to have an affair, password-protecting your phone is one of the first things you’d do to prevent the truth from leaking? Is Arthur an idiot, or does he think he married one? I supposed I could throw my wedding ring at his face and call my lawyer, but that would severely derail my life. I’d have to start over. I wasn’t ready for that kind of inconvenience ten years after marriage. If only my daft husband knew how to hide the truth better. Friday came soon enough. The Collin’s place was already abuzz with people from the entire neighborhood, it seemed. The excitement was palpable and congratulatory words were being thrown around when we arrived. “Eleanor, Arthur! I’m so glad you guys could make it. Come on, drinks are waiting!” Lucy said, pointing her thumb towards her house. I smiled tightly and replied with some customary words of congratulations. I made my way inside, not caring if my husband followed. I needed a drink. The aroma in the kitchen was heavenly. Cakes and biscuits decorated the shelves. There were trays of pastries and donuts on the counter. Chocolate donuts, donuts topped with sprinklers, and a single strawberry glazed donut. They looked delicious. And yet, my desire of a drink dragged me away to the alcohol section. I poured out a glass of whatever was available, and turned around, my back resting on the kitchen platform. The lively party was just barely visible from where I stood, but what my eyes automatically zeroed in on, was Lucy Collins. There she was, talking animatedly, raising her glass (of lemonade, I presumed) at appropriate intervals. I tilted my head, was she really that perfect, enticing, irresistible— , blocking my train of thoughts (and line of sight), stood Mr. Collins. “You look lovely tonight, Eleanor.” “Thank you, Mr. Collins.” “Just Vince, Eleanor,” he sighed. “Enjoying your drink all alone?” I understood the implication but chose to ignore it. “It’s boisterous outside.” Mr. Collins shoved his hands into his pockets and took slow steps towards me. “I’m here to escape the crowd, too.” I chuckled, “It’s your party!” Mr. Collins was close to me now. Too close. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy it,” he whispered. I looked up at him and gulped. We were just making conversation, why did it feel so… intimate ? I’d never once felt this way before. M. Collins leaned into me slowly, his lips lightly brushing my neck. I felt electricity course through me. Was this normal? I clutched my glass tighter in hands. “You taste…” he sucked on my earlobe, “…better than I imagined.” Over his shoulder, I could see Mary from next door make her way towards the kitchen, and abruptly pushed Mr. Collins away. “Yes, I’d surely let you know, Mr. Collins,” I said, a little louder than necessary, trying to hide my breathlessness. Mary glanced at us, picked the tray of donuts, and headed out. As soon as she was out of sight, Mr. Collins nearly pounced on me, like a predator on its prey. “Vince,” I rested my hand on his chest and watched his eyebrows rise dramatically. “We can’t.” “What do you mean?” “We can’t,” I repeated. “Eleanor, you know you want this,” Mr. Collins beseeched. “Perhaps, but we can’t. ” “Why not?” He asked, tumultuously. A moment passed. A glass shattered outside. I stared at him. “Well?” He pressed. “Because it’s not appropriate,” I smiled. My words were followed a moment later by a loud thud from outside. The loud commotion finally drew Mr. Collins attention away from me and he rushed out, with me on his trail. Pushing though people, we finally saw what was in the middle of the mess—Lucy Collins. She was splayed out, with her arms and legs uncontrollably shaking—convulsing. Arthur stood nearby with his mouth agape. Mr. Collins was at his knees beside her, immediately. His hands were on her head, and his eyes held confusion and fear. “What—what’s happening? Someone—oh, fuck she’s not fucking breathing—someone call 911. Please! ” I pressed my lips together and went back to the quiet of the kitchen. Taking a sip of my unfinished drink, I sighed. It felt almost wrong that there was no one, not one person to pat my back and bask in the warmth of my victory together. But maybe, that’s the beauty, as well as tragedy of it. No one can know. The ruckus from outside reached my ear, but my brain refused to register it. Gingerly, my hands reached my pockets to take out a tiny glass bottle labelled ‘potassium cyanide.’ Should I have married this bottle, instead? It is discreet. It doesn’t betray.


There was only one thing Gerald loved more than a roaring bonfire and that was the thrill of watching an outsider overtake a favourite on the final furlong. Gerald Gerrison, or ‘G.G.’ as Joan nicknamed him due to his obsession, spent his weekdays in one of two locations. She’d find him either burning garden debris whilst mulling over current form or applauding the thunder of hooves on the racecourse’s finish line.

# Gerald retired at fifty and with few pressing commitments; he could choose how to spend his time. He’d made his money after he inherited his father’s rag-and-bone warehouse and turned a dwindling trade into a thriving recycling business. His new clients demanded high volumes of cloth and rags to fill their soft furnishings and upholstery. It had been hard at first, but Gerald wasn’t soft; he knew about cruelty from his childhood. Years of prejudice at boarding school had toughened him up and he’d learned to observe life and keep shtum. He never disclosed his modest start in life or his humble lineage. “People can believe what they want,” he’d said more than once to Joan.

“What they don’t know, they’ll just make up, anyway.”

Gerald was a social chameleon. He discovered looks can be deceptive, and he adapted his manners to suit any occasion.

“People can be so judgemental,” he’d say, straightening his overcoat’s velvet collar and adjusting the “G.G.” monogrammed brass buttons at the cuffs. # Gerald was a regular at the weekly gallops, where his associates referred to him as ‘dignified,’ a name that suited his superior air. He assumed a noble bearing, due in part to his prestigious attire. They didn’t see him without his knee-length charcoal grey Chesterfield with the black velvet collar and a matching bowler hat. Both were cherished heirlooms that belonged to his dearly departed father, Gerald Gerrison Senior. The distinctive garments had afforded him loyal service for over two decades and now was Gerald’s first choice for a further ten years and counting.

# Not that Gerald was too mean to purchase new clothes, he was just careful with his cash. He didn’t see the point of parting with his hard earned and filthy lucre. The gossips at the racecourse said he was rich as Croesus and not without good reason. Gerald encouraged Joan to wash old cling-film in the kitchen sink and strung up tea-bags in the airing cupboard to reuse. He was proud to be frugal and Joan joked he was the ‘Regent of Recycling.’ # Gerald claimed he wasn’t superstitious, and yet he believed his hat and overcoat imbued him with supernatural luck. Joan was skeptical and made hints about wearing something a little more youthful. Gerald dismissed her veiled threat until he discovered the hat and coat with a pile of Joan’s old dresses on the upstairs bed.

“I’m making space, dear,” Joan said. “It’s time for a clear out.” “No way.” Gerald frowned, retrieving the bowler. “We can’t be parted.” “Honestly, Gerald, they’ve had their day.” Joan sighed as he brushed down his hat.

Afterwards, his racing form evaporated. He understood that leaving one’s hat on a bed releases evil spirits and worse still; it might portend death in the household. Gerald tipped the bowler’s brim as he left and nodded a restrained farewell. In retrospect, he’d thwarted Joan’s first attempt at a fashion makeover.

