I'm not sure there's anything worse than having to take a shit at work. It's not like I have issues pooping or anything, but the bathrooms are so disgusting. The men's room is a smorgasbord of tobacco spit in the corners of stalls, shit smears on inconceivable surfaces, wet toilet paper everywhere, loose--and often wet--pubes, bandits of tobacco everywhere, and unflushed toilets and urinals. It's lit like a back alley, and reeks of piss and shit regardless of the time of day. And on a hot day like today, it's worse. It's beyond stressful; it's stressful enough being in the office and dealing with anything and everyone, listening to entitled people bitch about current events, or the weather; everything that's beyond their control and out of their depth to even understand. There is nothing more annoying than being forced to listen to office banter. But unfortunately, I have to poop, which is worse than the banter. I lock my computer and head to the bathroom. The closest one to my cubicle only has three stalls and three urinals, and luckily nobody else is in here. The stink isn't overpowering, but I can tell I'm making a face over it. I open the first stall and the toilet is loaded with excess toilet paper and shit, all floating near the brim. Another common sight: clogged toilets from guys who have no regard for the correct amount of toilet paper they need. It doesn't even look used; it's like they pooped and then threw TP in to make it seem like they wiped. I gag a little from the sight and smell, and I close the stall. The second stall looks okay; there is only a small discoloration on the back of the seat where someone didn't scoot far enough forward, and a small piss puddle where the seat doesn't connect in the front, and both of those are easily fixable. I wad up about a foot of toilet paper, spit on the seat, and wipe around the rim, scrubbing at the shit color, which comes off. Then I take another foot of paper and wipe as good as I can on the front of the toilet. I also scan for loose pubes; nothing will make me gag to the point of puking faster than loose pubes on a toilet seat; but I see nothing so far, yet I remain vigilant. I am still making a face. I make one last loose blanket of toilet paper that covers the surface of the water so there's no splash; toilet water splashing on my ass is beyond gross. I drop my pants and sit down to start. It's not a gassy shit, which is nice; I always feel a little self conscious about sound in the bathroom. I always think that people outside in the office can hear everything even though I sit closer than most, and I've never heard anyone in here. The feeling is relieving; this is a pasta shit from the chicken farfalle I had the night before, with spinach and cheese in it. This makes for a solid turd and easy clean-up. The pressure drop in my body is almost euphoric. I start to think about how clean that toilet paper looked in the water in the first stall, like a pristine barrier in which the shit is contained. Why would someone do such a thing? I thought. I imagined my boss elegantly encircling his shit after clogging the toilet, as if to show off his accomplishment, and I get the silly idea he actually did do that in a territorial display of narcissism: Here's the real shit, fellas. Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair. I smile at this. I sit for another minute to relax and see if there is anything else brewing before deciding I'm good to go. The toilet paper at work is terrible. I wrap a couple layers of it around my hand, get a few good wipes, folding the paper so as not to be wasteful, and get up. But despite the relief, there is still that urge when I look at my turd to pick it up. Pasta shits are usually long and solid, which feels the best in my hands, and I like the analysis of it all. It's a need I can't always resist: picking up my shit, smelling it, analyzing, squishing it in my hands; its like a treasure hunt of past meals and prescription med capsules. It's an excitement I don't understand. But something about my bowel movements puts me in a state of awe at the work my body does without any real input from me; how it produces a pure pipe of food waste that leaves my body so smoothly; how the smell isn't great but I can't seem to turn away from it; it's the perfection in my waste that is the antithesis of my life as a whole. This useless shit; this perfect shit. Before I can really stop myself, I give in to the impulse. I pick up my pasta turd and squeeze it lightly, testing the durability. It breaks in half as I lift it out of the toilet, releasing some of the odor that smells familiar to me. I squeeze harder, and the shit pushes out of my hands and breaks off more, leaving me with a feeling of mud between my fingers, like a child playing in the rain. I smile. I push it around my hand some more, rubbing uneven parts between my fingers and thumb, trying to get a sense of what the mystery unevenness used to be, flattening chunks; my face gets hot and I get disgusted with the mess, and I toss what's left in the toilet and flush. I take some more toilet paper and wipe my hands as well as I can, even though nobody is in here; I could just leave the stall and use soap, but I want as much of it off as possible; I want it clean. Somewhat satisfied with my initial cleaning, I flush again, and I leave the stall to wash my hands in the sink. I can smell the shit on my hand, and I run the hot water over it, working it through my fingers while loading up my free hand with more soap than is necessary. My forehead is sweating, and my breathing is quickening, and one hand washes the other. I wash for a good minute, focusing on my nails and any potential residue, any hint of smell; the hand must get clean, and I feel hot as the hot water stings my hands, moving vigorously like worms in a bowl. After another round of soap and scrubbing, I smell my hand close to my face, and I feel comfortable that there's no trace of shit, and I relax. I wipe my hands dry on paper towels, and dab the sweat off my forehead, and go back to my cubicle. I can hear coworkers talking about football in a nearby cubicle as I sit down and unlock my computer; the fruitless debate from armchair quarterbacks on what their team should've done to win last week; what they should've done in the offseason; what they should be doing now; who's the best ever. They do anything to escape from working. The conversation feels so useless as I pull open my emails and worklist, wiping my fingers near my nose, trying to smell for any faint sign of residue; trying to make sure there's no trace of anything. I notice a small gnat walking across the white border on the email app on my screen, and I squish it gently and grimace, wipe my hand on my pants, and dive back into work.


Dedicated to my new little sister, we may not be related by blood but we are related in spirit. We live in the mansion up the winding road.

Yes, that mansion.

The one with the bats perched precariously on the windowsills and spiderwebs littering every corner and strange screams from time to time. It’s just my little sister and I, and I promise we’re not scary. Everyone says we’re scary people with a scary house, but I prefer to think of us as quirky recluses with an eccentric living style. Our story takes place around two am: I’m still wide awake in my bed since I can’t fall asleep until the sun rises, and I hear a knock on the door. I already know who it is, so I offer up a “Come in.” My kid sister, Lilith, pushes the door open with a drawn out creak. I smile a soft little smile as she dashes to my bedside and scrambles her way into my bed. She kicks her little-bitty feet in her lilac footie pajamas a few times and curls up into my side. “Ambrose, I’m scared,” she whispers as she clings to me. I hum contemplatively. “Scared of what, my little spider-catcher.” “There’s a monster under my bed.” I grin at hearing this. “Well that’s wonderful news, my dear nebula. Why don’t we go meet him or her or them and see if they would like to stay in the spare bedroom?” We keep the inside of our house fairly free of cockroaches and spiderwebs, but the spare room has gone dismally unappreciated. It is coated in the remnants of insects past and I believe the single light inside has gone dim. But I hope a mythical creature would be kind enough to look past these details and stay the night. “Come, little one. Let's make acquaintances with our new friend.” But Lilith just shakes her head into my nightgown sleeve and I can now feel it growing soggy with fresh tears. “Would you like me to introduce myself solo?” Again, she moves her head from side to side and quivers against me. Now I have a conundrum. She wants to stay here but wants to be with me. I ponder this for a moment before hoisting her into the air and adjusting her on my hip. I snag the flashlight off my bedside table and we head off to meet the monster. Her golden locks bounce as we walk and she shudders further into my side. Hopefully she’ll realize once we get there that monsters are nothing to fear, just misunderstood creatures much like ourselves. At least I hope. I’m excited to meet a fantastic creature for the first time. Though our parents told us stories of them I’ve never had the pleasure of encountering one before. We reach Lilith’s door, (not a difficult trek considering we are one door down from each other), and I swing open the door rather carelessly. I parade past the sea of toys and set Lilith down on her bed with a bounce. I swiftly crouch to my hands and knees and begin to shine the flashlight in a circular motion. To my displeasure, the underside of the bed is entirely empty apart from a few dust bunnies. “Lilith, I see no monsters under here. Perhaps you were mistaken and just heard tree branches banging against the house?” “I think it’s hiding in the closet,” she whispered out in response. I shoot up like a lightning bolt and make my way over to the closet. I fling open the door and wave my flashlight back and forth. All I can find is the dresses she refuses to wear and the T-shirts and shorts she actually makes use of. “Sweetie, there is no monster in here.” I do try my best to hide the disappointment in my tone. “It must be hiding somewhere else then.” Her voice is a pout rather than the cheery bubble it normally takes the form of. “Well I’m sure we can meet it in the morning.” I turn off my flashlight, letting Lilith’s plethora of amethyst night lights illuminate her bedroom. “Can—“ she stutters as she speaks “—can I sleep in your room tonight?” I smile warmly. “Of course you can, my little firefly. You are more than welcome to come to me anytime you want.” She already knows this, but I try to reiterate at any opportunity I get. I waltz over to her bed and lift her towards the ceiling once again. She giggles softly and a smile creeps its way onto my face. We walk through my doorway and I drop her unceremoniously onto my bed with its many pillows. I lift up the quilt and we both climb into its warm embrace. She cuddles into my side and I wrap my arms around her. I love her from the very bottom of my cold, dead heart. And I can’t believe I’ll have to leave soon. - I wake up at four in the morning to the sound of stifled sniffles. It takes me a moment to realize they are not coming from myself but rather my baby sister. I turn towards her to see she is curled into a tight little ball facing away from me. I silently remove myself from my sheets and tiptoe over to face her. “Lilith?” I ask gingerly. She finally seems to take note of my presence and turns to look up at me. Her gaze is filled with tears and her eyes and the surrounding area are flushed rosy pink. Snot gushes out of Lilith’s little nose and runs down her face. I can see the area where her face sat on the mattress is now run through with bodily fluids. I suppose I’ll have to do laundry tomorrow. “My darling, what’s wrong?” She doesn’t respond and instead turns her face back into the mattress, leaving a trail of boogers on my fine linens. “Moonlight, I can’t help you if I don’t know what's going on.” She quickly turns to look back up at me and does something pitifully dreadful between a sob and a hiccup. “Why would you care? You’re gonna leave soon anyway, I only have two hundred days left with you in the mansion.” Then she sobs again and turns to face away from me completely. It was true. Even freak recluses had to grow up eventually. I am going to college at the beginning of the new school year, and I was unhappy with this fact to incredible proportions.

