The Paved Road by Branda White
The headlights are blinding as the car comes around the curve. I want to put my hands up to shield my eyes against the brightness, but I need to see and keep one foot in front of the other. The car comes closer, not taking notice that I’m walking alongside the road until it’s too late to move over the double yellow lines. A gust of wind fans my hair as it rushes pass me, brown strands tangle in my face.
Another car coming from behind honks its horn, but I keep my face low and my eyes straight ahead. My black shirt and dark jeans blend into the night around me. I clutch my purse strap in my fist, my keys thread through my fingers of my other hand, and I cross my arms over my chest.
I keep close to the guard rail and my shoes sink into the loose asphalt. My breathing becomes labored as I walk up the hill. Every so often my feet trip over each other and I force them to walk slower, even though I want nothing more than to be in my bed.
It’s been exactly thirty minutes, according to my phone I quickly glance at, since I stepped out of the humid and dank basement of the frat house. My stomach still hasn’t settled since I stepped out the door and took a deep breath of chilled air.
I let go of my strap and span my palm and fingers across my stomach. I try to keep the tears at bay, but when I feel the softness through my shirt I allow the tears to fall down. I stop and sit on the guard rail. A few cars continue to speed up and down the winding hill, but I stay where I am, head down, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks, and cradling my stomach.
You’re so stupid.
My mind yells at me, angry, hurt, and scared.
I’m sorry, I respond back, guilt and fear coursing through my veins. I flex my fingers a little. I’m so sorry.
My phone vibrates in my hand. The screen is harsh in my eyes when I see the name and the contact photo. My heart aches, because I desperately want to answer, but then I remember. I remember it all because it is branded in my head, on constant replay with vivid color.
I let the call go to voicemail and my hands resume on my stomach.
What am I going to do?
I used to have a perfect plan. School. Job. Maybe love. I just wanted to get my degree and start my new life. A life that I earned and created. Mine. Not something that others can take credit for or think that they deserve recognition for being part of the journey. I successfully graduated high school, got into college, and am still managing a 4.0 GPA. With only one year left to go, my plan is perfectly on track. Until now.
Again, my phone goes off. With regret, I glance and see a text. It’s a miracle I can see the words through the blur of tears.
Jason: Babe where are you. Please answer your phone.
I close my eyes. He seems so concerned. I imagine his voice, rich and deep when he calls me babe, like a warm blanket surrounding me. I picture his beautiful sapphire eyes swirling with worry. His dark eye brows pinched together and his hands running through his lush brown hair, bottom lip stuck between his teeth, a habit he has when he doesn’t know what to do.
The Jason that I fell in love with.
But it’s quickly replaced with the new Jason. Murky blue eyes, disheveled hair, and the softest pink lipstick on his flushed neck and full lips. Such an innocent and sweet color of pink that my heart aches. His bare skin has a thin sheen of sweat as he holds himself up over a girl in our bed.
It’s all I can see now as his texts keep blowing up my phone.
Jason: Baby. I’m scared. Where are you?
Jason: Please answer. I can explain everything.
Jason: Joe said he saw you at the house. Where are you?
Jason: Its been over 3 hours. Just let me know you’re okay.
He didn’t say anything to me when he had finally seen me in our bedroom doorway. He froze above her, and when she noticed his attention wasn’t on her, she tilted her head and smirked when she made eye contact. Almost as if she won something. And when he didn’t try to stop or come after me, it hit me then in the gut that she did.
I don’t even know who she is or that we were in a competition for my boyfriend of one year. I didn’t know.
My stomach turns and my lips quiver before I lean over the rail and feel the burn of what is left in my stomach. My last regret appearing before my eyes and a groan escapes my lips. I sink to my knees, the pavement chips dig into my skin through my jeans and I rest my head on the dirty rail. My body chills, my head throbs, and I struggle to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, my hands hold my small stomach. I gently rub it, hoping that it will settle.
My phone lights up on ground.
Jason: Peyton, please answer.
I stare at it and picture his murky eyes.
Jason: Please Peyton. Tell me where you are.
I want to cave. He’s worried; he never uses my name in text. I want more than anything for him to come and rescue me. To sweep me up from this road and tell me it’s all going to be okay. I want to forget everything from the last three hours. But I can’t.
One more text comes through and I quickly turn away again to vomit.
Jason: I know, sweetheart.
If he knew then why did he do this to me?
***
I sit cross legged still on the side of the road. Cars continue to zoom by, their speed throws pebbles in my direction and my hair is knotted from the force. My throat burns and I can still smell the sourness of what used to be in my stomach. I’m cold and numb. It’s not safe to sit here, in the dark alongside a road, but I can’t find the motivation to move.
It’s nearly two in the morning. Jason hasn’t called or texted me since his last text. I don’t know if I feel relieved or disappointed. I’m hurt he didn’t follow me, but I didn’t answer him back either. It seems almost like an impossible situation. In end, there will be no winner. Except maybe that girl.
I will still be heartbroken and alone.
I’m scared.
Maybe that’s why I’m still sitting here. A sick part of me wants something to happen to me. I close my eyes and imagine the headlights of an incoming car driving toward me. I can feel the sting of the loose chips stab my skin and the radiating heat coming from the front of the car. The lights blinding me, being the only source of light I see before total blackness.
My body will join with the car. I won’t feel a thing as I’m pinned between the guardrail and the car, my skin burning and tore up. My skin broken, blood trickling down my arm like a flowing faucet. My hazel eyes dull without life gazing in the distance. Finally at peace in a chaotic mess.
I hug my arms tighter around me, chilled by the way my thoughts have turned. I can picture death so easily, like it is the only answer to my situation. But, my heart races with the thought of death and beats with fear for living.
I lower myself down on the ground, lying down on my back and stare at the empty sky. I’m suddenly exhausted. The urge to throw up is back, but I close my eyes and take deep breathes. I want to sleep, to just rest for a moment.
I see red behind my eyelids as lights round the bend. Even with my eyes closed they’re blinding, but they stay on me. I count to ten but the lights are still there. I crack open my eyes and see two orbs of light stationed. A second later a car door slams shut.
My hands reach down to my stomach protectively.
“Goddamn it. Peyton!”
I hear his voice, rich like chocolate, anger and fear laced in with its smoothness. But, I don’t move. I look up to the dark night again, cradling my upset stomach.
Gravel crunches by my head. The blinding light is blocked, giving relief to my head.
“Peyton!” My name is loud and broken on his lips.
I close my eyes again, wanting to hide from his broken voice. I should say something. The angry and hurt thoughts from earlier suddenly disappear and I’m tired. I want him to save me, to hold me, if just for a moment.
His hands are soft on my skin. He kneels by my head and gently lifts my head on his lap. I instantly melt into him. I crave his touch.
“Oh god, baby.” I allow his fingers to comb through my hair, only flinching when they get snagged on a knot. “Baby, you scared the hell out of me. We should get you out of here. It’s not safe out her for you.” He pauses. “For either of you.”
Time slows down as his hand travels down my arm, his fingers rough and calloused, but gentle when his covers mine on my stomach. Heat fills me, from anger, warmth and fear. His fingers span over mine and he brushes my soft stomach.
“Peyton, let’s go home,” he says.
At the mention of home I tense. Memories of that girl tangled up in my sheets, in my bed with my man flash in my mind. The moment I stepped into that house hours ago it was no longer ours. It was no longer home.
“I don’t have a home,” I say without thinking, but it’s loud and clear in still night.
His body tenses, his fingers stop.
“Peyton –”
“I hate you,” I say. I don’t really mean it, but he hurt me and I just want him to feel the pain he afflicted on me.
I sit up and shift away from him. A few pieces of gravel fall from my arms. My head clears as I shift away from his warmth and smell. I take a hand a pull my hair over my shoulder and bite my lip.
“Peyton, I can explain. Let’s go home and I’ll explain everything.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anyway with you.”
“Damnit, it’s not safe here. Do you know you could’ve gotten hit being out here?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes?” He stands then, starts to pace back and forth. “I can’t believe you would do that! It’s not just you anymore, Peyton.”
Anger bubbles up in my chest. “You don’t think I know that?” I yell.
“Obviously not. Here you are lying on the road in the middle of the night. You won’t answer your cell. You’re carrying our child, Peyton.”
“I know that, Jason. I know that I’m carrying our child.” I glare at his walking form. “You have no right to be angry right now.”