# Gerald struggled to get advice concerning his cursed bowler hat and his sudden reversal of fortune. There were few local experts in exorcism. However, his local priest suggested a pragmatic approach and Gerald’s luck returned after steam-cleaning his bowler at the dry cleaners.

The totes all shuddered when the elegant domed hat reappeared amongst the crowds at the racecourse. He was once more the scourge of their fraternity. They choked with fright as they witnessed its dark silhouette soar into the air on the finish line, accompanied by the crowd’s enthusiastic applause. The bookies would be in for heavy losses now that Gerald was back on top form again. # Joan was a parvenu with dreams of rising the social ladder. She aimed to join the local elite in the council chambers, drink fizz at the yacht club, and provide flowers for St Michael’s Church every Sunday. A frequent visitor at the nail bar and beauty salon, you could say she was fully occupied. Certainly, Joan’s hands were no longer suited to doing dishes or much of anything else around the house. Mr Garrison Senior once described his daughter-in-law as “a hansom-looking steed, built less for comfort and more for speed.” Joan was on a perpetual series of diets and expected Gerald to support her attempts to stay trim. In the light of her dietary regime, Gerald and Joan nibbled salads together at lunch time and then afterwards he’d tuck into a hearty meal at the racecourse; shepherds pie or meat and two veg were their standard fare. He looked forward to their Cumberland sausage and mash on Wednesdays, whilst watching the afternoon race fixtures. # Joan accepted Gerald would never part with his hat and coat, and it irked her to watch his jaunty departures to the racetrack. His total confidence in those lucky charms offended both her logic sensibilities and her sense of style.

“Fashion has never been your strong point, G.G.,” she’d say.

“It’s simple and understated,” he’d say, smirking. “Classic cuts never date.”

“You can’t keep wearing those old things forever.”

“But we can’t be parted, my dear.”

“Not if I have my way…” # Gerald knew she was a woman of her word and took her seriously. He kept his race day uniform brushed and hanging in his wardrobe under lock and key. They both maintained their stance until the day Gerald visited his doctor’s surgery for his annual check up. His feet were playing up, and he suspected gout on his big toes.

Joan seized the moment and, with the aid of a bolt-cutter and two bin-liners, removed his precious heirlooms and two decades’ worth of tweed and wool. Within the hour, she’d revamped the clothes rail and dragged Gerald into the 21st century. His wardrobe now housed a collection of casual jackets, department store slacks, and pastel-coloured polo shirts. # They’d switched the lights off in the charity shop before Joan pulled up outside in her sleek Jaguar. She looked up and down the road as her hand hovered over the hand brake. It wasn’t inconceivable that she would have company. Joan half expected Gerald would be behind her when she alighted the vehicle and dumped two black bin liners on the doorstep. #

Gerald was busy solving his daily crossword puzzle when Joan arrived home. She prepared a meal, and the couple sat down to eat before Gerald broached Joan’s idea about his new clothes. She announced she had a surprise for him and she appreciated it might come as a shock. It wasn’t until Joan admitted she’d made some changes that his jaw sagged and his face blanched. Joan had cleared the table and started washing the dishes before Gerald staggered to his feet and up the stairs.

# Gerald’s visit to the charity shop the next morning was a waste of time. He made an excuse that he’d left a lottery ticket in a jacket that his wife had donated, but they said they didn’t have it. The shop had been closed and when they arrived that morning, all they discovered was a mauled bin liner containing oddments. No bowler hat and no Chesterfield overcoat. There was just a pile of tatty old tweed suits, three flannel trousers and four twill shirts. The manager wasn’t impressed by the donation and said the offerings weren’t fit for upholstery stuffing. # Gerald’s whole demeanour changed over the following days. His once proud chest and broad back sagged, and he walked with a sorrowful gait. Nothing went well for him and he couldn’t face the prospect of losing race after race at the racecourse. Joan almost felt sorry for Gerald, but decided it was for the best. He’d have to accept that life had to progress and Gerald would have to move with the times.

# It took a fortnight for Gerald to pluck up the nerve to visit a local bookmaker on the high-street. He couldn’t risk losing too much money, so he raided his supply of pound coins he’d been saving for a rainy day. It was outside the bookies that he encountered a man was more down at heel than himself. The fellow was sitting on a pile of charcoal grey wool and he held out a familiar looking receptacle, expecting to get some loose coins. Gerald spotted the monogrammed buttons amongst the dark fabric and the faded Christys label inside the hat. Gerald brightened and offered the man whatever he had on him to retrieve the items. Fifty-six pounds in pound coins and fifty pence pieces. Done! # It didn’t take over ten minutes for Gerald to stack some kindling and dry wood into his incinerator. He lit a match and watched as his father’s elderly fabric crackled and caught alight. A smile drifted across Gerald’s ruddy complexion like a respectful congregation departing a crematorium. He considered for a moment how he’d always despised Joan’s dress sense and hated those calf-length frocks. Surely her precious floral numbers were way past their sell-by-date? It would be a shame to waste the convenience of a roaring fire. The End --