Lilith would be staying with her grandparents Gram Gram and Popsy. Of course I was glad to be furthering my education, considering I was something of a genius it was a necessary step towards getting a job too. But to leave Lilith behind? I loved her with all my heart and what little soul I had in my body. I had cared for her for two years now, and I loved every second of it. To leave her was agony, suffering at its finest. It felt like one thousand needles to the spine and the crunching of bones. I hated it. But sometimes we have to do things we hate in order to better ourselves, others, or the world around us. Hopefully I will be doing all three. “Dear,” if possible, she shuffled even further from me. “Please look at me.” When she didn’t, I chose to speak anyway. “I love you. And I know it doesn’t seem like it with me leaving, but you are my treasure. Please, understand something: I am not truly leaving you alone forever. I will return after my educational stint and we will live together in this mansion for all of time. I will write to you everyday and visit every weekend while I’m enrolled. If you need me, I will find a sorcerer's spell to teleport me instantly to your side and I will be there for you. “I love you beyond the possibilities of love and no matter what it feels like I will always be with you in spirit. Please, do not miss me as much as I shall miss you. Instead, be happy for me as I will be happy for you. I will smile for you everyday you get to spend with your incredible grandparents, and I pray you can do the same thing for me.” Her tears had stopped and she stared at me wide eyed. She sat frozen while hopefully running my words over in her head. Then she let out a tiny little “okay” and reached up for me. We embraced in full and I sat back down in my bed with her clinging to me. This was just how it should have been. Her in my arms, forever safe, forever loved. I was beginning to suspect there was no monster under her bed, but that was okay. It’s not like I could sleep anyways.


Got my thumb out when a beat up old Ford pick up truck pulls off the side of the road.

“Thanks.” I toss my duffle bag in the back. “Where ya headed to, son?” A grizzled old man asks as I climb into the cab. “Anywhere.

Away from here.” I answer. “You runnin’ from that rehab place?” I can barely see the smile covered by a snowy gray mustache. “Yaw ain’t the first fella I picked up from that place.” “Milton Barkley Ten Step Program?” I bow my head ashamed that I had made up my mind to give up on my chance to walk the straight and narrow.

My daddy told me I would never amount to a hill of manure and deep down I have to he may have been on to something.

He done the program long before I got slammed in there by a crooked judge.

“Why did you run away?” He asked as his tires kicked up the loose gravel. Man, it was hot. Someone told me I’d get used to it, but I don’t think I ever will.

“I’m Orville McKenzie, what might your name be?” He asked as he narrowed one of his pale blue eyes on me. “Buck Sentis.” I answered as I rolled down the window which only let in more hot air as we meandered down the gravel road.

“Most folks claim that the Milton Barkley Ten Step Method is quite restraining.” He nodded. “That’s putting it mildly.” I chuckled, “Controlling.

From the moment you wake up until you put your head on the pillow at bedtime, the method as we know it lists out a myriad of do’s and don'ts.” “That’s what I heard.” He nodded again.

“I guess I am more inclined to choose the road less traveled.”

I put my elbow out the open window.

“Son, there ain’t that many roads ‘round here.” He laughed as he cut close on a curve in the road. “Lucky they got one road.”

“I just need to get as far away from the Milton Barkley Ten Step Program.” I hung my head on the crook of my arm so I could get some refreshment from the air blowing in even if it felt as though I was in a confectionary oven.

Orville remained silent as he drove as he was not much for chit-chat conversation it seemed.

It was a good change from the hub-bub of the Milton Barkley Ten Step Program. With my one bag in hand, I walked through the large wooden door to the center.

Once inside, I was overcome with a dozen voices speaking at once in several different conversations. “Name?” A young man at the desk with a neatly trimmed van Dyke of flaming red hair. “Buck.” I answered as I took my bag off my shoulder. “Buck who?” He snapped, already annoyed with me. “Sentis.

Buck Sentis.” I watched him check off my name on a very long list. “Welcome Buck Sentis to Milton Barkley Ten Step Program.” He finally smiled.

I followed suit. “Here is your rule book.” He handed me a very thick tome. I grunted as I cradled the sacred book in my arms. “You need to memorize that book for the exam.”

“Exam?

I figured I was done with tests and such.” I sounded distraught as I spoke. “Well, you thought wrong, Buck now dincha.” His heavy sarcasm was a bit much, but I knew better than to challenge a man with a clipboard. “Harv.” A stout man appeared at the mention of the name. “Harv, this is a new resident.” The clipboarded man pointed to me with a sidelong glance as he spoke to Harv.

“His name is Buck Sentis.”

“Please to meet you, Buck, I’m Harvey Holstein, one of the proctors.” Harvey extended his hand, but I just looked at it as if it was a piece of spoiled meat.

“What is a proctor?” I asked as the clipboard man rolled his eyes.

“They get dumber by the minute.’ He said under his breath, but I still heard him.

“Don’t mind Douglas, he’s a bit of a stick in the mud.” Harvey chuckled since Douglas was well out of range to eavesdrop.

“I got sent here-” “Just about everyone has been sent.” Harvey stopped at a door marked 444. “I’ve been here for quite a while.

I hate to think about how long sometimes.” He shook his head, “This is your room.” “444?”

“Yes, 444.” Harvey acknowledged.

“Kinda small.” I sniffed. “You won’t need much room.

The program keeps you hustling.” He shrugged. “Hey Bently, here’s your new roommate.”

“Swell.” A sarcastic voice emerged from the person sitting at the desk next to a sad looking bed.

“I am so sorry.

Bently can be a royal pain in the-” Harvey was cut off. “Don’t give my charms away, Harv.” His tone was snide and meant to slice into Harvey. “He’ll figure it out pretty quick.”

“Bently smashed up his father’s Silver Arrow on a joyride.” He whispered, but Bently heard every word. “Dweeb.” Bently hissed. “Spoiled brat.” Harvey retorted as he walked away. Turning his head over his shoulder, “I’ll be by in the morning for calisthenics.” “You will love that.” Bently resumed his seat at the beat-up desk.

I noticed the initials B.B.B. carved into the wooden desk. He noticed that I noticed. “Bently Bradford Bellford.

A royal name for a royal pain in the-” “Really Bently, do you want to add to the kitty?” A prudish man in a sweater vest stopped by the open door.

“Higgs? Is that you spreading your disdain like manure?” Bently did not even turn his head to see if it was who he said it was.

“Honestly, I don’t see how you don’t flunk out of here.” Higgs rolled his eyes and marched on. “What’s your name?” Bently turned his head toward me as I sat on the edge of my new bed. “Buck Sentis.” I answered. “That anchor of a book of rules is pure…” He looked around to see if someone was eavesdropping. “Bull-loney.” He tossed the thick book to the floor with a thump. “You will read a chapter a day while you’re here. And there’s a test on Friday.

A test that I have yet to pass by the way.”

“So, what’s the point?” I shrugged. “It’s the ticket out that matters.” He smiled, “No one really wants to stay here in limbo.

Even Hell’s not as bad.” “So why are you here?” I did not flinch from his hard stare.

I’m sure Bently was used to having an army of servants to wipe his nose, but here there were no servants, only counselors.

“Harv said I totaled my dad’s car.” He moved his head closer to mine, “But what he neglected to mention was I totaled my dad with the Silver Arrow and not to mention my poor dear old mother.”

I tried not to let my facial expression betray my utter shock, so I just drew a deep breath and let Bently continue. “I’m looking for a way out of here.” He said in a more subdued tone. “What makes people around here hate and despise me is that I want to think for myself.

Everything here is scripted and predetermined.” “It is?” I swallowed hard. “The Milton Barkley Ten Step Program is scripted and if you follow it, you get to get the heck out of here.” He snapped his fingers, “But what happens when you get in the elevator and Harv pushes the “up” button?” “I dunno.” I put my hands on my face and my elbows on my knees.

“Nobody does.” He waved his hand in a futile gesture, “If I am going somewhere, I want to be in charge of how and by what mode I arrive.

I’ve heard rumors that sometimes the elevator does not go to the top floor.” “It doesn’t?” “Nope.” He shook his head side to side. “Once they put you on it, you are at their mercy.

You go where they want you to go.

Not me.

I’m going where I decide to go. Like Robert Frost said, ‘I chose the road less traveled and it has made all the difference.’ He knew what he was talking about.” Bently mentioned the ravine, but did not seem anxious to talk about it.

All he said was that I had better stay away from that place. His good humor and sarcastic tone seemed to leave him as he simply said that the place was once used as the place the wicked were cast into by the judges.

He was scant about who these judges were other than they decided who went and who didn’t before The Milton Barkley Ten Step Program came into being.

“My father was tossed into the Ravine.” He mumbled as his expression turned melancholy, “Hey, I need some sleep.

So I hope you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” I nodded.

It wasn’t long after that when he was chosen to ride the elevator.

Members of the ten step program are chosen once they have completed the program. “I didn’t complete the program.” He sat with his hands folded and his elbows on his knees. “I wonder what the deal is.”

“Are you ready?” Harv showed up at the door a few minutes later.

“What’s the deal?

Why are you here?” Bently seemed quite distressed and it made me quite anxious as well. “A decision has been reached.” Harv said without any emotion. “It can’t be.” Bently shook his head. “Come along, it is time to proceed.” Harv reached out for Bently’s hand, but Bently drew back and punched Harv in the gut.

Doubled over, Harv managed to tell security to come immediately.

As security rushed to the scene, Bently took a chair and broke a window in the recreation area.