He stops. His tall build towering over me. I can see the hurt in his eyes be quickly replaced with anger.
“What the hell do you mean? You’re endangering yourself and my baby! Not only being here, but Joe saw you at the house. You were drinking! I have every reason to be angry and concerned.”
“Don’t scold me! You didn’t seem so concerned earlier,” I whisper softly, hating how much it hurts to talk about it. “You didn’t seem so concerned when you had another girl in our house, in our bed. And you knew!” I scream, before quietly saying, “You knew.”
It’s quiet. The cars that seemed to be constantly driving by were now gone. I feel so small in this moment.
“Peyton, I –” Jason starts to speak, but he cuts himself off. I watch as he runs his hand through his hair and he bites his lip. He’s at a loss for words and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“You knew I was pregnant. And you slept with someone. How the hell am I supposed to feel, Jason? What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“I was taken by surprise. I wasn’t expecting this,” he says, crouching down in front of me. His blue eyes swirl with regret.
“Neither was I,” I say. Tears are starting to form in my eyes. “But the difference is I didn’t go screw someone else.”
He hangs his head down. “I screwed up, Peyton.”
“And then you didn’t even come after me,” I continue. “Didn’t yell for me to stop. You didn’t care. You let me go, Jason,” I say, my voice becoming stone. “You let us go.”
His head snaps up, his own tears streaming down his stubble cheeks. My heart softens at the sight. I know that he regrets his decision. It’s clear to see. But I refuse to cave, to take him into my arms and comfort him. What he should have done for me when he found out.
“I know,” he says, falling to his knees before me. “I’m so sorry.” He takes in a shaky breath before his shoulders shake greatly. “I was scared. I am scared.”
“And you don’t think I was?” I ask.
He wants my sympathy, but I am just as scared.
“I know. I reacted poorly. I was scared, had a couple of beers, and Step –”
“Stop.” I hold my hand up, tears slowly fall from my eyes. “I don’t want to know her name. I don’t want to hear your excuses. The damage has already been done.”
We sit together in silence. His eyes are focused on my stomach, my hands pressed tenderly over our developing child. He swallows hard and his face looks tired.
He tentatively leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. His hands cover mine.
“What are we going to do?” he asks quietly into the night.
But I just sit here, taking in this broken moment. I allow myself to take comfort in his sweetness, his gentle touch, and the soft kiss he places on my forehead.
My heart is breaking.
Because I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Another car coming from behind honks its horn, but I keep my face low and my eyes straight ahead. My black shirt and dark jeans blend into the night around me. I clutch my purse strap in my fist, my keys thread through my fingers of my other hand, and I cross my arms over my chest.
I keep close to the guard rail and my shoes sink into the loose asphalt. My breathing becomes labored as I walk up the hill. Every so often my feet trip over each other and I force them to walk slower, even though I want nothing more than to be in my bed.
It’s been exactly thirty minutes, according to my phone I quickly glance at, since I stepped out of the humid and dank basement of the frat house. My stomach still hasn’t settled since I stepped out the door and took a deep breath of chilled air.
I let go of my strap and span my palm and fingers across my stomach. I try to keep the tears at bay, but when I feel the softness through my shirt I allow the tears to fall down. I stop and sit on the guard rail. A few cars continue to speed up and down the winding hill, but I stay where I am, head down, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks, and cradling my stomach.
You’re so stupid.
My mind yells at me, angry, hurt, and scared.
I’m sorry, I respond back, guilt and fear coursing through my veins. I flex my fingers a little. I’m so sorry.
My phone vibrates in my hand. The screen is harsh in my eyes when I see the name and the contact photo. My heart aches, because I desperately want to answer, but then I remember. I remember it all because it is branded in my head, on constant replay with vivid color.
I let the call go to voicemail and my hands resume on my stomach.
What am I going to do?
I used to have a perfect plan. School. Job. Maybe love. I just wanted to get my degree and start my new life. A life that I earned and created. Mine. Not something that others can take credit for or think that they deserve recognition for being part of the journey. I successfully graduated high school, got into college, and am still managing a 4.0 GPA. With only one year left to go, my plan is perfectly on track. Until now.
Again, my phone goes off. With regret, I glance and see a text. It’s a miracle I can see the words through the blur of tears.
Jason: Babe where are you. Please answer your phone.
I close my eyes. He seems so concerned. I imagine his voice, rich and deep when he calls me babe, like a warm blanket surrounding me. I picture his beautiful sapphire eyes swirling with worry. His dark eye brows pinched together and his hands running through his lush brown hair, bottom lip stuck between his teeth, a habit he has when he doesn’t know what to do.
The Jason that I fell in love with.
But it’s quickly replaced with the new Jason. Murky blue eyes, disheveled hair, and the softest pink lipstick on his flushed neck and full lips. Such an innocent and sweet color of pink that my heart aches. His bare skin has a thin sheen of sweat as he holds himself up over a girl in our bed.
It’s all I can see now as his texts keep blowing up my phone.
Jason: Baby. I’m scared. Where are you?
Jason: Please answer. I can explain everything.
Jason: Joe said he saw you at the house. Where are you?
Jason: Its been over 3 hours. Just let me know you’re okay.
He didn’t say anything to me when he had finally seen me in our bedroom doorway. He froze above her, and when she noticed his attention wasn’t on her, she tilted her head and smirked when she made eye contact. Almost as if she won something. And when he didn’t try to stop or come after me, it hit me then in the gut that she did.
I don’t even know who she is or that we were in a competition for my boyfriend of one year. I didn’t know.
My stomach turns and my lips quiver before I lean over the rail and feel the burn of what is left in my stomach. My last regret appearing before my eyes and a groan escapes my lips. I sink to my knees, the pavement chips dig into my skin through my jeans and I rest my head on the dirty rail. My body chills, my head throbs, and I struggle to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, my hands hold my small stomach. I gently rub it, hoping that it will settle.
My phone lights up on ground.
Jason: Peyton, please answer.
I stare at it and picture his murky eyes.
Jason: Please Peyton. Tell me where you are.
I want to cave. He’s worried; he never uses my name in text. I want more than anything for him to come and rescue me. To sweep me up from this road and tell me it’s all going to be okay. I want to forget everything from the last three hours. But I can’t.
One more text comes through and I quickly turn away again to vomit.
Jason: I know, sweetheart.
If he knew then why did he do this to me?
***
I sit cross legged still on the side of the road. Cars continue to zoom by, their speed throws pebbles in my direction and my hair is knotted from the force. My throat burns and I can still smell the sourness of what used to be in my stomach. I’m cold and numb. It’s not safe to sit here, in the dark alongside a road, but I can’t find the motivation to move.
It’s nearly two in the morning. Jason hasn’t called or texted me since his last text. I don’t know if I feel relieved or disappointed. I’m hurt he didn’t follow me, but I didn’t answer him back either. It seems almost like an impossible situation. In end, there will be no winner. Except maybe that girl.
I will still be heartbroken and alone.
I’m scared.
Maybe that’s why I’m still sitting here. A sick part of me wants something to happen to me. I close my eyes and imagine the headlights of an incoming car driving toward me. I can feel the sting of the loose chips stab my skin and the radiating heat coming from the front of the car. The lights blinding me, being the only source of light I see before total blackness.
My body will join with the car. I won’t feel a thing as I’m pinned between the guardrail and the car, my skin burning and tore up. My skin broken, blood trickling down my arm like a flowing faucet. My hazel eyes dull without life gazing in the distance. Finally at peace in a chaotic mess.
I hug my arms tighter around me, chilled by the way my thoughts have turned. I can picture death so easily, like it is the only answer to my situation. But, my heart races with the thought of death and beats with fear for living.
I lower myself down on the ground, lying down on my back and stare at the empty sky. I’m suddenly exhausted. The urge to throw up is back, but I close my eyes and take deep breathes. I want to sleep, to just rest for a moment.
I see red behind my eyelids as lights round the bend. Even with my eyes closed they’re blinding, but they stay on me. I count to ten but the lights are still there. I crack open my eyes and see two orbs of light stationed. A second later a car door slams shut.
My hands reach down to my stomach protectively.
“Goddamn it. Peyton!”
I hear his voice, rich like chocolate, anger and fear laced in with its smoothness. But, I don’t move. I look up to the dark night again, cradling my upset stomach.
Gravel crunches by my head. The blinding light is blocked, giving relief to my head.