The lonesome ocean floor is bathed in eternal blackness. It is an unending pressure cooker. A hell where topside life becomes flattened with prejudice. There is no mercy at the bottom abyss. Those who navigate the waves fear the depths for good reason. Those unfortunate to go into the crushing waters without care, becomes part of the whole. An ancient structure takes quiet residence in the deep. One that houses a dormant giant waiting to arise once more.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . There are some who accept the dreams from the inanimate, Great Old One. One who arrived into his stasis eons ago. A being of ancient ancestry that sits alone. The hushed sleeper who talks through the mental imagery of those sensitive enough to receive his message. Some push pass this madness. Some slowly become insane. Others realize the fortune that they have been charged with. These are the cultists. The chosen. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The statuesque miscreant resides among the geographically, obscene stone structures at R’lyeh. A solitary place so old it was forgotten before it was thought to exist. A city, a temple, a hallowed land where its sole occupant rests dormant under the accumulated soot of sand and time. The illogically formed structures pushing against the break neck pressures of the cold depths, withstanding the brute force challenging every stony inch. Slimy, green residue spread across the tops and sides of the arcane construction. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The rare aquatic life that makes its way at this depth senses to keep a healthy distance from the esoteric perimeter. Only the most primitive, simple organisms who act by instinct alone float through its precipices. They move among the ancient buildings, keepers of the secret. A living ecosystem among the sleeping dread in its vicinity. Pittances of a pittance dominant planet. The true terror beyond anything that mortal mind can process. A growing need to awaken begins to take hold in his mind. The end of a rest. The beginning of a devastation. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The icy cold water bathes reptilian like skin, though he feels none in any meaningful way. Nothing can wake the eternal rest except its own internal call to arise. The living embodiment of world destruction within a lost city within the ambiguity of the water’s stretch. A rumor riding on the mist of a dream. A Great Old One who the solitary writer of old warned humanity about. Howard Phillip Lovecraft, the sole founder of Cthulhu enthusiasts. The one who knew of that which lives in silence below. The man who offered us a chance to know the horror before it awoke. A writer, a prophet or both. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The offensive block construction defies all logic and reason, as if created without an understanding of how the architecture should work. Tiny bubbles begin to emerge around the slumbering form. The sustained pressure immediately crushes them. The great beast begins to shift as his lengthy inaction draws to an end. He has sent his believers clear indications that their wait will soon end. They are elated that the time of reckoning is drawing close and have sworn to each other to do its bidding. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . Great Cthulhu stirs against the despondent backdrop. A righteous setting for the unstoppable terror that it will unleash across the planet. The nightmare that most think are things of fiction. There is no human made power that will come close to altering the destructive force that will make all people equal in death. No religious or spiritual incantation to match the reality that will walk unimpeded. People will learn fear from the one who has returned.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . His eyes slowly break their eternal seals and open. He is awake. He will conquer all after escaping the dark abyss. He will touch the sky once more. The sun is all that remembers his face. All buildings will topple. Their hardened concrete frames will be a mere inconvenience. Prideful, mortal interventions will have no effect. He is the one that will make the human misery of the world end. Long gone will soon be the days of warm lattes and vacations. The great museums and libraries, retainers of the greatness of human knowledge, will be of no more. Eventually, all evidence of human occupation will be wiped clean from his home. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . He moves his head, adjusting to the reality of being awake once more. Giant, obscene tentacles sway under his mouth against his chest. There is no confusion, only unresolved anger. A thunderous bellow rings forth. Acoustic sensors in proximity of the underwater sound waves are shattered in place. A submarine passing by suffers catastrophic damage, slipping quickly into a watery grave. The first humans to reap the return of Cthulhu. The acoustic sensors far enough to survive alert those keeping monitor that something is under the water, something that has caused their instruments to go off the charts. Experts frantically scramble for answers. The topside dreamers act upon their knowledge that the Great Awakening is underway. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . He stands erect into destiny. A seething need to surface grows exponentially. Mighty legs, each the statute of a small building, take their rightful place under his behemoth form. His talon laden feet rest upon the silt covered floor of the temple city, stirring the passive sediment. Large, abhorrent wings shift along the contours of his body, reawakened. Water stirs around the towering shape. Time’s accumulation that has settled on his body begins its slow descent onto the ground. His followers wait patiently in robes along the South American shorelines for first sight. Their long awaited moment nears as he takes his initial steps forward. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . An undeniable sense of dread takes place across those who ride upon and within the salty waters. Surface fleets move in all directions. Captains immediately begin making new headings back to the temporary safety of the closest docks. Those who brave on become the victims of mutineers who clamor for safety over ship loyalty. The awoken Cthulhu bends muscular legs and pushes off the bottom of the ocean floor diagonally into the water above. The Kraken of the Deep. The Great Old One. Boats begin to run aground. Crews make illogical efforts to absolve their sea legs onto land. All encompassing dread overtakes their rational minds. Submarines navigating in silence become scuttled as madness infects the inhabitants. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . People aren’t able to explain to one another why they feel the need to begin moving away from the shoreline. No one can vindicate the exodus. No one will discuss that which everyone feels. All but the cultists remain. Each gathered on one beach to watch the inevitable. They are prepared to do his bidding. His head breaks the water surface. No aquatic life is within reach as they, too, sense doom closing in. The air pushes water droplets off the putrid, emerald skin. He crosses the salty water towards the closest land. Chile. His deep yellow eyes see the first signs of ground. Trees and buildings in the foreground. He pushes a deep howl into the cloudy sky. Terror breaks into insanity. People turn on each other as their minds break. The few sane enough to flee inland do so as the insane ravage everything around them. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn . The sunlit shallows become beach. He takes his first steps inland. Monstrous feet cause immediate carnage. Anything ahead becomes flattened under his immense power. His mighty wings open, blocking out great swaths of the dawn sky. He throws his thick arms into the air, bellowing once more. A celebratory call to his return. No one can run far enough. No one can remain sane. All will succumb to the ocean terror on land. All will be destroyed. He moves across the ground, leaving giant, hellish imprints behind. He is here. He is now. He is the immaculate equalizer. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming


“A Visit to Tatum” As many times as I’d driven the stretch of I-44 between St. Louis and Springfield you’d think I would have figured out all of the best places to stop for a bite and exactly how much gas I needed to have in my tank. Over almost three years and a dozen trips I’d never had any problems until that day last month. Ordinarily if I’d left my house without a full tank I knew a stop in Cuba or Rolla would take care of things, but there was so much going on at the office I hadn’t paid attention to details. Now, just past the Cuba exit my fuel warning light came on. It meant I’d be able to drive about twenty-five miles on what was left in the tank but it was thirty more miles to the Rolla exit. Should I risk the drive? It was farm country with no roads to turn off on to for a drive back to Cuba. It seemed like I’d be forced to do a white knuckle drive with one eye on the road and one on the gas gauge. Then up ahead I saw a highway sign that I’d never paid much attention to on my previous trips. It read “ Tatum Exit 27 ”. I’d probably seen the sign before but it just didn’t register in my memory. The warning light glowing on my dashboard told me not to take any chances. I hit my turn signal and eased my way on to the exit ramp. At the end of the ramp was a small paved road that appeared to connect the exit and entrance ramps but not much more. There was no sign of a building let alone a town and I felt more than a little nervous. I had two choices, get back on the highway and hope I could make it to Rolla or turn on to the small road and see where it would lead me. Neither option was a good one but I chose to find out what was in the town of Tatum. After about a hundred yards of driving through what felt like a tunnel of Pin Oak trees on both sides of the road I reached an opening. Off to my right was a faded, tattered sign that read “ Parker’s Garage ” and under that “ Gas - Oil - Minor Repairs ”. A smaller sign beside it that looked like an afterthought read “ Snack Bar ”. Up ahead on the left were three rows of identical mobile homes, all white and all in less than good condition. On the right past the sign was the entrance to a large parking area and a three-bay brick garage building. A small, white clapboard church sat at the far edge of the parking area. Beyond that, in every direction was a whole lot of nothing. To call Tatum a town was a real stretch but all I needed was a full tank of gas and then I’d be on my way. There were no signs of people or activity as I slowly drove past a long row of mailboxes at the entrance driveway to the trailers. Each box had the owner’s trailer address and name stenciled on it. There was a Parker, two Oldachs, three Larimores, two more Parkers, another Larimore another Parker and two more Oldachs. It was hard to miss the strangeness of all those trailers being home to just three extended families. The two fuel pumps were near the garage and I pulled up to the one marked “Regular”. There was no one in sight and after waiting for a few minutes I got out and grabbed hold of the nozzle. The readout showed I’d only pumped a quarter’s worth of gas when I heard a man calling to me. “Whoa, hold on there, mister. That’s my job!” I turned and saw a skinny, middle-aged man in blue coveralls walking toward me. The name patch sewn on to his uniform read “Leonard”. “Oh, sorry, Leonard,” I said, “I thought it was self-serve.” The man took the pump from my hand. “Well, it ain”t, we do the work around here.” His total lack of warmth and even a hint of a smile were surprising. “I guess a lot of people make that mistake, huh?” Trying to put a friendlier tone on the conversation didn’t seem to have any effect. “Nope, we don’t get a lot of people here. Don’t want to, cause we’ve got all them trucks to gas up and take care of.” He motioned toward the far end of the dirt and gravel parking area where three identical red vans were parked on a patch of asphalt. From the striping on the pavement it looked like the empty spaces were for other vans that were elsewhere at the moment. On the side of each of them was painted “ Parker Delivery ”. “That’s why we have these pumps. They’re for them trucks and the school van to Cuba, not for strangers.” “Then why the sign on the road over there? It makes it sound like you’re a regular business.” That sign’s nearly forty years old. Old Tatum Parker put it up back when he got his friends at the capital to put in the exit from the highway. He wanted the business and town to be somethin’ the rest of us folks didn’t.” The readout on the pump now showed that Leonard had already put enough into my tank to get me to Springfield so I wasn’t reluctant to challenge him a little. “So then why didn’t you just tell me that it’s your gas only and send me on my way?” “Wouldn’t be Christian.” He rubbed the cuff of his sleeve across his nose. As he finished filling my tank I looked back again to the row of mailboxes along the road. I thought again how odd it was that all those trailers housed the members of only three families. Maybe it was wrong to pry but it was too late, my curiosity had gotten the best of me. “So, Leonard, I saw the names on the mailboxes and I don’t see any other roads around here. Is that everyone in Tatum?” He pulled the nozzle from my filler and looked at me. It wasn’t a friendly look. “Yeah, that’s Tatum; them trailers, the church and this garage.” “And are you a Parker?” “Nope, an Oldach. Is that important to you?” His demeanor was starting to piss me off but it was also bringing out my snarky side. “No, I was just curious. I’ve driven by this exit dozens of times and never noticed the sign for Tatum.” “That’s the way we like it, nice and private.” he answered. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped his nose and said, “That’s thirty-one seventy and we prefer cash.” “No problem, but I’ll need a receipt from you.” Leonard let out a long, deep sigh and muttered, “There’s always something more.” I nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess there is.” As I followed him to the garage I looked at the red vans again. “So what does Parker Delivery deliver?” Leonard was not a patient man. He let out another deep sigh and answered, “You sure do ask a lot of questions. We deliver whatever the folks in Cuba and Rolla ask us to.” It was a vague answer and I knew it would be the only one I’d get. We went into the garage and I laid two twenty dollar bills on the counter in front of him and then looked around. The small area in front of the cash counter was barely big enough to stand in. The walls were covered with a large array of black and white photographs. They were portraits of what a banner sign said were three generations of the men and women who’d operated Parker’s Garage and Parker Delivery over the years. That was the moment that I understood the mailboxes. There was Jim Parker and his wife Mary Oldach Parker. Next to them were Peter Larimore and his wife Cheryl Parker Larimore. Finishing the top row were Thomas Oldach and Margie Larimore Oldach and finally Nathan Parker and his wife Sandra Oldach Parker. I scanned the entire wall and every single face was attached to one of those three names. That explained the mailboxes and I figured it also explained Leonard’s comment about wanting privacy. It looked like Leonard was having some difficulty making change in the register and writing out my receipt. I let him struggle and looked into what the sign called a snack bar. There was a short red laminate counter with four stools and holes in the floor where two other stools had been removed. In front of that was a larger, empty area that looked like it might have been a dining room at some time in the past. I could hear noise from the kitchen but saw no one. I turned back to Leonard and asked, “Is there someone in the snack bar that can get me a coffee to go?” He looked up from his mathematical struggles, appearing to be irritated by my interruption and said, “I suppose she can get you a coffee if you have your own cup.” “A paper cup would be just fine with me.” “Look, mister…what’s your name by the way? I need it for the receipt.” “It’s Wesley Ames.” “Okay, Mr. Ames, it’s like I said before, we don’t get a lot of strangers here. The men who drive them vans all live here and them boys like their coffee in a real cup.” He went back to working on the receipt. I shook my head, totally taken aback by his attitude. I walked out to my car and took out the insulated cup that I always kept filled with water. I poured it out on to the ground and walked back inside, right past Leonard and into the snack bar. A woman in the kitchen noticed me through the pass-through window behind the counter. She looked surprised to see a strange face. I held up my empty cup and called out “Coffee?” She hesitated so long that I thought she was deliberately avoiding me. Finally she made it around the corner to the kitchen door and stood behind the counter. She said nothing and just stared at me. “I was wondering if you could fill this with coffee for me. Leonard said you would.” “Leonard don’t run the snack bar but I guess I can do it.” She reached for my cup, looked at it a moment and said, “This is a pretty big cup, I’m gonna have to charge you extra.” “I sighed, not at all surprised that she was just as unfriendly as Leonard. “That’s fine.” I watched her fill my cup and wondered how long that coffee pot had been sitting on a burner in an empty snack bar. She put the lid back on the cup, handed it to me and said in a monotone voice, “Three bucks even.” “Okay, I’ll just give it to Leonard from my change.” “You weren’t listening to me. Leonard don’t run the snack bar. You gotta pay me.” I put the cup on the counter, pulled three singles from my wallet and handed it to her.” She took the bills from my hand and stood there looking at me. Finally, she said, “I accept tips.” I was really tempted to reach into my pocket and take out a dime but I just shook my head and handed her another buck. She took it without saying anything and walked back into the kitchen. Leonard had finally solved the riddle of making change and writing it down. He handed me my receipt and change and without saying “Thank you” or “Have a nice day” like every other service attendant in America would do, he turned and walked away, into a small storage room behind the counter and closed the door. The rest of my drive to Springfield would have been more pleasant if it weren’t for my cup of bitter, boiled coffee and the bad mood I was in from my contact with the strange town of Tatum. A town like none I’d ever seen with people I’d hoped I’d never run into again. And they’d shown me very clearly that they felt the same way. Before I’d left Springfield the next morning I‘d made sure to top off my gas tank. One of life’s lessons learned the hard way. My drive of two hundred and twenty one miles would be non-stop and, hopefully, uneventful. I wasn’t surprised that right about the time I saw the exit for Rolla I started thinking about my strange experience of the day before. A town that I’d never heard of before was now all I could think about. I kept an eye on my odometer so I’d be ready in time to see the northbound sign for Exit 27 to Tatum and give it the finger as I passed it. I slowed down a little when I got close to the area where I thought it would be. After a minute or so I spotted something ahead as odd as Tatum itself. A short remnant of the green metal post that had held the exit sign protruded above the grass along the shoulder. Someone, and I guessed it was Leonard, had cut down the sign. I looked across the median and saw that the sign along the southbound lanes was also gone. I pulled on to the shoulder and stopped. A picture started to form in my mind. A picture of a skinny man in blue coveralls, holding a flashlight and a hacksaw, was crouched in the darkness with the guardrails hiding most of him from view. Between passing cars he stood there and sawed away at the posts, first the northbound and then the south. I pictured his smile as each sign crashed to the ground and how he must have enjoyed dragging them into the weeds. And I pictured how his smile must have grown when he was sure that it would be hard for any strangers to find Tatum again. I smiled, lifted my coffee cup and tipped it in the direction of Tatum. “Here’s to you, Leonard Oldach, you strange man, and to your whole strange town.” I took a sip of bad coffee and added, “And on behalf of every single driver who passes this way, I swear if you hadn’t cut them down I would have.”