Before anyone could lay a hand on him, Bently had left the facility.

I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

I heard some rumors about him and the ravine and that’s when I decided to escape from The Milton Barkley Ten Step Program.

The security at the facility was not as impenetrable as I first thought.

In a matter of minutes, I was walking the gravel road with a sack over my shoulder.

“So what’s ya in for?” Orville broke the silence.

His crooked smile was unnerving.

“Bank robbery.” I sniffed. I didn’t like blabbing about it, but it seemed to matter an awful lot. “What are you?

Sixteen?” Orville made a sharp turn on the road. “Seventeen.” I glared at him. “Just a babe in the woods.” He laughed barely making the next hairpin curve.

I noticed that there was a steep drop off on my side. “It’s the ravine.” “The ravine?” I strained to see into the abyss, but all I could see was the endless darkness of the pit. “It’s where I take folks who are trying to get away from The Milton Barkley Ten Step Program.” He nodded. “Where are we going?” I asked, trying hard to swallow. “Same place I take all of my hitchhikers.” He slowed as we came to another switchback.

“Who are you?” I began to panic. “Who do you want me to be?” His eyes were darker, more menacing than they were when he picked me up in his truck. “What is the ravine?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “Son, that is the end of the road.” He sighed.

“End of the road?” I gasped. “Metaphorically speaking that is.” There was now a twinkle in his dark eyes and his teeth now had pointed edges when he smiled. “In that hole are the souls of the damned.” “You are the devil.” I shook my head. “Glad to be of service.” His laughter erupted from a deep place in his belly. “Buck Sentis, you have been remanded to the place of eternal suffering. When you and your brother decided to rob that bank back in St. Louis, you sealed your fate with me.

I was quite perturbed when Milton Barkley spoke out on your behalf.

I have tried for years to push him over the edge and close that infernal ten step program of his.

Some folks ain’t worth the time saving if you ask me.” I had the door handle in my hand and slowly I was trying to open the door.

At the bottom of this bottomless pit was Hell.

“You shot that bank guard.” Orville pointed an accusatory crooked bony finger at me.

His eyes burned with hatred.

The door came open and I stepped from the running board of the truck.

I was not looking where I was going and found myself falling.

Reaching out, I managed to grab some weeds to stop me from falling into the ravine.

Hanging there, I was at the mercy of Orville McKenzie.

Suddenly a hand grabbed me by the ankle. “I did not see the second armed guard who shot me in the head.

I was in this awful place before I hit the ground.

They got my brother, too, but he ended up surviving.

They sent him away to the state pen.” I struggled to put my feet on the jagged rocks protruding from the ravine wall.

“Help me.

Please, I beg of you, please help me.” A pained voice cried out.

I kicked my leg.

His hand let go and I could hear him scream out as he fell into the ravine. “Fate has not been your ally, Buck Sentis.” Orville stepped to the edge and looked at me as I hung helplessly to the prickly weeds.

I refused to let go, no matter how the spikes gouged into the palm of my hand. “Milton Barkley felt sympathy for you.

I told him you were a lost cause.

Fate had decided to feed you to the ravine. I felt it was only fitting.” “We were just trying to get some quick cash so we could buy some groceries.

We were hungry.” I gritted my teeth.

When daddy left us we were just children with no idea how to survive.

Every time we trusted someone, they ended up taking more of what our daddy had left behind.

“Hunger.

What a curse it can become.” He took out a knife and leaned over intending to cut the weeds I was hanging onto. “When I walked the earth, I was betrayed by those I thought would save me.

I love driving this truck and picking up lost souls like you and watch as I dump them into the ravine.

Like I am doing to you now.”

“Please…” I begged as I saw one by one my handhold on the weeds were sliced from the rocky soil.

“Just like that whipper-snapper I got last week.

He whined and cried as he fell into the ravine.” He kept cutting with his knife. It was Bently.

He had thrown Bently into the ravine. I felt a rock fall into my hand as the soil crumbled.

When he leaned over, I aimed my weapon and just like David striking Goliath the mighty Philistine warrior, I heard Orville curse as he fell from the edge into the depths of the ravine.

I watched as the darkness swallowed him whole.

Growing up, I became quite fond of climbing on the rocky hills of the Ozarks around my home.

So climbing out of the ravine was something I knew I could do without much of a problem.

Which is exactly what I did.

After brushing myself off, I got behind the steering wheel of the truck that was still running and I drove away from the ravine. It was then I noticed the rotten stench rising up from the pit.

The odor coming from that pit almost made me gag. I could not wait to put the ravine in my rearview mirror.

As I drove, I reflected on fate and how fate had condemned me to Hell. Even as I drove away from the ravine, I could not help but wonder if I had truly beaten fate or was it just waiting for another opportunity to reach out and grab me when I least expected it to.

Either way, I was now free to return to the facility since the road only went in two directions, one way to the ravine and the other to The Milton Barkley Ten Step Program.

Upon my return to the ten step program, I made up my mind to become a model resident so when I was called to the elevator, I knew what direction I would be going.


Nellie extends her hand toward me, a magazine clipping of Joshua Bassett between her index and middle fingers. She’s making a face–her nose scrunched up over strawberry-glossed lips that purse when she asks, “This is your celebrity husband? The guy you want to bring into the new year with you?” I quickly draw a square around the perimeter of the photo with a glue stick before going back in and filling the middle with more glue.

I roll my eyes, unable or unwilling to talk around the bottom of the glue stick between my teeth as I process Nellie’s disdain. With determination and focus, I flatten Bassett’s photo over the thick white poster board my mom brought home from work Friday. She works as an elementary school teacher, and she has a penchant for buying too many supplies. I asked her for the board a few weeks ago, forgetting about winter break. I thought she had forgotten about it, but I should’ve known my mom wouldn’t so easily forget my favorite New Year’s Eve tradition.

As I put a little extra glue under the corners for safe measure, I spare Nellie a defensive glance. “Look, okay… You haven’t heard his music.”

She shakes her head, and her straight honey-colored hair fans out around her. Last summer, Nellie went to Italy with our dad for his latest travel blog. He and my mom got divorced when Nellie was eleven and I was thirteen–just a few years ago. When she came back, she was like an entirely different person. Gone were her natural, coarse black curls that fell around her face in perfectly coiled ringlets, never stretching past her shoulders. She had acrylic nails that hid the ones she used to bite, hair extensions that made her hair fall past her butt, and she always,

always

wore sunglasses–even indoors, even if there was no sun outside.

She flashes those glasses at me now, heart-shaped and pink in color, while shaking her head decidedly. “I don’t think I need to. I don’t understand why, at the beginning of every year, you decide to idolize someone you have no real chances of meeting. Sounds like a defense mechanism to me, Sis.” The smart mouth and attitude came shortly after her fourteenth birthday.

My nostrils flare, and I flip my head around to face her more fully. “It’s none of your business, Nellie. It’s not about

idolizing

this person. It’s about…it’s about having a reminder of the things you enjoy to make it a little easier to remember who you are when you forget yourself.”

“ God ,” she groans. She stretches out over the back of the lavender purple beanbag that has been hers since she was six and started sneaking in my room while I was studying to read, draw, paint her nails, or–later–to scroll through her phone mindlessly. I think she just liked the company. She never said a word, and it wasn’t until my mom opened the door once to get me for dinner that she saw Nellie sitting on the floor, and she silently put a beanbag in my room. I didn’t need to be told that it wasn’t for me. Neither did Nellie, apparently. She’s made herself comfortable with it over the years, enough so that I can probably find nail polish stains and Goldfish crumbs on it right now. “You would think,” she continues, “The way you talk about losing yourself, that you lived this full, interesting life. I mean, what’s there to hide from in your room? The villains you read about in your books?” She laughs cruelly, and I hate that I can’t see her eyes right now. I don’t remember Nellie ever being this mean to me before.

“If you don’t want to help me out with this thing that I do literally every year, Nellie, you know where the door is.” I don’t want her to see me cry because I’ve always been the emotional one. Nellie has always been the chill one–the one who wasn’t easily rattled, who smiled and shrugged things off, who the parents favored until her apathy frustrated them. My mom once begged Nellie to show her some sign of emotion when Nellie got in trouble for staying out past curfew. Nellie shrugged and said, “It won’t happen again.” It didn’t, but I think my mom only got so angry because it seemed as if Nellie didn’t care. Even though I knew a little better than most when Nellie actually cared about things, understood that Nellie’s lack of emotion was often part of how she showed that she cared because she didn’t want to think about something that mattered too much and work herself up over it, there were times when Nellie’s apathy struck a chord with me too.

Now, for instance, she grabs her phone off the floor and comes to a stand. “Okay. I thought you, like, wanted help. I’m just giving you tough love, sister.”

Something about the way she says it makes me stand up, too. “There’s a difference between tough love and cruelty, Nellie.”

“Oh, so now I’m being cruel?” She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Why, exactly, do you want to emblemate these people,

Sis ? The ones you spend all year judging and determining if they align with your values despite not even knowing them? And yet you think you’re somehow different than me, a person who does the same thing but with actual people?”

I feel my brows furrow as blood rushes to my face. “I don’t get it, Nellie. Are you upset about something?”

She chuckles a brief, stabbing bark of laughter. “You never do, sis. You never do.”

I try not to let her get to me as she walks out, slamming the door shut behind her. I look down at the work that I’ve done so far and struggle to feel as fulfilled as my vision board once made me. There’s a playbill for a play I want to see in New York City next year, a logo for the college I want to apply to, a few outfits that I feel emulate my aesthetic, and several,

several

book covers of books whose energy I want to take into the new year with me. While I enjoy all of these things, it’s true that there’s no real mark of myself on here. You could put the same board in Nellie’s room and believe, just as easily, that it’s hers.