“Peyton!” My name is loud and broken on his lips.
I close my eyes again, wanting to hide from his broken voice. I should say something. The angry and hurt thoughts from earlier suddenly disappear and I’m tired. I want him to save me, to hold me, if just for a moment.
His hands are soft on my skin. He kneels by my head and gently lifts my head on his lap. I instantly melt into him. I crave his touch.
“Oh god, baby.” I allow his fingers to comb through my hair, only flinching when they get snagged on a knot. “Baby, you scared the hell out of me. We should get you out of here. It’s not safe out her for you.” He pauses. “For either of you.”
Time slows down as his hand travels down my arm, his fingers rough and calloused, but gentle when his covers mine on my stomach. Heat fills me, from anger, warmth and fear. His fingers span over mine and he brushes my soft stomach.
“Peyton, let’s go home,” he says.
At the mention of home I tense. Memories of that girl tangled up in my sheets, in my bed with my man flash in my mind. The moment I stepped into that house hours ago it was no longer ours. It was no longer home.
“I don’t have a home,” I say without thinking, but it’s loud and clear in still night.
His body tenses, his fingers stop.
“Peyton –”
“I hate you,” I say. I don’t really mean it, but he hurt me and I just want him to feel the pain he afflicted on me.
I sit up and shift away from him. A few pieces of gravel fall from my arms. My head clears as I shift away from his warmth and smell. I take a hand a pull my hair over my shoulder and bite my lip.
“Peyton, I can explain. Let’s go home and I’ll explain everything.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anyway with you.”
“Damnit, it’s not safe here. Do you know you could’ve gotten hit being out here?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes?” He stands then, starts to pace back and forth. “I can’t believe you would do that! It’s not just you anymore, Peyton.”
Anger bubbles up in my chest. “You don’t think I know that?” I yell.
“Obviously not. Here you are lying on the road in the middle of the night. You won’t answer your cell. You’re carrying our child, Peyton.”
“I know that, Jason. I know that I’m carrying our child.” I glare at his walking form. “You have no right to be angry right now.”
He stops. His tall build towering over me. I can see the hurt in his eyes be quickly replaced with anger.
“What the hell do you mean? You’re endangering yourself and my baby! Not only being here, but Joe saw you at the house. You were drinking! I have every reason to be angry and concerned.”
“Don’t scold me! You didn’t seem so concerned earlier,” I whisper softly, hating how much it hurts to talk about it. “You didn’t seem so concerned when you had another girl in our house, in our bed. And you knew!” I scream, before quietly saying, “You knew.”
It’s quiet. The cars that seemed to be constantly driving by were now gone. I feel so small in this moment.
“Peyton, I –” Jason starts to speak, but he cuts himself off. I watch as he runs his hand through his hair and he bites his lip. He’s at a loss for words and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“You knew I was pregnant. And you slept with someone. How the hell am I supposed to feel, Jason? What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“I was taken by surprise. I wasn’t expecting this,” he says, crouching down in front of me. His blue eyes swirl with regret.
“Neither was I,” I say. Tears are starting to form in my eyes. “But the difference is I didn’t go screw someone else.”
He hangs his head down. “I screwed up, Peyton.”
“And then you didn’t even come after me,” I continue. “Didn’t yell for me to stop. You didn’t care. You let me go, Jason,” I say, my voice becoming stone. “You let us go.”
His head snaps up, his own tears streaming down his stubble cheeks. My heart softens at the sight. I know that he regrets his decision. It’s clear to see. But I refuse to cave, to take him into my arms and comfort him. What he should have done for me when he found out.
“I know,” he says, falling to his knees before me. “I’m so sorry.” He takes in a shaky breath before his shoulders shake greatly. “I was scared. I am scared.”
“And you don’t think I was?” I ask.
He wants my sympathy, but I am just as scared.
“I know. I reacted poorly. I was scared, had a couple of beers, and Step –”
“Stop.” I hold my hand up, tears slowly fall from my eyes. “I don’t want to know her name. I don’t want to hear your excuses. The damage has already been done.”
We sit together in silence. His eyes are focused on my stomach, my hands pressed tenderly over our developing child. He swallows hard and his face looks tired.
He tentatively leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. His hands cover mine.
“What are we going to do?” he asks quietly into the night.
But I just sit here, taking in this broken moment. I allow myself to take comfort in his sweetness, his gentle touch, and the soft kiss he places on my forehead.
My heart is breaking.
Because I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Fears by Charae Peterson
They said I was childish and overdramatic. They said I fell prey to false beliefs. They said I’d never grow up to be a successful adult with these pointless fears, but I knew I was right. Knew what I believed was real and true. Knew I would someday prove them wrong.
I was about eight years old when I first started developing true fear. Fear of the dark. Fear of monsters. Fear of abandonment. Fear of the unknown. I knew most fears were typical, or so they told me. I couldn’t allow myself to disobey any pointless rules I applied to myself. Rules such as keeping all my limbs under the blanket while I slept. Rules such as never letting the monsters get my form; whether it be physical or spiritual. I obeyed rules that I enforced on myself for years. Years of self-torment. Years of over-protective instincts kicking in and taking over. I couldn’t allow myself to be taken. I had a reason. A reason to protect the ones that I loved. The ones that doubted my every childish, protecting rule. They were the ones who doubted me. Who doubted these realistic fears of mine.
I was twelve whenever I first heard them. Heard them clicking out from every crack and crevasse of my room. The sound reminded me of animals scurrying across hard-wood floors. Then I’d see them. Or at least, see what I could of them. They taunted me like moths to a light. In this case, there light was full of sizzling pain and maddening deceit. I felt drawn to them because of their beautiful eyes; the only part I could see. Each eye I saw was incredibly different. Color mixes of emerald and cerise. Aqua and maroon. Lobster red and mint green. Each eye drew me in to feel something different. Aqua, I found, drew on my emotions, where, lobster red, drew on my deep desires. I tried to block them out. Tried to find ways to keep them from feeding off of me, but I couldn’t.
“Why must you torment me?” I demanded, eyes squeezed shut. If I were to open them, I’d give in to their every want.
Their voices came in haunting whispers. I felt them slip into my ear, deep down to my ear drums and finally—they would scream! I shoved my palms against my ears—eyes still clasped shut—and pushed as hard as possible until they stopped—it stopped. I wasn’t able—or allowed—to hear them.
I repeated this question every night for two years, and still, all I heard were whispers that smoothly led to violent screams. I wasn’t sure what they wanted from me, but every time I accidently opened my eyes they were there in the dark, ready to feed, and take any part of me they could. I knew this could be avoided easily by closing my eyes and ignoring them, but, how could I? I knew they were there. I could feel their presence. Their stench lingered in my room every day I would wake up. This stench smelled of burning hair and rotting flesh. Nobody else smelled it, but me.
My sister, Lisha, only three years younger than me, was the most honest person I had ever encountered. She would tell me if she saw something, or smelled something—off. But she never mentioned the smell, or them—I called them feeders.
“Do you smell that?” I’d ask.
“What Drea? Is mom cooking?” She’d jump up excited. No, not that, the smell of ash and bile. Definitely. Not. Food.
How could I explain to them what I encountered every night while I lay in bed? I needed to discover why they tormented me, and only me.
That night I lay in bed waiting for the stench to grow stronger and their clicking to commence; to signify their arrival. Then, as every night before, I asked why they wished to feed on me. Completely covered, as usual, I didn’t hear any response. Were they really there, I wondered. I waited for minutes, which turned into hours, but there was no answer. Slowly I peeked out of my left eye to scout out the room—nothing. I opened both now and sat up nervously. I could smell them, but they were not here. Then I heard it—my sister’s screams!
I leaped out of bed, throwing the floral comforter to the side, and ran to Lisha’s room. As I entered, it was the first time I had seen their whole being—and they were devouring her. Their physical body was shades of black and earth tones, which was covered in a wet-looking substance the color of mahogany. It wasn’t a real body—but an animalistic shape—almost like a large dog, with long skeleton looking legs. It had hooves that merged at the toe into three sharp talons; it was hairless—naked with a hunchback posture. It didn’t have ears or a mouth, but three large holes, in random spots, over what I assumed was its head. I could see glimpses of Lisha’s memories leaving her body and entering its eyes and every orifice on its body.
I froze. For what seemed like years. All I did was stand and watch. Where was mother, I wondered. Shaking from my shocked state, I came to a realization; I had to save Lisha.