Max Evans tugged on his blanket falling off his shoulder, and pulled it closer. He sat in front of his laptop like he did most Saturday mornings – writing and working on his book, trying like hell to get out of the funk he was in; grunting through trying to find the right words.

He stopped, put his head in his hands and sighed. He turned around to look out the window of his sixth-floor apartment behind him, watching those in the courtyard: a couple walking hand in hand, an elderly man feeding pigeons, and kids playing in the park. People seemed happy even in the cold fall weather; anything that would jar a thought, image, and something to get him out of the writer’s cramp he had been feeling for two weeks. He turned to take a drink of his coffee when he looked across the room; an envelope slipped under the front door, followed by the shadow of feet left behind by the one who left the inquiry.

He paused mid-sip and then eased his mug on the desk. He leaned forward so as to not make a sound. He got up and walked over carefully, wondering if the person who just slipped it under was still there. He gently pressed his ear to the door, only to hear the elevator bell ring, and the doors close. An uninvited guest was something Maxx wasn’t in the mood for, but figured if things were going to get weird, it would have happened by now.

He reached down to pick it up. It was a perfectly square and rigid envelope, like an invitation or thank-you size. He walked it back to the desk and opened it up with his pocket knife; sliding out a card with the initials JH on the front, a medium thin black border all around the front of the card. Max opened it up and started reading the rough and jagged letters.

My dearest Maxwell,

It has been a long time since I last saw you, well, since you last saw me. I remembered you as a child, before you would even have any recollection of me. In fact, I am quite positive that your father has never mentioned me, and in many ways, I fear that you don’t even know I exist. I attended his viewing and funeral, but kept to the shadows, so as to not disturb your mother. Let’s just say your mother never really liked me; I don’t blame her, didn’t like me either.

But I have been watching you from your window from time to time. Oh, no need to close those curtains now. For when you have received this, I have probably been deceased for several days. But I digress. I have noticed some things about you that frankly worry me.

I know that I, though dead, can help you and enrich your life in some way. To show you things, magical things that may benefit you in your future. Why, you may ask? Because no matter how many times you get kicked down, you always get up. You try, despite all of your failures; and I admire that. You remind me of my younger self – not attempting to scare you the most, doesn’t it?

I know that you are struggling with that book of yours. I have read much of it, and it has promise and I like the story; especially the line, “As for me, I am plagued with a great many distant things; to ride the hidden lands from coast to coast.” Which sounds eerily similar to Moby Dick, so you might consider revisions. I’m sure prison doesn’t suit you, and you’re too poor to survive the legalities.

I possess a large inheritance that I have no one to give to. And it can all be yours. But there is one catch. You have to complete a task for me, after which you will be given a key, along with the address to my flat. Fail, and we both lose. But I am confident you will make the right choice.

Sincerely,

“Uncle Jim”

He sat there, really not knowing what to say. Who is this guy, and why now after all these years? How did he read my book since it’s not even written yet with the exception of a few chapters?

He picked up the phone and called his mom. No answer. Just her chipper voice on the other end, embedded in silicon. He called again; then a third time. No answer. Max slammed the phone down, grabbed the card and flipped it over.

“Father knows best. And it’s best to bring lilies.” Joshua 6:4 Max read it over and over trying to make sense of this clue. After frantically searching for the bible his father gave him years ago, he dusted it off to find Joshua 6 verse 4, hoping that another clue would be in the pages. But, when he thumbed through it, it read:

“And seven priests shall bear seven trumpets of rams’ horns before the ark. But the seventh day, you shall march around the city seven times, and the priests shall blow the trumpets.” He sat back at his desk and scratched his head, picking up pieces in this mysterious note. About a half hour went by, and realized that it was Saturday, which would be the seventh day. So, whatever he had to do was today. He could tell time was running short. Lilies were a popular funeral flower, and it was pointed out that father knows best, not the show in particular, but… then it hit him. He had to go see his father, visit his grave.

–--- It’s been a long time since he visited his dad’s grave on the other side of town. But, if nothing came of it, it would not be a loss at all. On the way to the cemetery, he picked up some lilies at the local flower shop along the way, the whole time thinking about what type of things “Uncle Jim” had said he needed to learn. Max sighed and stepped out of his truck with flowers in hand; gritting his teeth as the wind and cold air whipped him in the face. The cemetery was empty and quiet except for the occasional crunch of the fallen leaves below his feet from the few trees still left on the property. His father’s grave was in the back away from others, just sitting there alone, and cold.

The stone was covered in moss and dirt. He hung his head; sorry that he never came out to clean it. A flood of emotions ran through his mind, and even thinking that, as weird as this note was, that his dad would meet him there alive and well. But that wasn’t the case. He stood at the foot of the plot. A tear began to form, and then traveling halfway down, he brushed it aside. It made his heart glad to bring flowers; something he would have never thought to do on his own. Max stooped down and placed the flowers in the metal vase; the lilies tilted at all angles, one falling out. Annoyed, he took the flowers out and tried again. He removed the cylinder. What in the world must be stuck inside? He turned the vase over and smacked the bottom to jar whatever was in there, loose. Out came a roll of bills. He gasped and fell backwards; his widened eyes staring at it on the ground. Max got up slowly and looked around, to make sure no one was watching. He looked inside the vase and found a second, and third wad, just like the first; all one-hundred-dollar bills. He took the money in his hand and thumbed through it; which he could only guess was about $7,000. His heart beat heavy, and thought of the bills he could pay off, and get the bill collectors off his back, not to mention heat in the apartment would be nice too.

He started to whisk back to the truck, then halted halfway. Something’s not right , he thought, and reached into his pocket to view the bible verse he jotted down on the card. He sat there, thinking for a minute. “Walk around seven times,” he said to himself. “Around the gravesite, or the cemetery?” Turning around he slowly walked back to his father and walked around his grave.

There it was, taped to the back of the stone, was a note in a plastic Ziploc®. With hesitation, he removed it, and read the note.

Dearest Max,

I assume if you are reading this, you found the small fortune. If not, it’s obvious you didn’t buy flowers. It makes my heart glad to see that you received it.

But, don’t thank me just yet, for you may hate me; but this money is not for you. I need you to do something for me. I need you to give this away. All of it. But my instruction is clear—give no less than $100 and no more than $1000 to a single individual. The choice is yours to whom you bless. But all I ask is that you pray, and use wisdom as to whom you should receive.

Sincerely,

“Uncle Jim” Max’ heart shrunk, and he felt deflated, and almost light-headed as he collapsed onto the ground beside his dad. He felt just as cold, but then hot as his blood boiled, face flushed. He turned the note over and over, with no other instructions, he crushed it in his fist and threw it at his father’s stone.

“Screw that! I’ve had enough,” Max yelled. “No, not doing it. I’ve spent much of my life helping others and look where it got me. Nowhere!”