I try to ignore the nagging sense of guilt at the back of my mind. After all, Nellie was being rude to me. The thing about Nellie’s apathy, though, is that it’s never been mean. This is Nellie showing that she cares, and when it’s the thing I’ve spent most of my life begging for, I guess I can’t begrudge her that.

I walk into her bedroom without knocking, determined to show her that her anger may be valid, but mine is too. When I walk in, she’s hugging a magazine to her chest, staring up at the ceiling as she lies back on her bed. Nellie’s room has always reminded me of the beach. Her duvet is thick and white, her pillows a deep blue the color of the ocean, her carpet a soft brandy color, and her room minimalistic. There are black-and-white posters on the wall, all of various music artists ranging from Michael Jackson to Rihanna. There’s a chestnut brown dresser against the white wall opposite her queen-sized bed. On it sits a single shelf of books–mostly young adult, some mystery, and a couple self-help. There’s a cylinder of multi-colored paper clips on the surface under the shelf, beside an open journal and several gel pens scattered across the pages. Her matching wooden chair is pulled out as if she just launched herself on the bed from her seat there. There’s a single large window along the wall beside her bed, and in front of it hangs perpetually-closed curtains that are white on top and ocean-blue at the bottom. Above her bed hangs Polaroid photos of the family and her friends, all hung beneath fairy lights that, taken against her white walls, make her room look sunny yellow. All the colors combined feel like stepping on the sand and waiting for the water to greet you.

Nellie rolls over on her bed to face me, eyes still imperceptible behind her glasses. “What do you want?” She flattens back against the bed, stretching the magazine cover over her stomach.

I climb up onto the bed, sitting beside her as she continues to lie, hardly acknowledging my presence there. I pull the magazine from her abdomen, staring curiously at the page she stopped on. It’s a quiz about how well one knows her best friend. I glance down at Nellie, whose lips remain in a fixed line on her face. “Who is this quiz for? Is this what you’re upset about?” When she doesn’t answer, I lie down on my stomach beside her. “Nellie, if one of your friends performed poorly on this quiz, I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, these quizzes–they don’t really mean much.”

She doesn’t respond again, and I’m tempted to dart back into my room never to emerge again…Until Thanksgiving, at least, because I can’t pass up our mother’s sweet potato custard. I blink the thoughts of food from my head as I focus on Nellie, who slowly begins to sit up. I join her, and we sit criss-cross applesauce on the foot of her bed, each of us looking past the other person as our shoulders brush and knees bump. She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Do you remember what you said when I got back from that trip with dad last summer?”

My brows furrow, and I shake my head once. She nods. “Figures. I remember I was so excited to see you because that trip was hell for me. Dad kept droning on about Mom and how much he missed her. He said he regretted cheating on her and that he had just been overworked. I don’t know if you forget this little detail sometimes, Rochelle, but our father is white. It was his idea to get my hair straightened. Do you know what I wanted that summer–why I went with Dad in the first place?” I shake my head again, and she nods once. “I thought that maybe…like, maybe if I could just give both of them what they wanted…I mean, maybe if I was a better daughter, it would convince them, somehow, to get back together.”

I lean into her, bumping her tricep with my elbow. “Nellie, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know that now, Rochelle. I’m not totally dense, I just…I was desperate. I wanted so badly to be perfect because I thought, if I was perfect, maybe they’d have no reason to fight. Maybe I could be good enough to save their marriage or something.” She laughs bitterly. “I know. I’m so stupid, but in my head, at the time, it made sense…” She pauses, but I don’t fill in the silence. I don’t think I can. She chews her lip nervously. “Dad thought this hairstyle looked pretty, and so I just went with it. But then, I actually started to like it. And…Do you know, Rochelle, that the only thing Dad gave me the entirety of our trip was a pair of sunglasses? It was like, Mom sent me with all this money to pay for souvenirs and meals, and when I sat in the car with Dad at the airport, it was just silent. And then he looked like he had just remembered something. He pointed to the dash and said, ‘I have something for you in there,’ and I scrambled through this stack of disorganized papers and food wrappers to find a single pair of black sunglasses. And it didn’t look like he even recognized it… It was like he was just hoping I’d find something in there that would satisfy me. It was like I wasn’t even there for the entire trip. I was just a stand-in for Mom.”

“Oh, Nellie.” I squeeze her arm, and she falls into my lap, twisting around to rest her head there and look up at me. I brush her hair behind her ears and capture the tears streaming beneath her sunglasses with the top of my thumbs.

She laughs again. “Do you know how confusing that was for me? I went out and gave my best and it still wasn’t enough for him. He wanted me to be Mom…But Mom wasn’t enough for him either.” She scratches her head like this is a puzzle she’s been working on for years, and she still can’t figure it out. “Why wasn’t I enough, Nellie?”

“Nellie, you

are

enough.” I squeeze her shoulders, and they shake in my lap.

“Then why didn’t you include me in your vision board the following New Year’s Eve?” She sniffs, and I feel my eyes widen in shock. She shakes her head suddenly. “Forget it. This is stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, Nellie, what are you talking about?” I wait for her to answer, but she just keeps shaking her head. Finally, I grab the sides of her glasses and slowly remove them from her face. Her eyes are large and espresso-colored, fueled by emotion as she looks up at me. “Nellie?” I ask again.

She sighs, a fresh sheen of tears still falling from her eyes. “You make your vision board every year, Rochelle. And I’m not saying you can’t love Harry Styles and Conan Gray and Joshua Bassett, but you didn’t used to need them, Rochelle.” She sniffs. “You used to always have a picture of the two of us together, and that was the first year you didn’t.”

I gasp, nudging Nellie up by her shoulders and pulling her into my embrace. “Nellie, no. I…That had nothing to do with you. The truth is, I struggled with Mom and Dad’s divorce too. I also grappled with feelings like I wasn’t good enough. I…I sort of fell into this world of escapism. I watched

so much

TV the summer you were gone, Nellie.” We both laugh, and I feel a tear escape my eyes suddenly. “I didn’t want to think about their divorce or what caused it because I didn’t want to feel any pain. And I guess I sort of…shut you out as part of that? Like, I couldn’t think about any aspect of our family without thinking of their divorce. And I guess it just looked so easy to you…and maybe I begrudged you of that.”

She hits my chest, and I wince, jaw dropping in astonishment. “Ow! What was that for?”

She giggles. “You’re such a loser, Rochelle. You were like…the one stable thing in all of this for me.” She rolls her eyes, and I pull her once more into my chest. She laughs against me, “I’m so sorry I didn’t just tell you how I was feeling. I didn’t even think about how things might be hard for you too. You’ve always been invincible to me, sis.”

I laugh at that, pulling her face away from mine so I can wipe the last of the tears from it. My phone buzzes on the table, reminding me that the New Year comes in in exactly two minutes. We usually wake our mom up to join us in counting down, but I don’t think she’ll be upset when she finds out why we didn’t.

I grab my phone off the table and wipe the tears off my face. Then, I motion Nellie to scoot over. “Why don’t we make a new New Year’s Eve tradition?”

She smiles, and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in a long time. “What did you have in mind?”

I grin. “Just trust me on this.” I fluff her pillows and busy myself with miscellaneous tasks for a few more seconds. “Seriously, Rochelle,” she laughs, “What are you doing?”

And when the clock strikes midnight that morning, I snap a selfie of me kissing Nellie’s cheek. She swats me away from her, but her delighted giggles betray her true feelings. I smile at her. “I’ll print this off tomorrow. For my vision board.”

She throws her arms around me, whispering in my ear, “Happy new year, Rochelle.”

I pat her back gingerly. “Happy new year, Nellie.”


As I rushed through the thick forest I could feel the branches pulling at my shirt and tearing at my skin but I didn’t stop running.

At top speed, I knew I could run for a good 20 minutes but I didn’t have only myself to consider. “Kassie, …. can we please…. Stop for …. Just a minute.”

I heard Tayler gasp out.

She had been trailing along behind me the whole 7 minutes since we had started running.

If we continued to constantly stop, we would lose the small lead we had on the others.

I knew that Tayler would continue asking to stop the whole time but it didn’t matter we had to keep running.

Finally, I stopped and watched as Taylor plopped down and leaned against a tree. I had met Taylor two years ago when I had first tried to get into the Mafia, an organized international body of criminals, who have a complex and ruthless behavioral code.

Taylor had wanted to get in for a while too but gave up after the first disappointing try and non-acceptance.

Unlike her, I continued trying to get in every year, and finally, I had made it.

Getting accepted into this competition would decide who was the best and who deserved to be in the Mafia.

It was the best day of my life when I got accepted to compete but as soon as Taylor had heard that I had gotten accepted, she begged me to let her go with me.

I had told her no about a million times.

When she finally told me that she would die if I didn’t let her go I thought it was a silly joke but I noticed her getting sick and thin and I realized that she wasn’t eating.

I finally said yes knowing that I couldn’t let her kill herself.

It was the only thing I could do, but watching her now I wished that she would have just taken no for an answer.

The competition started last week.

It was simple, survive for a month with no provisions in a jungle while trained killers hunted you.

I had done many survivalist trips and was prepared for it.

The only thing I had not been prepared for was having someone who was unprepared and was not suited for this.

I knew that if I didn’t get Taylor to accept this and start helping out soon then we would lose. I gave Taylor a two-minute break all the while expecting someone to jump out at us.

I thought all this through making sure to keep a count going on in my head.

The two minutes were up too quickly for Taylor’s liking. “Come on Taylor. We need to start moving again.”

I said, walking over to give her a hand. “Give me another few minutes please Kassie!”

She said in a whiny voice, her breathing nearly back to normal.

“I’ve only just sat down and my feet are sore.” I had to bite my tongue so that I wouldn’t yell at her to get off her lazy bum. “Listen, Taylor, if we don’t continue moving soon then we won’t find shelter before dark, and if we don’t find shelter before dark then who knows what will find us.