I ran towards them and went to grab, but as I did I felt my hand being… digested. It was a burning feeling—something like a chemical burn. I pulled back and looked at my hand. Nothing. I stepped back, unsure of what to do. They were going to devour her! How could I save my sister? How could I stop it from eating… or draining… or stealing her. I wasn’t sure what it wanted or what it was taking. All I knew was I had to save her.
“Lisha! Close your eyes!” I yelled. “Close your eyes!”
Her screaming ceased as I saw her slam her eyes shut. The feeder turned to me instantly and I felt it. This one’s eyes were black with small spots of white. I felt my limbs grow numb and I fell to the floor, my head hitting the soft, polyester carpet. My mother and sister came into view. They were yelling at me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They looked worried…no, not worried, scared. I tried to reach out my hand to them, but I felt as if it might snap, so I retracted it. Then everything surrounding them turned black and their blood was pouring out. Out of their mouths. Out of their eyes. Out of their finger nails. It was dripping everywhere. I wanted to scream. Why couldn’t I save them? Every part of them was covered in hot, sticky blood. I couldn’t even recognize them anymore. They fell on each other and started smoking. What was going on? I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t save them!
“Drea! Close your eyes!” I heard a whispering in the back of my head. “Close your eyes!” It demanded again, louder. Then again and again and again. Lisha! I remember now. It was the feeders! I forced my eyes to look away from the horrid image of my mother and sister. I forced them shut. I waited. Then as I had heard it many times before, clicking away. But this time, this time I heard a whisper of hilarity.
The following day I awoke to a new smell. It was the smell of bacon and eggs frying in a pan. Mother must be cooking, I thought. Lifting myself out of bed, every memory of the previous night came rushing to mind. Lisha!
I jumped up, pushing my floral comforter to the side and ran to my sister’s room. I entered to find her playing with her Barbie’s and stuffed animals. She looked up and smiled.
“Morning Drea!” She announced. Happy as ever.
I knelt down in front of her, and studied her for a moment.
“You okay, big sis?” Lisha asked, looking up from her favorite Barbie.
My brows furrowed. “Yes, now I am.” I paused for a moment. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
“You mean how mommy burnt the fish again?” she giggled.
I sat back on her floor. I relaxed my brow and forced a smile to my face, “Yes, of course! What else.” I hollowly laughed. I pushed myself off the floor and exited her room. Returning to mine, I sat on my bed. She must not remember. I’m pretty sure I know that happened. It’s the same thing that has been happening for years now. Maybe it’s better this way, I thought. I can protect her. At least I won’t have to explain to mother. Knowing how honest Lisha is, she’d tell everything. Down to every last detail. How did mother not hear her scream? These thoughts raced through my mind.
For weeks, I wondered what exactly happened that night. Their smell still slightly lingered in my room. They didn’t return for those weeks. No clicking. No growing stench. Every night I’d lay there, covers pulled up to my chin and wait. I peek out of one eye, then the next. But they weren’t there.
Years passed and there was no longer a smell in my room. I even stopped pulling the blankets up to my chin. The rules I lived by were slowly withering away. The only memory I had of them were their taunting eyes and that horrific image of my mother and sister bleeding. But soon, that image was pushed to the recesses of my brain.
Until today. Today marks my eighteenth birthday, and I will be moving on to college soon. Moving away from the house I called home for eighteen years. I’d walk around touching its old rustic woodwork and the furniture I’d plopped down in for years. I knew I’d miss it. I’d miss my sister, who is amazingly, fifteen now. My mother working so hard for us, too, ever since my father passed away when I was twelve. A car crash, my mother had said, but Lisha and I didn’t care how it had happened, just that it had happened. Luckily, now, I know my sister could take care of herself. She doesn’t need me to look out for her. I’ve cried some, bundled up in my floral comforter, just thinking how much I’ll miss them.
This night I am extremely emotional, wrapped up in my blanket. Lights off. Blanket completely covering my face, my body, all of me. Tears flowing from my eyes and my breathing—or my hyperventilating—is muffled by my comforter. That’s when I hear it.
Click. I stop. Click-click-click. No, it can’t be that. Click-click-click-click-click. My breathing goes from complete exasperation to silence. Instinctively I close my eyes and I listen. I don’t move one muscle. I hear them clicking all over my room. There are more than I had ever heard before. Was it really them? Were the feeders really back? I feel the weight of my bed shift as I feel them scurrying on to it. I hear whispers. Then laughter. More whispers.
With some courage I manage to say, “Wha..a..at do you want?”
More laughter. More whispering.
Every memory of them floods my mind. The years I spent trying to figure out why or what they wanted. Their ear-piercing screams. The constant clicking. The stench. My sister. Everything. The image of my bloodied sister and mother coming into view behind my eyelids. The image creates a sickening feeling that starts from my stomach and rises to my esophagus. I rip the covers off, grab my trash can, and throw up. Instantly I regret the action. I freeze and look around at the hundreds of eyes staring at me. A rainbow. Their eyes are so beautiful and diverse.
I move back in bed and cover my whole self with the blankets again, making it so I can’t look into their eyes. Their eyes are so mesmerizing.
“What do you want?” I demand, for the millionth time.
I feel one of them clicking up my leg and part of its body covers my face. It whispers, “We’re going to take you. Just like your father.”
I push as hard as I can behind my blanket and I hear it scurry to catch itself. What does it mean it is going to take me like my father?
“My father died in a car accident,” I state. “You can’t have me.”
They laugh again. More surround me and whisper maniacally. “We have him, Drea. We have him. He’s ours now. He’s ours forever. Just like you. Just like you’ll be.”
“No! You can’t have me.” Tears begin falling from my eyes. They couldn’t have taken my father. They couldn’t have!
I push them all away. Grabbing and wrapping myself with my floral comforter, I run to Lisha’s room. I search frantically, hearing their clicking drawing closer, but she isn’t anywhere to be found. I then run to my mother’s room, and turn to close the door behind me. I look around and see a large bump on my mother’s bed with a light underneath.
“It’ll just be a little longer, sweetheart,” my mother coos.
“What about Drea?” I hear my sister ask.
“It’s okay, honey. She’s got dad to protect her. She’ll be safer with him. And we’ll be safer together,” she answers.
“Why do they have to take her now?”
“Your dad says it’s time.” I hear them both cry together.
I fall to my knees. What does she mean? Does she want them to take me? Does she know about them? She doesn’t hear me crying. Neither of them can.
Click-click-click. They’re back. In a moment, I fall to the floor, throwing the floral comforter off and open my eyes up as wide as I can. The colors I see swarming me envelope me with different feelings. Warmth. Power. Fury. Hatred. Passion. Glory. Happiness. Love. I feel my body digesting itself, devouring itself from the middle to the outer limbs. My eyes begin blurring. The colors and feelings melding together, until all I see is black, and I feel nothing.
I was about eight years old when I first started developing true fear. Fear of the dark. Fear of monsters. Fear of abandonment. Fear of the unknown. I knew most fears were typical, or so they told me. I couldn’t allow myself to disobey any pointless rules I applied to myself. Rules such as keeping all my limbs under the blanket while I slept. Rules such as never letting the monsters get my form; whether it be physical or spiritual. I obeyed rules that I enforced on myself for years. Years of self-torment. Years of over-protective instincts kicking in and taking over. I couldn’t allow myself to be taken. I had a reason. A reason to protect the ones that I loved. The ones that doubted my every childish, protecting rule. They were the ones who doubted me. Who doubted these realistic fears of mine.
I was twelve whenever I first heard them. Heard them clicking out from every crack and crevasse of my room. The sound reminded me of animals scurrying across hard-wood floors. Then I’d see them. Or at least, see what I could of them. They taunted me like moths to a light. In this case, there light was full of sizzling pain and maddening deceit. I felt drawn to them because of their beautiful eyes; the only part I could see. Each eye I saw was incredibly different. Color mixes of emerald and cerise. Aqua and maroon. Lobster red and mint green. Each eye drew me in to feel something different. Aqua, I found, drew on my emotions, where, lobster red, drew on my deep desires. I tried to block them out. Tried to find ways to keep them from feeding off of me, but I couldn’t.
“Why must you torment me?” I demanded, eyes squeezed shut. If I were to open them, I’d give in to their every want.