He jammed the money in his coat, got up and started walking away. But he could feel the tug on his heart, and looking back at his dad, his head sunk. “What would you do, old man?!” he yelled at his father. “Think, think, think,” he said squinting his eyes and tapping his head with one of the wads. A few minutes later he grimaced, “You’re right. Go for it. You always said to go for broke.”

Max walked back to his truck, got in and laid his head on the steering wheel and sighed. He looked down at his watch; 4:20 pm. Too late to do anything about it now. And so, he went home.

––--- Over the next several days, Max gave away all the money. To some he only gave a hundred. To others he gave more, according to each his or her need. Many times, he found himself listening to people’s conversations so as to glean information to see if they would be a good match. Even that woman who was mean to the clerk of the grocery store when her card wouldn’t work and it changed her tone completely.

But with each person he gave, he took the time to learn more about their story. He talked with them, and spent some time listening to their problems, their dreams, and how many of them really prayed for help. With each one he gave, his heart grew warmer and less heavy, not thinking about his own problems, but considering others for once. He never was a people person before; hiding in his loft looking down at the world. But now he sat in the park, watching people closer. He smiled listening to conversations, and prayed silently to himself that God would help them.

––--- Several weeks had passed since he gave the last of his newfound treasure away. He had no regrets, and agreed with his soul that it was better to give than it was to receive. He walked to the park from his loft and sat down at the usual spot. Bethany, and her little girl, Ashley, walked over towards him, shortly after sitting down.

“Hi, Max,” said Bethany. “An elderly man asked me to give this to you.” Little Ashley made eye contact with Max and reached out her hands and held an envelope – quite like the others.

“Why, thank you. I had been expecting this for a few days now. I’m glad you found me,” as he smiled and accepted the envelope from the child. He stared at the envelope and a flood of emotions came to him. But it wasn’t the usual anger that he felt, but more relief. He smiled sheepishly, for part of him wanted to read it; the other wanted to burn it.

“Everything ok?” Bethany tapped him on the leg to wake him from the trance.

“Oh, sorry. Everything is good. If you will excuse me, I should probably read this in private. It could be bad news.” He got up and started to walk across the soccer field, the crunch of the frozen grass beneath his feet.

Dear Mr. Evans,

Mr. Hothorne regrets not being able to write this last note. He suffered much in his last days. But he wanted me to give you this among other things.

I have been watching you closely, and I know Mr. Hothorne would have been proud of you. Please come to his flat as soon as possible, because I am in the middle of packing and will be moving soon.

The address is easy. It’s directly above yours.

See you shortly,

Mr. Hawthorne’s Nurse, Robert. Max paused and stood in the middle of the playground, looked down, around, and down again, and smiled. Emotions came in like a flood. He didn’t know what to think, but no matter what crossed his mind, they all led him to go immediately to meet Robert. He turned around to walk towards the direction of his condo, when he saw a flash of him through the window, staring down at him, and walked away. He hurried up his pace, having so many questions, he wanted them all answered. Would he know the answers to the questions—especially the “Uncle” one.

As the elevator went up, so did his excitement. The doors opened, and it was like being on his floor, without the Christmas decorations on the doors of Mrs. Beachwood and Mr. Hamm. He walked over to the door that he would normally go to one floor below, and by mistake, tried to turn the handle. “Ugh, not your apartment dummy.” He realized now that he was on the other side of the door, casting the shadow into their living room, with the one inside wondering who it could be. But he knows, for he summoned him, through letters left unfinished.

The door opened. A slender older gentleman answered. “Robert, I presume?” Max asked. “Hello Max. I already know who you are,” Robert said with a smile. “I’m sure you have many questions; come inside,” and he motioned Max to do so.

He walked through the entryway, and the inside was beautiful—nothing like his condo below. Every wall that would have been bare in the rooms below were taken up by bookshelves full of books. The entire place looked like a library on the inside. To the furthest part of the room, where his desk would be, was a desk much nicer than his. As cluttered as this dwelling was, it was tidy, and clean.

“I have a few questions,” Max said. “For starters, who is Jim Maxwell?”

“He was a good friend of your father’s from prep school,” Robert said with a smile on his face. “Your dad was a good man. I liked him.”

“I was wondering. I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning him before.”

“Well, they had a falling out several years prior to your dad’s passing,” Robert, folding his arms, rocking back and forth.

“O.K., but how…” “Did he read your book?” Robert laughed with a huge smile. He pointed towards the desk near the window. Leaning against the corner looked like a long tube. “I almost don’t want to give that away. But it was easy. It's a periscope. He used it to observe you. But then when he wanted to read your writing; it's how he was able to get your passwords. I admit, it's as creepy as it sounds. But he really did like your writing. That's what drew him to you."

Max folded his arms and stepped back, rolling his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He looked around and gave the room another once-over. In the center, on the dining room table, there was an open-faced note with a key on top; two chairs pulled out.

“These are for you,” Robert said, as he slid the note and key to Max. He picked up the letter and read on: My Dearest Max,

I wish I could be there to give this to you in person. But I’m sure Robert will tell you about all that you need to know. Since you received this, I am pleased to let you know that this entire place is yours, and will be transferred to your name shortly. Robert is a very good judge of character, and a good man himself. You did what you were supposed to do, giving all the money away, without leaving any for yourself. You make an old man very proud.

How do you feel? I can imagine you quite elated. My fortune is not of monetary value, for that will be given to Robert. It’s not much, but he deserves it for taking such good care of me the last few years. The cancer treatments took most of my wealth away. But the fortune for you is: this flat, which is paid for; every book, furniture, and piece of clothing, and jewelry. It’s all yours.

Now you are a complete man—for the reason was this: there are just some things you can’t learn from a book. Humility, integrity, and love for others. Those are the greatest treasures of all.

Sincerely,

Uncle Jim


I hated art. No, not myself. Well, not totally, at least. I’m Art Eldridge, a guy who could never understand what was so fascinating about a picture of something not moving or doing anything entertaining. “Lazy movies” is what I called them.

She  never thought so, and maybe for a moment, that’s why I liked it. My wife, Amelia, was always in art galleries, excited to tell me about all the new pictures she saw whenever she went. The way she talked about them was more interesting than the pieces themselves. She was enthusiastic and encouraged me to go with her incessantly. There was this one piece she told me that I had to see. It was new to the museum and hadn’t yet been revealed, but she got special permission to show me whenever we went. We never did. If I could have had one more day with her, we would’ve spent it together doing what she loved most. That’s why I took this stupid job in the first place. Something you won’t believe happened that changed all of that for me. Time for work. In my navy blue uniform, complete with a name tag, flashlight, and keys, I headed over to the art gallery for my night shift that began in the afternoon. It was my only all-nighter. There wasn’t much going on, so my job was picking up a few crumpled napkins on the floor. This place used to buzz with people worldwide, but since we had to send our famous pieces away, the people dwindled, too. A few kids ran around, and I had to tell them to be careful. They listened, but boy, did I get a nasty look from the parents. Hey, it’s not my fault they weren’t doing their job. A few people approached me and asked me what I thought of so and so piece, and I always told them the same thing. It’s art. It’s up to interpretation, so whatever you think it is. While walking to the darker part of the gallery, I spotted a structure of art I had never seen before in my year of working there. An older Asian man walked up to me, “What is that piece called?” He forgot. “Not sure. Never seen it before.” In the middle of the room was a triangular Prism made from crystal that slowly spun on a turntable. There was a skylight overhead to let some light in. On the label, it read, “Prism of the Moon. The beams of light give life.” No moon. Who comes up with these names that have nothing to do with the piece? What I