So unless you want to be killed I’d suggest you get up and start running.” She paused for a moment and considered what I had just said as if she thought I might be joking.

I guess she realized that I was serious because she slowly started to get up.

This wasn’t the first time she had refused to start running again and I was glad she had made it easier this time. As we continued running I knew that Taylor would be asking for another break soon.

We couldn’t continue at this pace.

I knew that without Taylor I could pass this thing, but with Taylor,

I knew we would lose.

Again the thought that I’d been trying to push down rolled around in my head.

I could leave Taylor and win this without her and as each period of running time got shorter because of her, I knew that I would eventually have to leave her.

I would try putting it off as long as possible knowing that without me, she wouldn’t survive but in this type of job, you look out for number one and no one else.

She wouldn’t last a day in the Mafia and I wasn’t going to waste my time keeping her alive when I needed to keep me alive. Wait, what am I thinking?

I couldn’t betray her.

She may be annoying nevertheless she was still my friend. I couldn’t let her die and I’m not giving up on her.

After a few more breaks from running, I decided to just stop for the night. “Good job,''

I said to Taylor.

She had made it with me to a safe place for the night, hopefully, it was safe.

The place I had chosen was where a huge tree had fallen and the dirt and roots had left a small hole that Taylor and I could hide in for a bit without being seen.

We couldn’t stay there all night and we would have to move in the next few hours. I prepared myself for a long night without sleep by leaning against the fallen tree. After a few hours, I felt myself dozing off. The feeling was addicting but it didn't last long. Before I knew it, a hard shaky feeling roused me from the dark.  I became more aware of my surroundings and found myself propped up in an awkward position against the fallen tree.

The shaking stopped and I found Taylor glaring down at me hotly. “I can’t believe you! You go on and on about what I should do and yet here I find you sleeping. Do you not realize that if someone finds us while you’re sleeping on the job, both of us are gonna be dead?!”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I hadn’t slept for the past few nights, I had taken all the watches, I had found us food and shelter, and I had put up with her instead of leaving her for dead. I stood up, both of us glaring at each other. “Are you kidding me Taylor?!”

I nearly screamed. “Do you really think being killed is worth joking about Kassie? Aren’t you the one who got us both into this stupid competition? The least you could do is help out instead of having me do all the work and carry both our loads.”

Taylor said, her cheeks flushed after her outburst. I knew my face held a look of complete shock but I could feel it rapidly turning into a look of pure hatred. “You think it's my fault we’re in this competition?!”

At the jerky nod of her head I burst out, “You practically begged for me to take you after you realized I was allowed to take one person with me to this competition! Did you expect this to be easy??”

“Of course I didn’t. I’m not an imbecile!”

Taylor replied angrily. “Then why on earth did you beg me to come?!”

I shouted.

I knew that shouting might lead some of the killers towards us but I didn’t care.

I wanted to know why Taylor, a lazy, useless and self centered jerk, wanted to be a part of the Mafia. “Because I want to be known for something all over the world. I don’t care what it is or what I do to get it but I want to be recognized by anyone who sees me and you’re not helping me obtain that goal!” “So,’

I said trying to keep my voice steady, ‘You are having me go through all this trouble risking life and limb so that you can become famous?”

It took all my mental power to keep from hurling myself at her.

I might have actually punched her right then and there if I hadn’t heard the unmistakable sound of someone running towards us. Taylor was still going on about how important fame was to her. “Taylor.”

I hissed.

“You don’t understand my position Kassie. I'm the youngest in my family and I never get noticed-” “Taylor be quiet!” I said louder.

“This will make it so that I’m noticed by everyone and another thing-” “Taylor! Will you shut up!” I tried to tell her as quietly as I could. “What?! Oh I see you just want to be the only one talking don’t you? Well…” I rushed forward and quickly covered her mouth with my hand. “Taylor there is someone coming towards us and we have to get away now. Keep your mouth shut and follow me.”

I started running silently and heard Taylor stumbling noisily after me.

We headed east.

I had no idea where we were going but my goal was to survive and I knew we needed to get away as quickly as possible. I kept running, getting faster and faster each time I thought of getting caught.

We burst into a rocky clearing and I saw looming ahead the edge of a gorge.

I slid to a stop trying to slow my momentum down and narrowly missed falling off the edge.

 Taylor slid to a stop next to me. “....Great...a gorge...you lead us straight...to a gorge...what do you propose we do now stupid?”

I didn’t respond immediately.

Truthfully I didn’t know. “...Well? Are you just gonna stand...there...or are you gonna….get your lazy self...into action and...get us out of here?!”

Taylor said, gulping air in angrily. “You know what Taylor, why don’t you figure out what we do next. You’re the one who wants to be famous.”

“Ugh fine. I’ll do all the work...while you slack off.”

Taylor walked to the edge of the cliff; hopefully, she was seeing how deep it was and maybe she would try to find a way over. I calmed my breathing and made sure to listen to see if anyone was trying to sneak up on us, but all I was hearing was Taylor muttering about how lazy I was.

I was so sick and tired of her attitude and something needed to be done right this instant.

I tiredly pulled myself up off the ground.

Knowing what I was about to do gave me a sickening delight.

I walked over to Taylor who was looking carefully over the cliff.

And with a little push….


Ten Days to Hell or Health Suzanne Marsh January 1, 2021 Dear Journal, Tomorrow I begin a new diet. Yes, I know I say that every year, and I fail miserably. Not this year, I am determined to take off at least ten pounds in ten days. How you may ask. Simple the No Sugar No Carb diet. I am also going to begin to exercise. This will be a first for the couch potato queen. You can bow to me later, after I complete the diet. The diet looks easy enough the exercise I am not so sure about. Somehow, I think I should have done this thirty years ago instead of waiting until I turned fifty. My new mantra is: "I can do this!" I did my grocery shopping yesterday for the next ten days. Perhaps I will look like Marilyn Monroe, I could dye my hair platinum blond, get some silicon implants, gee with my new figure and looks, I could look like a frumpy Marilyn Monroe. Until tomorrow when I start my diet... Dear Journal, Day 1 My new years resolution is now in effect, this diet takes ten days. This should entice my taste buds according to what I have read, Apple Cider Vinegar three times per day, I just had my first taste, it is bitter, it did not help; now I lust for more sweets. I was supposed to have scrambled eggs, with spinach and mushrooms, instead a nice big piece of cake was so much nicer. After the cake, I knew I should have oatmeal, the oatmeal looked like wallpaper paste, it tasted that way too. Ugh! Black coffee...it needs SUGAR AND CREAMER. I am not so sure this is such a great idea. I can't even begin the damn diet correctly. Actually oatmeal seemed like a great idea at the time. However I did learn an invaluable lesson: NEVER MAKE OATMEAL IN THE INSTAPOT. It seems if you don't watch the thing closely it can and will build up to much pressure, I now have ceiling with oatmeal plopping down onto any surface in the kitchen; including me. I simply do not understand how one cup of oatmeal could completely destroy the kitchen. Day 2 My exercise routine began this morning, I am still questioning myself as to why I even got out of bed. I wonder if can declare myself legally insane. I began with the correct breakfast of scrambled eggs, sliced avocado and tomato. No substance but okay I suppose. The exercises are a trip! They are supposed to be heart healthy, let me tell you the sadist, I would really like to meet him or her. I do believe I would have several words to say, and they would be very colorful. The first thing was twenty five squats, by the time I got five my legs felt as they were about to fall off. Fifteen I was beginning to wobble, by the time I got to twenty five I was tottering. Forget the other exercises, I am going to go to the gym. I guess I need a class in flexibility. Day 3 Being out of shape is the least of my problems. I think I sprained my body, if that is possible! I went to the gym yesterday and enrolled. Today I met with my personal trainer, who must have graduated from the Marquise de School of Sadism. She was a really tiny woman with the pep of a ten year old. She began the session with push ups, I now have muscle sprains where I never knew I had muscle. The muscle must be well hidden, I am rather flabby but this was ridiculous. The next thing the class did was to get on various machines: the tread mill was okay but some of the other torture devises...well let's just say oh no oh hell no! Day 4 First of all I need a sugar fix, this diet is making me crazy, exercise is making me so tired I fell asleep in the lazy boy while watching the boobie tube. I don't ever remember what I was watching, although I am sure it must have the Food Channel. Snacks are a nightmare of their own, nothing sweet. There is something about sunflower seeds that is revolting. Almonds yech! walnuts are okay but for ten days...I think not. Lunch today was a giant fiasco. What sane person has chicken wrapped in lettuce grilled, it looked like green slime, after I grill the slime then I added snap peas, bell peppers, and mushrooms. I dislike bell peppers and I detest mushrooms, they taste like earthy shoe leather. I hate this diet but I am going to stick with it! Day 5 If and I mean if I survive the diet from hell I will have lost my mind along with ten pounds! This is the half way point, hallelujah! I may just treat myself to a hot fudge Sunday. No, that is not a good idea, that could put five pounds back on. I went to the gym today, there I met another woman about my age fifty. I asked her what made her decide to come to a gym where torture machines were no doubt located. She smiled: "Well, I decided after my sister had a heart attack it was time to shed about fifteen pounds. I was once a very active person, now on a good day I am a couch potato." "I am grappling with loosing ten pounds in ten days. I guess I should try to stick to this diet but it is not easy. I was entertaining the idea of splurging with a hot fudge Sunday." "Don't do it, that poison to your body!" That was enough of that! I could see out of the corner of my eye the instructor smirking. This was not a smirking moment! Day 6 Here I sit, pen in hand wondering why I undertook this damn diet! Yesterday I rented a treadmill so I don't have to go to the gym to use one. I thought it was a great idea until I began to use it. I had no idea what the numbers were for, so ten seemed like a good number. The damn thing took off like a scalded cat. I had no idea my legs and feet could go that fast as I clung to the rails. Not only did I get an all body work out, I broke two toes and have a black and blue butt. Whoopee! I may send the treadmill back I don't think I can use something that attempts to hurt me! Day 7 Three more days of torture, three more days of this diet! Three is a good number. I am in the process of making dinner: baked chicken, green beans and kale chips. The adventures of eating right. The baked chicken was really good with a dash of lemon. Green beans are great. Kale chips are terrible, sort of like eating freshly mowed grass. It is green and tastes awful. Glad I did not boil it. That most certainly would have been barf material. I have no doubt it would have looked like the spinach like Mom used to make it reminded me of algae that grows in water. Talk about something unappetizing, that is it! Day 8 One more day, I know I can do this! I feel better, my clothes fit better. Tomorrow I weigh myself. I don't know if I am ready for the revelation but at least I stuck to the diet, that is more than I have managed up to this point. I started this particular New Years resolution twenty five years ago. I have tried every diet that has come out since then and there must be at least one hundred or more by now! I don't know if I am bragging or complaining! Day 9 Not only have I rounded a corner but I am eating healthier than I ever did. I still would like a sugar fix, but thus far I have been good. Resistance, I suppose pays off in the long run. I had roasted turkey, no stuffing...that part sucked eggs! The salad almost cleaned out the ten day diet from hell! The salad had lettuce, bell pepper, walnuts, mushrooms...those still taste like earthy shoe leather. I guess my next New Years resolution is stop being so sarcastic, the damn diet does work. Day 10 Day ten, imagine that. The very first thing I did this morning was to weigh myself. I lost ten pounds!!!!! Ten pounds, imagine! I guess the ten day wonder diet does work, although it more like the ten day wonder diet from hell. I now weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. Since I am fifty and also weigh one fifty I guess fifty is nifty. The treadmill has been returned. I still attend the gym...although I am sore from stretches and a machine whose designer was a masochist! Was the trials and tribulations worth it...yes I think so. I now have the energy to walk the dog...a mile a day up from one block every six weeks. I am very pleased with myself...I went out and bought a brand new set of jeans...no more stretch pants for this girl! Hallelujah and amen!