Their voices came in haunting whispers. I felt them slip into my ear, deep down to my ear drums and finally—they would scream! I shoved my palms against my ears—eyes still clasped shut—and pushed as hard as possible until they stopped—it stopped. I wasn’t able—or allowed—to hear them.
I repeated this question every night for two years, and still, all I heard were whispers that smoothly led to violent screams. I wasn’t sure what they wanted from me, but every time I accidently opened my eyes they were there in the dark, ready to feed, and take any part of me they could. I knew this could be avoided easily by closing my eyes and ignoring them, but, how could I? I knew they were there. I could feel their presence. Their stench lingered in my room every day I would wake up. This stench smelled of burning hair and rotting flesh. Nobody else smelled it, but me.
My sister, Lisha, only three years younger than me, was the most honest person I had ever encountered. She would tell me if she saw something, or smelled something—off. But she never mentioned the smell, or them—I called them feeders.
“Do you smell that?” I’d ask.
“What Drea? Is mom cooking?” She’d jump up excited. No, not that, the smell of ash and bile. Definitely. Not. Food.
How could I explain to them what I encountered every night while I lay in bed? I needed to discover why they tormented me, and only me.
That night I lay in bed waiting for the stench to grow stronger and their clicking to commence; to signify their arrival. Then, as every night before, I asked why they wished to feed on me. Completely covered, as usual, I didn’t hear any response. Were they really there, I wondered. I waited for minutes, which turned into hours, but there was no answer. Slowly I peeked out of my left eye to scout out the room—nothing. I opened both now and sat up nervously. I could smell them, but they were not here. Then I heard it—my sister’s screams!
I leaped out of bed, throwing the floral comforter to the side, and ran to Lisha’s room. As I entered, it was the first time I had seen their whole being—and they were devouring her. Their physical body was shades of black and earth tones, which was covered in a wet-looking substance the color of mahogany. It wasn’t a real body—but an animalistic shape—almost like a large dog, with long skeleton looking legs. It had hooves that merged at the toe into three sharp talons; it was hairless—naked with a hunchback posture. It didn’t have ears or a mouth, but three large holes, in random spots, over what I assumed was its head. I could see glimpses of Lisha’s memories leaving her body and entering its eyes and every orifice on its body.
I froze. For what seemed like years. All I did was stand and watch. Where was mother, I wondered. Shaking from my shocked state, I came to a realization; I had to save Lisha.
I ran towards them and went to grab, but as I did I felt my hand being… digested. It was a burning feeling—something like a chemical burn. I pulled back and looked at my hand. Nothing. I stepped back, unsure of what to do. They were going to devour her! How could I save my sister? How could I stop it from eating… or draining… or stealing her. I wasn’t sure what it wanted or what it was taking. All I knew was I had to save her.
“Lisha! Close your eyes!” I yelled. “Close your eyes!”
Her screaming ceased as I saw her slam her eyes shut. The feeder turned to me instantly and I felt it. This one’s eyes were black with small spots of white. I felt my limbs grow numb and I fell to the floor, my head hitting the soft, polyester carpet. My mother and sister came into view. They were yelling at me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They looked worried…no, not worried, scared. I tried to reach out my hand to them, but I felt as if it might snap, so I retracted it. Then everything surrounding them turned black and their blood was pouring out. Out of their mouths. Out of their eyes. Out of their finger nails. It was dripping everywhere. I wanted to scream. Why couldn’t I save them? Every part of them was covered in hot, sticky blood. I couldn’t even recognize them anymore. They fell on each other and started smoking. What was going on? I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t save them!
“Drea! Close your eyes!” I heard a whispering in the back of my head. “Close your eyes!” It demanded again, louder. Then again and again and again. Lisha! I remember now. It was the feeders! I forced my eyes to look away from the horrid image of my mother and sister. I forced them shut. I waited. Then as I had heard it many times before, clicking away. But this time, this time I heard a whisper of hilarity.
The following day I awoke to a new smell. It was the smell of bacon and eggs frying in a pan. Mother must be cooking, I thought. Lifting myself out of bed, every memory of the previous night came rushing to mind. Lisha!
I jumped up, pushing my floral comforter to the side and ran to my sister’s room. I entered to find her playing with her Barbie’s and stuffed animals. She looked up and smiled.
“Morning Drea!” She announced. Happy as ever.
I knelt down in front of her, and studied her for a moment.
“You okay, big sis?” Lisha asked, looking up from her favorite Barbie.
My brows furrowed. “Yes, now I am.” I paused for a moment. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
“You mean how mommy burnt the fish again?” she giggled.
I sat back on her floor. I relaxed my brow and forced a smile to my face, “Yes, of course! What else.” I hollowly laughed. I pushed myself off the floor and exited her room. Returning to mine, I sat on my bed. She must not remember. I’m pretty sure I know that happened. It’s the same thing that has been happening for years now. Maybe it’s better this way, I thought. I can protect her. At least I won’t have to explain to mother. Knowing how honest Lisha is, she’d tell everything. Down to every last detail. How did mother not hear her scream? These thoughts raced through my mind.
For weeks, I wondered what exactly happened that night. Their smell still slightly lingered in my room. They didn’t return for those weeks. No clicking. No growing stench. Every night I’d lay there, covers pulled up to my chin and wait. I peek out of one eye, then the next. But they weren’t there.
Years passed and there was no longer a smell in my room. I even stopped pulling the blankets up to my chin. The rules I lived by were slowly withering away. The only memory I had of them were their taunting eyes and that horrific image of my mother and sister bleeding. But soon, that image was pushed to the recesses of my brain.
Until today. Today marks my eighteenth birthday, and I will be moving on to college soon. Moving away from the house I called home for eighteen years. I’d walk around touching its old rustic woodwork and the furniture I’d plopped down in for years. I knew I’d miss it. I’d miss my sister, who is amazingly, fifteen now. My mother working so hard for us, too, ever since my father passed away when I was twelve. A car crash, my mother had said, but Lisha and I didn’t care how it had happened, just that it had happened. Luckily, now, I know my sister could take care of herself. She doesn’t need me to look out for her. I’ve cried some, bundled up in my floral comforter, just thinking how much I’ll miss them.
This night I am extremely emotional, wrapped up in my blanket. Lights off. Blanket completely covering my face, my body, all of me. Tears flowing from my eyes and my breathing—or my hyperventilating—is muffled by my comforter. That’s when I hear it.
Click. I stop. Click-click-click. No, it can’t be that. Click-click-click-click-click. My breathing goes from complete exasperation to silence. Instinctively I close my eyes and I listen. I don’t move one muscle. I hear them clicking all over my room. There are more than I had ever heard before. Was it really them? Were the feeders really back? I feel the weight of my bed shift as I feel them scurrying on to it. I hear whispers. Then laughter. More whispers.
With some courage I manage to say, “Wha..a..at do you want?”
More laughter. More whispering.
Every memory of them floods my mind. The years I spent trying to figure out why or what they wanted. Their ear-piercing screams. The constant clicking. The stench. My sister. Everything. The image of my bloodied sister and mother coming into view behind my eyelids. The image creates a sickening feeling that starts from my stomach and rises to my esophagus. I rip the covers off, grab my trash can, and throw up. Instantly I regret the action. I freeze and look around at the hundreds of eyes staring at me. A rainbow. Their eyes are so beautiful and diverse.
I move back in bed and cover my whole self with the blankets again, making it so I can’t look into their eyes. Their eyes are so mesmerizing.
“What do you want?” I demand, for the millionth time.
I feel one of them clicking up my leg and part of its body covers my face. It whispers, “We’re going to take you. Just like your father.”
I push as hard as I can behind my blanket and I hear it scurry to catch itself. What does it mean it is going to take me like my father?
“My father died in a car accident,” I state. “You can’t have me.”
They laugh again. More surround me and whisper maniacally. “We have him, Drea. We have him. He’s ours now. He’s ours forever. Just like you. Just like you’ll be.”
“No! You can’t have me.” Tears begin falling from my eyes. They couldn’t have taken my father. They couldn’t have!
I push them all away. Grabbing and wrapping myself with my floral comforter, I run to Lisha’s room. I search frantically, hearing their clicking drawing closer, but she isn’t anywhere to be found. I then run to my mother’s room, and turn to close the door behind me. I look around and see a large bump on my mother’s bed with a light underneath.
“It’ll just be a little longer, sweetheart,” my mother coos.
“What about Drea?” I hear my sister ask.