thought  had nothing to do with the piece. “The paintings… they’re alive, aren’t they.” This guy must’ve been on something pretty good that day. “Artwork usually isn’t. Why?” “Do you hear that?” If he referred to the crackling sound from the lights and the wind from the big fan, then yes. Heard and noticed. He wasn’t talking about that, though. “I don’t hear anything,” I said. “The cries! My gosh, the cries! You have to help them!” The only one that needed help was this man. I told him we’d be closed soon and that he had to see a certain exhibit I thought he’d appreciate before he went. As he left, I looked at the paintings and closed my eyes—no sound from them. Once my eyes were opened, nothing moved either. A few hours later, it was time to close and lock the doors. Once that was done, I stood in the entire gallery alone with only a few emergency lights to provide some sight of the place. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit eerie. The only sounds were my footsteps and periodic key jangles. The structures and paintings were shadows now that seemed to grow and shrink with the illumination of my flashlight. I couldn’t help shaking the idea that with the Prism of the Moon, there was no moon involved before. I realized that was now a possibility with the promise of night. Back in that part of the gallery, the prism stood invisible as nothing could illuminate it. Did someone steal it? With a flash of my light, it revealed itself to still be there. Turning. The skylight looked up into a deep blue sky with a few stars shining overhead along with the ruler of the night—the moon. The pictures were motionless and quiet. What was that crazy guy talking about? Still, I felt compelled to stay there and find out. What happened next could only be described as magic. Whether it was the light or dark kind, I'm not sure. The light from the moon seeped into the gallery and hit the prism in the center of the room. A stream of light came out of each triangle, and as the prism turned, it eventually reached the three pieces in the room. I was no longer alone. The art became like that of a motion picture and teemed with movement. It was strange, though. Closer to the artwork, I could now even feel each piece. The first was a pirate-like ship out in a stormy sea, the second looked like a woman in distress, and the third had a curtain over it. I had no idea what it was, but I’d find out. The wind blew from the first painting, called Sea of Rigidity, and shook the other art pieces in the exhibit. As ice-cold water splashed onto my face, voices suddenly cried, “Help us! We’re gonna drown!” Am I supposed to respond? What was I supposed to do? This was insane. “Um, hello? Can anybody hear me?” “Yes! Please help us!” “I’m not sure how—” “Jump in.” They couldn’t be serious. I was supposed to jump into what, a picture frame? There was no way my six-foot self would fit into that one. This wasn’t Alice in Wonderland. “Wait, I have a better idea,” I told them. My wife said, if you don’t like the situation, paint a new picture .

I’ll be the first to admit it, but I’m not an artist. These voices seemed as real as any, and they needed my help. A paintbrush and paint were nearby, so I snatched them and approached the canvas. With my paintbrush dipped in orange and yellow, I began making a circle in the top left-hand corner, right on top of the clouds. If you saw it, you’d guess a third-grader did it. I’m getting fired for that, but I felt for them. Once it was complete, my little addition to the painting took on the same texture and substance as the image already there, as if it had been absorbed. The sun shined and parted thunderous clouds as Moses did to the Red Sea, and the ship returned to a gentle sway. The wind stopped, and a clear blue sky lay in the background as calm waves rolled. There were cheers from the boat and lots of “Thank you! You saved us!” “Ah, you know… you’re welcome,” I replied. No way that happened, but it did. I swear to you, it did. The second piece was titled Confusion at the Canvas , and it was a painting of a woman who looked like she was trying to create art but wasn’t sure what to paint. She sat in a chair with her head in her hands while her paintbrush and easel lay on the floor in a mess. “What am I to paint?” She cried. “There are so many things, but how do you choose one? What do people want to see? What will become famous someday? So much pressure! So much pressure!” I cleared my throat and decided to help her. “Um, excuse me.” She turned towards me and revealed her middle-aged beauty. She had long black hair and a forest green dress on. The canvas she sat before was pure and untouched. “Ah, yes, maybe you can help. What do you think I should paint?” “Whatever you’d like to.” “But what if the people don’t like it?” “Oh, I’m sure they will.” “What if they don’t?” The right words escaped my mind, so I thought about what Amelia would tell her. “You’re the artist. It’s a piece of yourself you’re sharing with the world. Not everyone will relate to it, and it’s okay. We all have different tastes. It’s what makes us human.” “I want it to be perfect.” “Perfect? It never will be. We can’t connect with perfection, but imperfection? Now

that’s  something we all got,” I told her. “What’s meaningful to you?” “Hmm…my daughter. She grew up too quickly.” “Paint her. What’s her name?” In the woman’s time, this painting had not yet been done, and she would beat its currently-known artist to the punch. Besides, he had plenty of other things to be famous for anyway. I thought about telling her that it would become the most renowned painting in the entire world someday. Still, people sometimes need to discover things for themselves and trust their abilities. She thanked me, dipped her paintbrush in an array of dark colors, and began to paint what she called the Mona Lisa. My attention turned towards the third painting, and my curiosity got the best of me. It was the only one that didn’t seem to move. Was it not affected by the moon? Reading who painted it, I nearly dropped my flashlight.

A Perfect Picnic by

Amelia Eldridge.

Why didn’t she tell me she was into painting? I knew she loved to go to these places but never mentioned she contributed to them. Now, I had to see her idea of this so-called perfect picnic. She told me on our first date, but it was so long ago that I forgot. It’s not easy getting old. If anyone asks, the curtain just slipped off, okay? Anyway, the third picture revealed itself, and what a beautiful scene it was. I had no idea my wife had it in her. A young couple was having a sunset picnic underneath a tree resembling the Tree of Life at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. This tree didn’t have animals, though, that much I saw. I couldn’t tell what was in the tree from a distance, so I moved towards it. I’m positive the moonbeam hit it before, yet there was still no motion. Maybe because it’s newer? Since the prism seemed to control everything, I pushed the turntable to send another moonbeam toward the picture with the curtain now off. My eyes shot open, and anticipation built inside me. What would this painting’s movie be like? It was my wife’s and I wanted to see it. I wish I had paid more attention to her. A few tears fell as I looked at this picture before me. I miss her. “Cheer up. It’s okay.” A voice that seemed familiar shook me out of my current state. If it weren’t for the warm summer breeze from the painting, I still would’ve thought the voice was in my head. “I forgot the sandwiches. The one thing that makes a picnic a picnic. This was supposed to be perfect. What a disaster,” a younger man said.” The woman smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. Really.” She patted him on the shoulder. “This will be the world’s first picnic without any sandwiches. How interesting!” “Anyone told you you’re great at that?” “Great at what?” She said, intrigued. “Making people feel better.” “Let’s see what else you forgot,” she said, teasing. They went into the picnic basket, pulled out some fruit and crackers, and ate that while they looked at each other like they were the last two in the world. “Oh, the sunset! How beautiful!” The sun never sets for them, and they could always enjoy each other’s company—a perfect picnic. This girl in the painting reminded me so much of my wife that I started to talk to her. “I’m so sorry!” I cried out. “I wish I would’ve… could’ve… there’s so many things I wish I had done differently, but it’s too late. I should’ve gone to more art galleries with you! Asked you about your painting.” The man in the painting said exactly what I did to the woman, using the same motions and everything. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. “What are you talking about?” she said to him and seemed taken aback. “You, okay? Practicing for an audition or something?” To this day, I still think the younger man looked at me and gave me a subtle nod, “Yeah, sure am.” “Well, in that case, I’d say don’t worry about the past. It can’t be changed anyway, so what good is it to get upset over it? Think of the good times and all their little moments. The times we present. That makes life special—those moments and all their imperfections.” She finished her mini monologue. “How was that?” “In a word, perfect.” They kissed underneath the tree, and as they did, I noticed that the tree was made up of details from their life: their first movie stub ticket, a picture that he drew for her, and their names carved into the tree above an