It was Autumn I believe, 1971, a long time ago. Almost five decades ago as I write this story.   I had just graduated high school in Northern California, so that dreadful part of my life was now behind me. Don’t get me wrong, high school was OK, it was just not the high point of my life filled with great times and lifelong friends.  I could not wait to get out into the world. I had a fantastic job at a title company, part time during school and full time in the summers for almost 3 years at that time. I got it because my brother-in-law was an escrow officer/vice-president there. When I graduated, I was making $1.38 an hour.  I also drove a powder blue 1967 Mustang Fastback and had a dreamy boyfriend that, while studying to become a policeman at the local junior college, was working for his dad making a whopping $4.50 per hour. All I needed was a pair of glass slippers. It just did not get any better than that. But back to me. I was a brand-new adult and looking fine. Miniskirts and 3-inch block heels were all the rage, and I took advantage of being young and fit. On this particular day I was wearing one of those dresses that was made kind of like an apron with long ties. You put a big loop around your head then wrapped the ties around you a couple of times and finally tying yourself up in a big bow in the back. I think you wore a turtleneck underneath, that part is a bit unclear. But it was the fashion at the time, and you had the Cleopatra thing going on. Looking back on this moment, I was in a perfect storm of self-confidence and a little too much vanity bordering on bigheadedness. But I was only eighteen!        I guess I thought I would do a little window shopping that fateful day and decided to go to Rosenberg’s. This was a very nice local department store built in 1937 and was where everyone shopped for quality merchandise. It was also the place where most high school seniors had their graduation pictures taken. The one with the V-drape for the girls. Ah, what memories! Two floors of clothing for the entire family and a mezzanine in between for customer service and gift wrapping. Yes...gift wrapping, another memory of days gone by. It was open Monday through Saturday until 6:00 p.m., Thursday nights until 9:00 p.m. for those who worked, and closed on Sundays. In other words, normal store hours at that time. Not like the 24-hour-a-day seven days a week retail we have now!

One more thing about Rosenberg’s that I will always remember is the elevator. Even at that time it was a bit of a dinosaur, other stores having new DIY pushbutton elevators installed or even cooler escalators. The Emporium had just opened a few years earlier in a new mall and it had escalators. But Rosenberg’s had this antique contraption. The elevator continuously carried a dapper young lad dressed in a short red jacket with shiny gold buttons, shoulder epaulets, and a red pillbox hat sitting perfectly square atop his head. He stood ramrod straight just inside the elevator doors at the control panel to smile and greet you. He would politely ask you what floor you desired and then waited the predetermined 10 seconds for anyone else that needed a lift. “Going up.” he would call out, then close the door with a huge lever, locked something, pressed a button and up you went at his masterly control.   I kind of took it for granted then, but when I think back, what a treat for me to be able to have that experience. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more of these I have. Telephone operators, party lines, and rotary dial phones to name just a few! Anyway, the elevator and the impeccably dressed operator were both real treasures. Back to shopping.        I was on the third floor, looking at clothes. I remember thinking to myself how happy I was and a lot of that came from how good I thought I looked. And I did look good. And if I really want to tell the truth in this story, I wanted everyone else to see how good I looked as well. And now as I think back, there is a slight possibility that my ego, and my head, were getting a tad too big in that moment. Now God has an amazing way of teaching us lessons in life. He has taught me many. Some I am sorry to say He has to teach me over and over again. And it was that day, God decided to take me down a couple of pegs and teach me a lesson.  In fact, I can tell you the exact bible verse that He sent my way. Proverbs 16:18. If you are unfamiliar with this verse, you can Google it now or read on and it will all become painfully clear.

Back to Rosenberg’s. I was finished looking at all the beautiful clothes and decided it was time to get home for dinner. I headed for the elevator but thought “No, I’m going to take the stairs.” I had visions of Scarlett O’Hara waking down the staircase of Plantation Tara to meet her beloved Rhett Butler.

       I gripped the handrail and gracefully started down the steps to the Mezzanine. What polish, what style, what poise I embodied as I took a few short steps to the second staircase that led down to the first floor.

       Now forgive me while I digress a bit to give you a better feel for the layout of this department store. This staircase down to the first floor was immediately next to the elevator, where everyone patiently waited for the dashing operator to open the doors with the gigantic lever.

       So, there I was, in all my splendor at the top of the staircase looking down to the first floor and the 5 or 6 people waiting for a ride up. Again, I reached out to clutch the handrail and extended my right foot down to the next step. And just as I was about to descend, those dang 3-inch block heels caught the abrasive strip on the stair.

And here we are back at Proverbs 16:18 –

Pride goeth before destruction,             a haughty spirit before a fall. Did you know that when you take a huge tumble down a full flight of stairs, time really does go in slow motion in your brain? It is God’s honest truth. From the moment my heel caught on that stair, my world switched to slow motion. I felt myself go head over 3-inch heels into a very unattractive somersault.

A-l-l v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. I tried desperately to reach out for the handrail, but I could not get to it. I then completed yet another somersault and was finally at the bottom of the staircase. I landed on my back, my head higher than my feet. My arms were outstretched at my sides, my mini-Cleopatra dress up around my neck and my legs...well, let’s not go there. Let me just say it was a very unladylike position in which to be laying on the floor in a crowded upscale department story in the late afternoon in your small hometown.        Now it is very hard to describe time right at this moment. It was like it had gone from slow motion to now standing still. As I was laying there, I could plainly see the faces of all the people waiting for the elevator. I still dream about them to this day. Faces of shock and dismay. They truly could not believe what they had just witnessed. They were all frozen in time...as was I.

       Then time miraculously restarted, and a store employee came rushing over to me to see if I was injured and the elevator waiters all began to whisper.

“Are you alright? Don’t move. Someone please call a doctor.”

“I’m fine” I responded. “Really, I am fine.” And I tried to get up. The store employee tried everything to get me to stay there and get checked by a medical professional. I must have looked at her like she was some sort of lunatic. I thought “Really...you want me to stay here in front of all these people after the show I just put on?” NO... I had absolutely no desire to stay there, sprawled on the floor of Rosenberg’s, right next to the elevator and really close to the jewelry counter, where a 50% off diamond earrings sale was going on. Not one more minute...not one more second.

Now let me just say that I took a very nasty fall off of a motorcycle when I was 48 years old and I can say with maximum surety that 48-year-old bodies DO NOT bounce on hard surfaces nearly as good as an 18-year-old body does. Even after two somersaults, I really was totally unhurt...well, my body was unhurt.

Amazingly enough I got up, adjusted my clothing, dusted myself off, promised everyone I was fine and got the heck out of that store. But you can assure yourself that what was mortally wounded that day was my ego.

If you know me now or knew me back in the day, I pray you never saw me as a person with a huge ego. I have never thought I was better than anyone else, strutting myself around like my poop did not have an odor. I have had the displeasure of running into people like that in my life and I can tell you I am not very fond of them. As I said earlier, it was just some happy thoughts going through my head at a time when all things had come together for me. And I was feeling...as my mother would say “A bit cocky”. And after this horrible day, I have always tried to keep feelings like that at bay. I really do not need God to teach me that lesson again.  And if I do need a lesson in humility, I pray I do not have to fall down a staircase, because 70 years old bodies do not bounce at all...so I am told! I lowered my head, found my purse, and left Rosenberg’s vowing under my breath to throw away these shoes and this dress the moment I got home and took them off. I got into my powder blue Mustang and drove home. I do not remember crying at all. I was probably laughing hysterically. I do not remember telling my parents about it, but I must have. I do, however, remember telling my dreamy boyfriend about it and we had a good laugh together. Oh, by the way, I married him in June of 1972, and we are still laughing to this day.

I don’t think I went back into Rosenberg’s for a long, long time.