“It’s okay, honey. She’s got dad to protect her. She’ll be safer with him. And we’ll be safer together,” she answers.
“Why do they have to take her now?”
“Your dad says it’s time.” I hear them both cry together.
I fall to my knees. What does she mean? Does she want them to take me? Does she know about them? She doesn’t hear me crying. Neither of them can.
Click-click-click. They’re back. In a moment, I fall to the floor, throwing the floral comforter off and open my eyes up as wide as I can. The colors I see swarming me envelope me with different feelings. Warmth. Power. Fury. Hatred. Passion. Glory. Happiness. Love. I feel my body digesting itself, devouring itself from the middle to the outer limbs. My eyes begin blurring. The colors and feelings melding together, until all I see is black, and I feel nothing.
Taxidermy Island by Charae Peterson
Trey groggily woke from his dreams with a moan, rising slowly but with force to keep himself from falling back into his awaited dream world. He glanced over to the warm body of his wife, Mara, who was turned the other way, her back slowly moving to the sound of her peaceful breathing. He smiled, like he did every day, knowing he could share it with such a beautiful woman. Trey treasured his wife. She had been the icing on top of his already immaculate world.
Trey grew up peacefully on Taxidermy Island, where he and his people had lived for as long as the ancestors knew. As long as the first writing had been recorded among them, they had all lived happily in an even happier life. All the people of the island were friendly, neighborly people with the only goal of completing their lives, living with loved ones, finding love, and making as small a family as possible.
He raised from his bed and threw on some work clothes before exiting his room, blowing his wife a kiss as if she would know of his actions. It was like this every morning; he’d rise from bed, reluctantly, head for the kitchen, stopping to kiss each and every ancestor from both their families, then eat breakfast. Breakfast always consisted of a something light, such as fruit or yogurt with another form of oats. Trey considered himself an easy man. He never needed too much and wanted only what was going to make his wife happy. Her joy made him joyful and her love made him love.
After meticulously eating each piece of fruit or each spoonful of yogurt and oats, Trey packed his things for work, needles, scissors, and thread, as he flew out the door in want of arriving to work early. On his arrival at work, he greeted many of his liked and disliked coworkers. He never denied someone, even if he didn’t like them for some random reason. That’s how everything was between neighbors on Taxidermy Island; civil, professional.
Continuing his work sewing together anything his managers instructed him to, he thought about how he would spend his night. Maybe we will have Keith and Andrea over for dinner? Maybe bring out a bottle of wine? Or maybe I’ll spend it alone with my beautiful wife? Planning his night out was a usual thing he did at work, just as every other worker did while spending their time in the biggest factory on Taxidermy Island: The Plant. It is where all the taxidermized people and animals came from and went.
● ● ●
Mara awoke rolling over to find her husband missing from bed. Oh yes, she remembered. It’s a week day. She sighed and grabbed Trey’s pillow, hugging it tightly and sniffing deeply as if to ingest his scent. This was something she did every day he was missing as a replacement of Trey’s body. A few minutes passed of her relaxation before she rose from the bed and headed to the bathroom. Flickering on the light, she examined the Victorian-styled sink as she lifted the handle for the faucet, then she bent down cupping the water and splashing it on her face. After repeating this a few times, she reached for the nearest towel and dried her face, as she did every morning.
The kitchen was the usual place Trey found her when he returned home from his tiring day at The Plant. She was always hopping around, mixing different ingredients of meat, grains, seasonings, and vegetables together, to concoct a new exciting dish for her hard-working husband. There had only been a few times she had disappointed him with her recipes, or at least the ones he had actually admitted to not liking. She could tell most of the time when he didn’t enjoy her experiments. His face would stay very serene and still as he slowly shoveled the food into his mouth. He would be wordless until all of the food had disappeared from his plate. When he enjoyed them, his eyes would have a deep sparkle to them and he would moan as if the food was pleasuring his insides. She hoped today she could accomplish a meal that would leave him satisfied and still healthily nourished.
While she planned her newest concoction, she thought of how she might spend her night with her most loving companion. Maybe she’d invite Andrea and Keith over for dinner? For she could surely make enough to go around and then some. Or maybe the night could end with just her and Trey retiring on the couch, watching a movie, snuggled up together, she contemplated, liking the sound of holding him in her arms.
She examined the time, and realized it was too early to start cooking for her husband’s arrival. So, she entered the living room to admire all of the relatives and ancestors. She greeted each and every one as she did every morning, then plopped down onto the couch and grabbed the nearest book. Mara sat there for some time glancing up, especially at her recently passed mother, to smile and make small comments on the current chapter or occurrence in the book.
● ● ●
Trey arrived home entering the door to a new smell of beef and curry. He enjoyed the experiments his wife created every day he worked; it was like an adventure that never stopped, and one he never wanted to end. Of course, there were days he wasn’t very fond, but somehow Mara always new when he didn’t enjoy it, which left him astonished. She never made an unenjoyable meal twice.
He entered the kitchen—the place he always found her—she was running around getting things all finished up. Noticing him enter, she jumped with a little squeal to run and jump into his arms covering his face with kisses. Trey replied with returned affection squeezing and lifting her off the ground.
“Hello dear,” Trey greeted, “how is the experiment going today?”
Mara smiled scrunching her nose slightly. “Great! I think I might invite Andrea and Keith over for dinner.”
“Great idea. I’ll go ask them.”
Trey set his things down before exiting the house and walking to the next house over. Keith and Andrea were their closest neighbors and dearest friends. He grabbed the antique knob on their front door slamming it down a few times. Andrea answered with a smile, “Oh, hello Trey! How are you and Mara doing tonight?”
“Wonderful,” he responded. “We were wondering if you and Keith would like to join us for dinner. Mara’s invented another lovely feast for everyone!”
Andrea nodded and agreed to join saying she and Keith would be over within a half an hour, and Trey returned home to give his wife the news.
● ● ●
Andrea waited until she couldn’t see Trey anymore and slammed the door shut with force. What a pompous jerk, she thought. Tonight, would be the night she’d make them pay!
She entered her own kitchen where Keith sat quietly at the untended table as if waiting to be served. “Don’t worry,” Andrea said spitefully. “They’ve invited us again. So, you won’t have to fend for yourself again tonight.”
He slightly smiled at the mention of them, but quickly hid it realizing Andrea was watching him. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re happy about them, but it must be done tonight.”
“I know,” he said meekly, lowering his head.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes, dear.”
Andrea grinned with sinister intent behind it, and slowly walked into her room to retrieve a bottle of wine, and a little bottle of poison. Using an injection needle, she retracted the poison and slid the needle through the cork of the bottle injected the contents. She then wrapped the bottle with a purple lace ribbon with a paper tag on it where she wrote Mara with neat, bubbly letters. Andrea giggled slightly, but moved to the mirror staring at herself and said, “Just one more night Andrea. One more night of their perfection. She’s the last of a family and will be sent out to sea, and you won’t ever have to look at her horrid face and all her perfections and all her gifts ever again!” By the end of her speech she was slightly yelling and panting.
Tonight’s the night, she confirmed in her mind.
● ● ●
Keith watched as his wife slid maliciously into her hole of a room. The room they used to share together, used to love each other together in; the room that was theirs before hers. He rose from the chair and tended to his children. He fed them every day and put them to sleep every night, while Andrea sat in her cave and contemplated Mara’s death.
After he fed the children, he tucked them in and read them a bedtime story, just as his parents had done for him. Keith knew how much Andrea resented her children, because of the amount they had, they were looked down on. Just adding to the population. But Keith didn’t care, he just cared about them. But he couldn’t live without Andrea, either. She was his rock, his support. She was the one who worked and made the money for their family.
He didn’t want Mara to die, but he’d do anything to keep his wife happy. Satisfied.
● ● ●
Mara opened the door with a big smile on her face to greet Andrea and Keith, and both smiled back, somewhat reluctantly. Andrea lifted the bottle that rested against her hip up to give to Mara.
“Here’s a little present I’ve been meaning to give you, Mara,” Andrea greeted.
Mara’s face lit up instantly and she scrunched her nose. “Oh, you shouldn’t have! You know how much I love my wine!”
“I know, and this one is specifically for you! And only you!”
“Are you sure? We could pop it open and each have a glass?” Mara suggested.
“No, no, no! Definitely all for you. Right, Keith?” Andrea turned to Keith for confirmation.