I Love You . I wanted to stay with this couple, but just because their sun doesn’t move doesn’t mean mine didn’t. The moon had almost disappeared, and it was time for the sun to rejoin the world. The beam vanished as the paintings became still and peaceful once again. I looked at these paintings, which were back in their original state. The older Asian man from earlier walked by the window and gave me a smile and wave. I returned it. I never found out how or if those pictures came to life, but I guess that man knew something I didn’t know about before. I quit my job that morning. It was time to move on. I headed to the park for a picnic at my shift's end. It was a beautiful day, and though I was tired from the night’s events, I was more excited to go out and get some fresh air. I sat down at the park bench underneath a tree and opened the picnic basket that I brought. The food lay before me: fruit, water, chips, and as I was about to get the last thing, I laughed. I forgot the sandwiches again.


Hannah and Harley I arrived at the Bristol Harbor dock in the October dusk, as the last ferry for Prudence Island prepared to sail. Hectic Friday night traffic had been further hampered by the thick fog blanket that crept into every nook and cranny, slowing the invisible cars to a winding snake with multiple pairs of glowing red eyes. The swirling damp gray obliterated all but a blurred outline of the boat, and I heard the creaking of the ferry gate as it began to close. The ferry was running behind schedule, but still I feared I wouldn’t make it and flew down the dock dragging my overnight bag and yelling, “Wait, please wait, I’m here!” The creaking stopped. A disembodied voice called, “Hannah, is that you?” Andrew, the deck hand, teased me every Friday about my last minute arrival, and recognizing my distraught voice, he stopped closing the gate. “Yes,” I called back as I neared the end of the dock, ”I got delayed by the fog.” As I boarded, and could finally see him, Andrew grumbled and locked the gate behind me. “I tried to convince the captain we should cancel this run, but he is determined to make it. It’s going to be a hell of a trip, hopefully all the other boats have the sense to stay home.” I nodded and tucked myself into the cabin. Normally, commuting cars filled the last ferry on Friday, but tonight only few lined the deck, and only three of us sat in the cabin.  The boat cautiously pulled away from the dock, sounding the horn intermittently, and I stood by the window, as if my intense searching of the gray soup would somehow help the captain navigate. Suddenly a shape emerged from the murk, a fishing boat loomed so closely I could have touched it, had I been on deck. I gasped as it vanished again, but in that brief moment I caught a glimpse of the name, the Edward James. "My God, did you see that?” I said to my two fellow passengers, and I collapsed on the bench. They barely glanced up from their iPhones, shook their heads and returned to their lighted screens. By some navigational miracle, we made it safely to our destination, and I walked to my island car, wondering if the Edward James had fared as well. I started the car and headed towards my cottage hoping the visibility would improve, but the steely curtain persisted. Normally, any vestiges of stress from the previous week were dissolved by the time I reached this quiet retreat. However, tonight my hands gripped the steering wheel as I searched the impenetrable mist for the thread of dark, narrow, dirt road. I drove with a prickling sense of foreboding that shivered through my bones. I kept telling myself, “It’s normal to be anxious when driving inside a cloud,” but this felt like more, a disquiet that permeated the air around me, making it difficult to breathe. Finally I turned down the winding driveway that led to my bungalow, perched on the rocky banks at the North end of the island. I tried to remember why I thought it was a good idea to be invisible to all other houses and a mile from my closest neighbor. I felt rather than saw, the end of the drive, and stopped the car next to where I hoped the front porch still stood. After prying my fingers from the steering wheel, I retrieved my pocket flashlight, but its tiny beam quickly disappeared. I climbed the steps, buffeted by the rising wind, and found the knob for my unlocked door. Reaching my hand around the corner, I flipped the light switch, but the darkness remained—no power. I felt my way to the kitchen and fumbled with lighting the oil lamp I kept on the table for emergencies. Then I put away the groceries and began preparing a cold supper of cheese, crackers, and apple slices. The cottage trembled as the wind howled and circled like a prowling wolf, and in the distance the ringing of a ship’s bell floated over the water. “That’s odd,” I thought, “no boats should be out now.” A chill slithered down my spine. I stepped out on the deck overlooking the bay and found the strengthening gale had shredded the fog to feathery wisps that clung to the rigging of a fishing boat pointed towards the cliffs. The wind whipped the bay to a frenzy of whitecaps and the boat drew closer; a sliver of moonlight crossed the bow and the name Edward James crested a wave. If it didn’t veer away soon, it would be splintered on the rocks. Panicked, I grabbed my cell phone and called Harley, the local fire chief who lived near the ferry dock. When he answered, I yelled above the howl of the gusts. “Harley, it’s Hannah, a fierce wind has blown out the power, and I can see a boat struggling in the heavy seas in front of my house. It’s headed towards the bluffs, and I’m afraid it’s going to be dashed on the rocks.” “What planet are you on Hannah? That fog is socked in so tight I can’t see my car in the driveway, never mind a boat on the bay, and there are no reports of a power outage.” “But the moon is shining right on it, the fog lifted, but the wind is rising and the bay is rough.” “There is no wind Hannah. It is dead calm out there—I don’t even hear the bell buoy. When I walk outside my door, there is nothing but a wet hanging cloud. What makes you think there is a boat out there?” “I can see it in the moonlight being tossed on the waves.” “Hannah,” Harley said slowly and precisely, “there is no wind, there is no moon, and there are no waves to toss a ship that isn’t there.” The volume of his voice rose until he shouted the last few words. “But I can see it, it’s the Edward James, and it’s foundering, we have to help!” My frantic words met with silence on the other end. “Harley? Are you there?” I cried, afraid I had lost the connection. Still no answer, and then I heard his quiet response. “I’m here Hannah, the Edward James was my great grandfather’s fishing boat, it went down in the ’38 Hurricane, with all hands on board.”