The tables were beautifully decorated. The smell of fresh flowers filled the air. Waiters walked around gracefully to each guest attending to their every need. This party was surely the event of the season. Ted and Marcy were known for their great parties. Everyone who was anyone was there. Rich classical sounds coming from the band made everyone want to dance. Champagne flowed like liquid gold. Kelly was thrilled to be apart of such an event as this. After all, it was Ted and Marcy’s fifteenth wedding anniversary. Kelly made her way around the room, speaking to everyone she knew and introducing herself to those she didn’t. She sat down at the table to sip her champagne, when she notices her hand was wet and red. It was blood. How? Whose? When? Kelly ran to the bathroom but found Ted and Marcy arguing the hallway. Ted’s hand was bleeding, and Marcy was holding a bloody knife. Kelly screamed. Everyone ran to see what was wrong. Ted and Marcy didn’t notice they had an audience. Susan, Marcy’s sister appeared in the background. She ran to Ted with a towel to wrap his hand. She snarled at Marcy as she flew past her. A thousand questions ran through Kelly’s mind. She didn’t know what happened, or why. She wanted to know why Marcy’s sister ran to Ted first without a word or concern for her sister. “Go ahead. Run to him like you always do.” Marcy yelled. Then Marcy turned to the crowd and explained. “My dear husband has been sleeping with my sister for years. They thought I wouldn’t find out.” The gasps from the crowd were electric. The guests did not know what to say, how to feel or what to do. You could feel remorse in the air. Kelly wanted to run to Marcy and give her a big hug. She wanted to comfort her. Just as Kelly begins to take a step towards Marcy, Susan turned to make an announcement of her own.

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping with my sister’s husband. BUT little do you all know that my dear sister Marcy has been sleeping with my husband for over 10 years. As a matter of fact, my oldest nephew is also my stepchild. So, if anyone is the victim here, it’s Ted and me!”

Once again, the crowd gasped. Kelly was so confused. She didn’t know who to feel bad for or who to comfort. At this point guests were starting to leave the party. Confusion on the face of all those in attendance. Kelly turned to leave as well when she heard Susan scream. Marcy had stabbed her in the back with the same knife that she cut Ted’s hand with. Kelly ran to Susan just in time to catch her as she fell to the floor. Marcy dropped the knife and ran towards the door. Ted followed her dripping blood along the way. Kelly pulled out her phone and called the police.

Ted caught Marcy and threw her to the ground. He was trying to hold her there until the police arrived. Then a tall, muscular framed man appeared in the cool night air. It was Jason, Susan’s husband. He ran to Ted and Marcy, pulled out a gun and shot Marcy in the chest.

“Why did you shoot her?” Ted asked. “I hated that B-. She’s been blackmailing me for child support for years. I would’ve taken care of my son had she told him that I was his father. Instead, she wanted him to believe that you were his dad.” Ted fell to his knees in tears. He couldn’t understand how things had gotten so far out of control. He wondered what his kids would do without a mother. What would he do without a wife? Ted had no idea that his son wasn’t his. All these years Marcy had led him to believe the child was his. As far as Ted was concerned, the child was his. He’d fed him, cared for him, and raised him as his own. He would continue to do so. Regardless of who his biological father was. The police arrived and tried to wrap their minds around the madness that lay before them. They were confused and unsure who to arrest for what crime. By this time, Jason had disappeared as fast as he arrived. The police searched for him in nearby areas and neighborhoods, but he was no where to be found. The ambulance arrived and took Susan to the hospital. Ted rode in the ambulance with her. They both needed medical attention. He also wanted to break the news to her about what Jason had done. They arrive at the hospital. Susan was taken to one room and Ted was taken to another. Susan was in too much pain to speak but she could nod her head in acknowledgment. They rushed Susan to surgery to repair the knife wound. After surgery Susan was resting with Ted by her side. His arm and hand were both bandaged, but he still managed to comfort Susan. He felt he needed a little break to wrap his mind around things. He whispered to Susan that he would be back shortly. Susan was in and out of consciousness, but she noticed someone else in her room. The tall man looked familiar, but she could not focus enough to see exactly who he was. Then the man leaned into to her and whispered in her ear. “You didn’t think I would kill Marcy and leave you alive, did you?” Susan’s eyes popped open. It was Jason.

“Now honey, don’t you recognize your own husband? Ted was so quick to comfort you. The two of you made a fool of me. I will not stand for it. You will meet the same fate as Marcy. You both are horrible excuses for wives. Ted and I will be better off without either of you.” Susan tried to move around in the bed to make some kind of noise. She wanted to knock the IV pole over, but she couldn’t reach it. She tried to ring the nurse, but Jason moved the call button away from her. She prayed Ted came back to the room, but he hadn’t. Jason took a pillow and put it over Susan’s head. He held it there tightly until she stopped moving. He rushed out of the room and down the stairs before anybody noticed he was there. Jason hurried down six flights of stairs and ran out the door to find Ted waiting for him. “Is it done?” Ted asked.

“Yes, it’s done.” Jason confirmed.

Ted hugged Jason and whispered in his ear, “Now we can finally be together.”


We must have made a strange picture, the group of us, huddled on the edge of the cliff, the wind in our hair. But no one was watching, and we weren’t thinking about our appearances. We had bigger things to worry about.

“Guys, we have to do something.” Charlotte crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto one foot. “This can’t point back to us.” Milo, for once not cracking a joke, stared down at the two bodies at our feet. There was blood everywhere; we were standing in a puddle of it, and all our shoes were colored deep red. “Well then,” he said, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Let me back up; let me explain myself. The minister was always a suspicious man. He snuck around at night. People saw him hurrying about, saw the lone flame of his candle crossing the green to the church. That would have been fine--a minister in a church is nothing unusual--but people also spotted him in town, gliding down dark alleys in his long robes in the earliest hours of the morning.

Charlotte came to me, Milo, and Keene the first day after winter vacation. She said she had stayed at school for the break, and that one morning, she’d seen him going in the church’s back entrance with something red spattered all over his robes.

With real fear in her eyes, she had asked us to help her investigate. And of course, with no real reason to refuse, we said yes.

We found several things immediately. One of them was a locked trapdoor, cleverly hidden beneath the altar in the church. The other was a large payment logged in the minister's ledgers, made to the locksmith on the first of every month. The connection--and our next move--was obvious.

“Don’t touch anything.” Charlotte said, sitting down beside the bodies, outside the puddle of blood. “We need to get rid of our clothes and fix up this crime scene fast.” “What are we even doing?” Milo asked her. “Why do we need to change anything at all? It’s obvious that Keene killed the locksmith and the locksmith,” he paused here, took a breath, “killed Keene.”

Charlotte glared at him. “I know what I’m doing.”

Milo glared back. “Of course you do.”

Charlotte’s lips twisted back from her teeth in a snarl. “Shut up. Right now.” She yanked off one shoe and set it down beside her foot. “Take off your shoes and anything else the blood touched. Don’t let it get anywhere it wasn’t before.” No one was supposed to die that night. We were only there to get information from the locksmith. Really, we weren’t supposed to be there that night at all. But the locksmith didn’t cooperate the first time we approached him. It was Keene who suggested that we rough him up a bit, just to get him talking. He volunteered to do all the dirty work, said we didn’t even have to show our faces at all, just watch from the treeline, make sure nothing went wrong. Keene did his job, but we didn’t do ours. Keene took the locksmith from his workshop at midnight, going in and out through the window. He wore a pair of pantyhose over his head. He took the locksmith to the cliffs, held him down on the rocky ground and tried to get him to talk. But the locksmith was ready, and he had a knife. We did as she asked, piled all our bloody shoes together, then watched as Charlotte pulled the pantyhose off Keene’s head and added them to the bundle. “We need to make it look like they weren’t here for an interrogation.”

“Why?” Milo asked.

“Because people know that the four of us were investigating the minister, and if people start looking into the locksmith and find what we found, things’ll lead straight to us.” She glared at Milo, “You don’t want that, do you?” Taking a shuddering breath, Milo shook his head. “No. I do not want that.”

“Great. Now give me your pack of cigarettes” The thing about the cliffs is that no matter what you yell or how loudly you yell it, no one will hear you. And so Keene was crouched down over the locksmith, shouting right into his face. He asked about little things. He asked about the locksmith’s wife and children, asked how he and his family were sleeping in their new apartment--fifth floor, Amaranth Boulevard. Keene was a good interrogator, and the locksmith seemed willing to answer his questions.

But as soon as Keene mentioned the minister, the locksmith brought out the blade he had hidden in his sleeve and drove it into Keene’s thigh.

I think that on any other night, Milo would have protested more, asked more questions, anything. But instead, he was quiet, and just dug in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and placed them in Charlotte’s waiting hand. She pulled one out before tucking the rest of the pack into Keene’s jacket pocket. “Your lighter?” Charlotte asked, and Milo handed that over too. After lighting the single cigarette and watching it burn down, she dropped it neatly in the puddle of blood, near Keene’s hand.

Milo and I watched her as she worked.

Apparently finished, Charlotte sat back on her heels and looked up at us. “All done.” Her smile didn’t match the limp, bloody bodies beside her.

Milo avoided her gaze, instead eyeing the mound of bloody clothes, “Now what?”

Keene wailed when he was stabbed. It was a rough sound. Hard to listen to. As he clutched at the deep gash in his leg, he looked frantically at the treeline. I know that he was looking for us--I knew it then too--but I didn’t do anything. Charlotte, Milo, and I just sat frozen side by side.

The cliffs are far away from the town, too far for us to carry Keene before he bled out. We all knew this, and we knew how long it would take before death came to claim our friend. And so Milo looked at his watch, and looked at Keene, and looked back at his watch, and Charlotte stared out over the ocean, and I kept my attention on the locksmith.

It was clear he did not have the capacity for murder. He dropped the knife, crawled away from it, his mouth opening and closing in shock. The locksmith has two young sons, and I’m sure it was their faces he saw when he looked at the dying boy--because Keene was really only a boy--in front of him.