He looked slightly lost in thought, and without realizing the question, agreed with his wife instantly.
Mara finally gave in. “Okay, but I know Trey will be disappointed. I’ll make sure he keeps his dirty hands off it!” Mara finished with a laugh, and ushered them into the kitchen to their seats.
The table was a very old used oak that looked as if it had been re-stained over and over again. But it had a story behind it; the history of Mara’s family. At one end of the table sat each of her and his ancestors. As usual, Keith and Andrea greeted each one then took a seat on the opposite end.
Dinner went on as usual; Mara served her concoction of the day, which each person raved about, wine was poured for each, and chatting commenced. But with each glass of wine that was served, Andrea watched carefully as if not to accidently drink her own concoction: her wonderful solution.
The dinner concluded and Andrea and Trey went on their way.
“Goddamn it!” Andrea shouted once out of earshot. “I didn’t see her even open the bottle. And if she gives it to Trey, then he won’t be able to suffer as I want him to!” She balled her hands and squeezed tightly into fists.
Keith moved close to her to put a hand on her shoulder—as if to calm her, but she instantly nudged him off with a sneer. He sighed and slowly walked next to her until they reached home. Once inside, each went off in their own direction, Keith to the couch and Andrea to her room, both feeling disappointed in their own way.
● ● ●
A loud bang woke Andrea and Keith from their slumber. After a few more loud bangs, Andrea and Keith both met each other at the front door, looking at each other with wonder. Andrea reached for the door, cracking it slightly to see who was disturbing their night’s rest. It was Trey.
“What’s the matter?” Andrea asked, noticing the tears flowing from his face. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Mara’s passing.
“Please… please come help me!” He demanded.
Keith grabbed the door and widened it. “What’s going on? What do you need help with?”
“It’s Mara. I’m not sure what’s wrong. Please hurry.”
Both Keith and Andrea exchanged looks, thinking that the poison was the cause. They nodded in agreement to follow Trey, and upon arriving, Mara was lying at the bottom of the stairs. Her mouth was crusted with drool and her eyes closed shut.
Andrea moved first to go feel the side of her neck, to check for a pulse. She looked down, out of view of the other, and smiled deeply. She had done it. She had killed Mara. Turning around and forcing concern on her face, she demanded to know what had happened.
“I’m not sure,” Trey answered. “She must’ve gotten up to get a glass of water or something and tripped down the stairs. Is she okay?”
Andrea looked down as if to hide tears. “No… I’m sorry, Trey. She’s dead.” Andrea was fascinated by the fact that maybe it wasn’t even her concoction that killed her, but instead, her own stupidity. She had to keep herself from laughing.
After a moment, Andrea got up to comfort Trey’s uncontrollable desperation. She pulled him close and breathed deeply to ingest his scent.
“Everything will be okay,” She reassured him. Andrea looked directly into Keith’s eyes—eyes that were full of fear; fear of not being able to recognize his own wife.
● ● ●
Trey woke to his wife’s body next to him, and memories instantly hit him of the previous night. She lay there motionless and he wrapped his arms around her, crying.
He got up and picked up his wife, bridal-style, and proceeded to work. He would have to put her to rest, he told himself. He had to taxidermy her.
Trey arrived at work and instantly took his wife’s body to the blast freezer to begin the process. He would have to prepare the cast for her body, remove her skin, dry it out to preserve it, and then finish the final details to complete her body. She did not live long enough to have replicas of her eyes made, so Trey had to start from nothing and make everything specifically for her. This process usually took a few days to prepare and complete, but Trey wasn’t going to stop until the procedure was finished. He wasn’t taking any breaks, as he usually did, and didn’t leave to go home. What would be the point? he thought, fighting back tears every time he had to cut into his wife’s body or sew her skin onto a filling that was not her.
● ● ●
Mara awoke to find herself lying on a hard surface. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. She tried to move her body, but couldn’t. Even when she wanted to speak, to yell out to her husband, she was unable to.
She listened as the evening unfolded; Trey finding her, freaking out and running over to Keith and Andrea’s. Once they returned, when Andrea felt her neck and announced her death, Mara’s mind raced. She wanted to yell out and tell them she was still there; that she wasn’t dead. Mara could hear them plain as day but couldn’t say a word. All she could do was lie there and listen, and think. Mara constantly considered she was dreaming, but as hours went on Trey carried her up to their room, and laid her on the bed.
The next day was the worst experience of her life. Once in the blast freezer, she felt the cold scratching at her, and her body went stiff. Her mind raced and all she could do was deal with it; feel it. Hours of torture went on, being cut, ripped apart and sewn back together. The instant she realized it was Trey performing it was when he forced her eyes open. The last image she would ever see was him scooping out her eyes, with tears streaming down his face. She couldn’t understand why he was doing this. She wasn’t dead, but trapped.
Once completed she was placed next to her ancestors. She couldn’t see them, but she could feel their presence. They were all trapped. Trapped in a body that was no longer their own.
Trey grew up peacefully on Taxidermy Island, where he and his people had lived for as long as the ancestors knew. As long as the first writing had been recorded among them, they had all lived happily in an even happier life. All the people of the island were friendly, neighborly people with the only goal of completing their lives, living with loved ones, finding love, and making as small a family as possible.
He raised from his bed and threw on some work clothes before exiting his room, blowing his wife a kiss as if she would know of his actions. It was like this every morning; he’d rise from bed, reluctantly, head for the kitchen, stopping to kiss each and every ancestor from both their families, then eat breakfast. Breakfast always consisted of a something light, such as fruit or yogurt with another form of oats. Trey considered himself an easy man. He never needed too much and wanted only what was going to make his wife happy. Her joy made him joyful and her love made him love.
After meticulously eating each piece of fruit or each spoonful of yogurt and oats, Trey packed his things for work, needles, scissors, and thread, as he flew out the door in want of arriving to work early. On his arrival at work, he greeted many of his liked and disliked coworkers. He never denied someone, even if he didn’t like them for some random reason. That’s how everything was between neighbors on Taxidermy Island; civil, professional.
Continuing his work sewing together anything his managers instructed him to, he thought about how he would spend his night. Maybe we will have Keith and Andrea over for dinner? Maybe bring out a bottle of wine? Or maybe I’ll spend it alone with my beautiful wife? Planning his night out was a usual thing he did at work, just as every other worker did while spending their time in the biggest factory on Taxidermy Island: The Plant. It is where all the taxidermized people and animals came from and went.
● ● ●
Mara awoke rolling over to find her husband missing from bed. Oh yes, she remembered. It’s a week day. She sighed and grabbed Trey’s pillow, hugging it tightly and sniffing deeply as if to ingest his scent. This was something she did every day he was missing as a replacement of Trey’s body. A few minutes passed of her relaxation before she rose from the bed and headed to the bathroom. Flickering on the light, she examined the Victorian-styled sink as she lifted the handle for the faucet, then she bent down cupping the water and splashing it on her face. After repeating this a few times, she reached for the nearest towel and dried her face, as she did every morning.
The kitchen was the usual place Trey found her when he returned home from his tiring day at The Plant. She was always hopping around, mixing different ingredients of meat, grains, seasonings, and vegetables together, to concoct a new exciting dish for her hard-working husband. There had only been a few times she had disappointed him with her recipes, or at least the ones he had actually admitted to not liking. She could tell most of the time when he didn’t enjoy her experiments. His face would stay very serene and still as he slowly shoveled the food into his mouth. He would be wordless until all of the food had disappeared from his plate. When he enjoyed them, his eyes would have a deep sparkle to them and he would moan as if the food was pleasuring his insides. She hoped today she could accomplish a meal that would leave him satisfied and still healthily nourished.
While she planned her newest concoction, she thought of how she might spend her night with her most loving companion. Maybe she’d invite Andrea and Keith over for dinner? For she could surely make enough to go around and then some. Or maybe the night could end with just her and Trey retiring on the couch, watching a movie, snuggled up together, she contemplated, liking the sound of holding him in her arms.
She examined the time, and realized it was too early to start cooking for her husband’s arrival. So, she entered the living room to admire all of the relatives and ancestors. She greeted each and every one as she did every morning, then plopped down onto the couch and grabbed the nearest book. Mara sat there for some time glancing up, especially at her recently passed mother, to smile and make small comments on the current chapter or occurrence in the book.