“Now,” Charlotte said, “We get rid of our stuff and go back to school.” She looked at Milo. “Make sure not to get blood anywhere, but dump it all over the edge.” Milo, swallowing hard, picked up the pile and did as she asked. His hands shook, and as he walked back to us, he wiped his palms on his pant legs. Of the three of us, he seemed to have been the most disturbed by what had happened.

Charlotte stood. “Come on,” she said, “The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that someone finds us.”

The locksmith was afraid: afraid of himself, of what he’d done, of what could happen to him next. And so, after throwing down his knife and scuttling away, he crawled back towards Keene with his hands out, ready to help. But Keene was a good fighter, not one who went down easily. When the locksmith was too close to get away, Keene grabbed the knife and drove it into the soft, exposed side of the locksmith’s throat. He jammed the knife in over and over again, and then he stopped, set it down. He lay down on his back gently, holding onto his thigh.

I could hear him sobbing. I don’t know why he didn’t call for us. Perhaps he knew we wouldn’t have come. He died alone, slowly. And Charlotte, Milo, and I just sat, watching, until we knew he was gone.

Charlotte started into the forest, and, without any other options, Milo and I followed. We didn’t speak. She led us down the wooded hillside, into town, through the darkest back alleyways to the school. Following her lead, Milo and I crept around the side of the building to our room. She pried our window open with quick fingers and crawled inside. Milo went next. Then me. She closed the window.

“We’re not going to talk about this.” She said, sprawling herself across the unmade bed in the corner. Keene’s bed. Milo gulped, eyes darting from her to the blankets. She didn't notice. “Not even to the police. If they ask, say that Keene snuck out a lot, and sometimes you went with him, but sometimes you didn’t. Tonight was one of those nights, right?”

Milo shook his head. There was a weight on his shoulders, on his chest, that hadn’t been there earlier that night. “But we did go with him,” he said, “We watched him die.”

Charlotte sat up, “No, we didn’t. We were here. The whole time.” She looked at me, something fearsome in her eyes. “Right?”

I nodded. Where Milo looked weighed down, hunched over, by the night’s events, Charlotte looked sharper. The death had not affected her as it had Milo. It had not weakened her; it had made her stronger, fiercer.

She looked back at Milo, stood up and stepped towards him. “Right?”

His gaze was caught on Keene’s blanket, crumpled at the end of the mattress.

Taking another step towards him, Charlotte grabbed Milo’s shoulder and shook him. “Promise me,” she said, quietly, through her teeth, “That you will not say anything about going out with Keene tonight. You will say that he snuck out, and you didn’t think anything of it.” Milo finally looked up and met her eyes. His gaze was blank, but he nodded.

Charlotte let go of his arm. She stepped back, looked at me. “Make sure he doesn’t say anything.” Then she spun, hair whirling out around her shoulders, and slipped out the door.

Once she was gone, Milo collapsed. Her presence had been holding him up like puppet strings, but now the support was gone. He curled up in Keene’s bed, pulled the pillow against his chest, and cried.

I sat down next to him. Not touching him, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of skin. “You know you didn’t kill him, right? There was no way we could have saved him.”

“But we just watched him,” he hiccupped, “We watched him die.” He buried his face in the pillow. His voice was muffled. “Why couldn’t we have at least sat with him?”

I wanted to tell him that maybe we were all too scared, even Charlotte, but I realized I didn’t really know. Why hadn’t we left our hiding spots, once we knew that the locksmith was dead, and gone to sit with our friend? What force had kept us behind our trees, silent and frozen? And why didn’t Charlotte seem to care at all?


The new subdivisions had been assigned different individual colours.  There was the blue, green, red, yellow, orange, purple, pink and violet neighbourhoods.  It was a very interesting idea. They were dubbed a certain colour because they featured the many shades of that individual tint. For example, the Blue Neighbourhood boasted houses that were cyan, steel, sky, electric, teal, pigeon and azure. The streets were painted blue and all of the buildings that weren’t house dwellings were painted a blue hue. This made organization very easy for all of the authorities. Every person that had been allowed in one of the newer subdivisions were associated with the colour of the area they lived in. For example, there was Blue Wilson, or Green Jones or Yellow Taylor. But, there was more than that. The people were herded in a manner that was consistent with race, religion, and sexual orientation. Each colour featured a different slant on society. It was thought that by doing this it would cut down on racism and discrimination.  So someone that was black didn’t live in a white neighbourhood and vice versa.

The Red Hardings lived in the red subdivision.  The family consisted of Joan and Mary Hardings, and their respective children, Andrea, Larry, Robert, Theresa and Madeleine.  Joan and Mary were legally married and raised the five children in a blended family atmosphere. Despite the interesting idea of giving each neighbourhood a different colour, there were the same basic social problems. Some people just didn’t have the tolerance for different. The Hardings because of their varied parental makeup became a target, a lightning rod for homophobic abuse. It started when a message was written in red paint on their garage door. Joan was off to work as she started very early in the morning.  It stated: ‘Lesbians should not be allowed to have children.’ Joan had backed the vehicle out of the garage and was closing the door when the message appeared. She was at first shocked, but, it wasn’t the first time that a homophobic slur had been directed at her and/or Mary. There had been one the first time they moved in. But, that was the only one. She stopped the vehicle and went back inside to tell her wife. The garage door was quickly painted over later that day, but it shook them. “It must be someone from one of the other neighbourhoods,” said Joan. “You would think so,” said Mary. “After all, why would someone in the red neighbourhood target us? We are all in the same boat.” It was a week later when their lawn had been painted a blood red. It was a skull and crossbones and was incredibly disturbing. They quickly put a tarp over it and contacted the authorities in charge of the Red Neighbourhood. The authorities didn’t know what to do.

A Mr. Todd Doak came to the house. He was tall and looked like a praying mantis.  He carried a briefcase and appeared to be very sophisticated, very organized, very controlled. He knocked on the door. One of the kids opened it. “Hello, I am Mr. Todd Doak, is your mother home?” Little Madeline who was four and cuter than any child had the right to be, shook her head. “I have two mommies.” The little precious one turned around and bellowed: “Mommies! There is someone at the door.” Joan arrived and scooped up the child in her arms. “Hello, you must be from the office?” “Yes, I am. I am Mr. Doak, I run the department that is responsible for looking into hate crimes.” “Come on in.” Mr. Doak walked inside and the place was nicely and tastefully decorated. It was a family home with pictures that were the talented art work of the five children. There was a homy, comfortable feeling and he smiled. “I really like your decorations.” “This one is mine,” blurted Madeline. “I see and it is very amazing.” “I knew that.” She smiled and Joan rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you go and play?” “But, I want to talk to the man.” “I have to talk to the man.” “Why don’t we both talk to the man?” Mr. Doak laughed. “How about if everyone talks to the man?” So they made their way to the kitchen table and all of the kids took a seat.

“My wife isn’t here right now. She should be home any moment now.” “There is someone that is trying to hurt us, mister and I don’t like it.” Andrea smiled. She was fourteen, a pretty girl, and as the oldest she fussed over the others. “That is why I am here.” “I don’t want any of my brothers or sisters to get hurt. We are a family and we love each other even though there are times when we drive each other crazy.” The others laughed. “Yeah, real crazy,” said Theresa with an angelic face and long dark hair. She was a beautiful child.  Her smile lit up the room. “Someone doesn’t like us because we have two moms. Maybe they are jealous because they don’t have any?”  Robert looked at Mr. Doak. “If anyone touches any of us then I am going to really punch them out.” Larry, who was all of eight years old and of average height and weight didn’t intimidate anyone. “Okay, tough guy,” said Joan. Mary walked through the door. “Mommy is home.” Madeline jumped off Mr. Doak’s lap and ran for the door. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon enough,” warned Joan. He smiled back at her. Theresa occupied his other lap. “I am sure that she will.” “See, mom, I told you that there was a man here from the autotories.” “That is authorities,” said Andrea. “That’s what I said,” replied Madeline giving her big sister a dirty look. “This is my wife, Mary. This is Mr. Doak.” They shook hands. “I am afraid for the children’s safety,” said Mary. “Yes, so am I, and they are darling children.” Madeline was back on his lap. She smiled at him and he returned the smile. “So what can you do about it?” “I am going to assign a special police officer that will be around your home for the duration of this until we catch the person or people responsible for the cowardly actions.” “Thank you, that’s wonderful.” “Would you like to stay for supper?” “Tonight, we are having wieners and beans.” Madeline looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“I will have to clear it with my superior. Since, my wife is out of town, it is better than eating a TV diner.” He stayed and it was a fun time. Mr. Doak went to the office the next morning and closed the door. He pulled out the red phone and pressed a few buttons.

“Yeah, the house at 535 Crimson Street is the one. Find out what is going on.” He put the red phone back in the locked drawer. A solid week went by and nothing happened. Then one night, it was almost two in the morning when all craziness broke loose.  The perpetrator with the cans of spray paint wasn’t ready for what was waiting for him at 535 Crimson Street. The shadowy figure produced a taser and brought the criminal down on his knees.

“I knew I would catch you sooner or later.” The scream of pain echoed throughout the neighbourhood and the neighbours were aware of what was going on. The specially assigned police officer came running. When she arrived, the cretin responsible for all of the graffiti and offensive messages was tied in a knot like a pretzel. There was a note attached to him. The police woman read it and laughed. The one with the massive and crippling grip that had stopped the vandal had slipped away in the night to someday return when someone else was doing someone wrong in the red neighbourhood. The figure stood in the dark and saw the angelic face of little Madeline starring out the second story window at all of the action going on.

He waved at her and of course she didn’t see him, but that was okay. “Sweet dreams, my little Madeline,” he whispered in the dark before he slipped away.  After all, tomorrow was a work day and he had a department to run.