● ● ●
Trey arrived home entering the door to a new smell of beef and curry. He enjoyed the experiments his wife created every day he worked; it was like an adventure that never stopped, and one he never wanted to end. Of course, there were days he wasn’t very fond, but somehow Mara always new when he didn’t enjoy it, which left him astonished. She never made an unenjoyable meal twice.
He entered the kitchen—the place he always found her—she was running around getting things all finished up. Noticing him enter, she jumped with a little squeal to run and jump into his arms covering his face with kisses. Trey replied with returned affection squeezing and lifting her off the ground.
“Hello dear,” Trey greeted, “how is the experiment going today?”
Mara smiled scrunching her nose slightly. “Great! I think I might invite Andrea and Keith over for dinner.”
“Great idea. I’ll go ask them.”
Trey set his things down before exiting the house and walking to the next house over. Keith and Andrea were their closest neighbors and dearest friends. He grabbed the antique knob on their front door slamming it down a few times. Andrea answered with a smile, “Oh, hello Trey! How are you and Mara doing tonight?”
“Wonderful,” he responded. “We were wondering if you and Keith would like to join us for dinner. Mara’s invented another lovely feast for everyone!”
Andrea nodded and agreed to join saying she and Keith would be over within a half an hour, and Trey returned home to give his wife the news.
● ● ●
Andrea waited until she couldn’t see Trey anymore and slammed the door shut with force. What a pompous jerk, she thought. Tonight, would be the night she’d make them pay!
She entered her own kitchen where Keith sat quietly at the untended table as if waiting to be served. “Don’t worry,” Andrea said spitefully. “They’ve invited us again. So, you won’t have to fend for yourself again tonight.”
He slightly smiled at the mention of them, but quickly hid it realizing Andrea was watching him. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re happy about them, but it must be done tonight.”
“I know,” he said meekly, lowering his head.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes, dear.”
Andrea grinned with sinister intent behind it, and slowly walked into her room to retrieve a bottle of wine, and a little bottle of poison. Using an injection needle, she retracted the poison and slid the needle through the cork of the bottle injected the contents. She then wrapped the bottle with a purple lace ribbon with a paper tag on it where she wrote Mara with neat, bubbly letters. Andrea giggled slightly, but moved to the mirror staring at herself and said, “Just one more night Andrea. One more night of their perfection. She’s the last of a family and will be sent out to sea, and you won’t ever have to look at her horrid face and all her perfections and all her gifts ever again!” By the end of her speech she was slightly yelling and panting.
Tonight’s the night, she confirmed in her mind.
● ● ●
Keith watched as his wife slid maliciously into her hole of a room. The room they used to share together, used to love each other together in; the room that was theirs before hers. He rose from the chair and tended to his children. He fed them every day and put them to sleep every night, while Andrea sat in her cave and contemplated Mara’s death.
After he fed the children, he tucked them in and read them a bedtime story, just as his parents had done for him. Keith knew how much Andrea resented her children, because of the amount they had, they were looked down on. Just adding to the population. But Keith didn’t care, he just cared about them. But he couldn’t live without Andrea, either. She was his rock, his support. She was the one who worked and made the money for their family.
He didn’t want Mara to die, but he’d do anything to keep his wife happy. Satisfied.
● ● ●
Mara opened the door with a big smile on her face to greet Andrea and Keith, and both smiled back, somewhat reluctantly. Andrea lifted the bottle that rested against her hip up to give to Mara.
“Here’s a little present I’ve been meaning to give you, Mara,” Andrea greeted.
Mara’s face lit up instantly and she scrunched her nose. “Oh, you shouldn’t have! You know how much I love my wine!”
“I know, and this one is specifically for you! And only you!”
“Are you sure? We could pop it open and each have a glass?” Mara suggested.
“No, no, no! Definitely all for you. Right, Keith?” Andrea turned to Keith for confirmation.
He looked slightly lost in thought, and without realizing the question, agreed with his wife instantly.
Mara finally gave in. “Okay, but I know Trey will be disappointed. I’ll make sure he keeps his dirty hands off it!” Mara finished with a laugh, and ushered them into the kitchen to their seats.
The table was a very old used oak that looked as if it had been re-stained over and over again. But it had a story behind it; the history of Mara’s family. At one end of the table sat each of her and his ancestors. As usual, Keith and Andrea greeted each one then took a seat on the opposite end.
Dinner went on as usual; Mara served her concoction of the day, which each person raved about, wine was poured for each, and chatting commenced. But with each glass of wine that was served, Andrea watched carefully as if not to accidently drink her own concoction: her wonderful solution.
The dinner concluded and Andrea and Trey went on their way.
“Goddamn it!” Andrea shouted once out of earshot. “I didn’t see her even open the bottle. And if she gives it to Trey, then he won’t be able to suffer as I want him to!” She balled her hands and squeezed tightly into fists.
Keith moved close to her to put a hand on her shoulder—as if to calm her, but she instantly nudged him off with a sneer. He sighed and slowly walked next to her until they reached home. Once inside, each went off in their own direction, Keith to the couch and Andrea to her room, both feeling disappointed in their own way.
● ● ●
A loud bang woke Andrea and Keith from their slumber. After a few more loud bangs, Andrea and Keith both met each other at the front door, looking at each other with wonder. Andrea reached for the door, cracking it slightly to see who was disturbing their night’s rest. It was Trey.
“What’s the matter?” Andrea asked, noticing the tears flowing from his face. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Mara’s passing.
“Please… please come help me!” He demanded.
Keith grabbed the door and widened it. “What’s going on? What do you need help with?”
“It’s Mara. I’m not sure what’s wrong. Please hurry.”
Both Keith and Andrea exchanged looks, thinking that the poison was the cause. They nodded in agreement to follow Trey, and upon arriving, Mara was lying at the bottom of the stairs. Her mouth was crusted with drool and her eyes closed shut.
Andrea moved first to go feel the side of her neck, to check for a pulse. She looked down, out of view of the other, and smiled deeply. She had done it. She had killed Mara. Turning around and forcing concern on her face, she demanded to know what had happened.
“I’m not sure,” Trey answered. “She must’ve gotten up to get a glass of water or something and tripped down the stairs. Is she okay?”
Andrea looked down as if to hide tears. “No… I’m sorry, Trey. She’s dead.” Andrea was fascinated by the fact that maybe it wasn’t even her concoction that killed her, but instead, her own stupidity. She had to keep herself from laughing.
After a moment, Andrea got up to comfort Trey’s uncontrollable desperation. She pulled him close and breathed deeply to ingest his scent.
“Everything will be okay,” She reassured him. Andrea looked directly into Keith’s eyes—eyes that were full of fear; fear of not being able to recognize his own wife.
● ● ●
Trey woke to his wife’s body next to him, and memories instantly hit him of the previous night. She lay there motionless and he wrapped his arms around her, crying.
He got up and picked up his wife, bridal-style, and proceeded to work. He would have to put her to rest, he told himself. He had to taxidermy her.
Trey arrived at work and instantly took his wife’s body to the blast freezer to begin the process. He would have to prepare the cast for her body, remove her skin, dry it out to preserve it, and then finish the final details to complete her body. She did not live long enough to have replicas of her eyes made, so Trey had to start from nothing and make everything specifically for her. This process usually took a few days to prepare and complete, but Trey wasn’t going to stop until the procedure was finished. He wasn’t taking any breaks, as he usually did, and didn’t leave to go home. What would be the point? he thought, fighting back tears every time he had to cut into his wife’s body or sew her skin onto a filling that was not her.
● ● ●
Mara awoke to find herself lying on a hard surface. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. She tried to move her body, but couldn’t. Even when she wanted to speak, to yell out to her husband, she was unable to.
She listened as the evening unfolded; Trey finding her, freaking out and running over to Keith and Andrea’s. Once they returned, when Andrea felt her neck and announced her death, Mara’s mind raced. She wanted to yell out and tell them she was still there; that she wasn’t dead. Mara could hear them plain as day but couldn’t say a word. All she could do was lie there and listen, and think. Mara constantly considered she was dreaming, but as hours went on Trey carried her up to their room, and laid her on the bed.
The next day was the worst experience of her life. Once in the blast freezer, she felt the cold scratching at her, and her body went stiff. Her mind raced and all she could do was deal with it; feel it. Hours of torture went on, being cut, ripped apart and sewn back together. The instant she realized it was Trey performing it was when he forced her eyes open. The last image she would ever see was him scooping out her eyes, with tears streaming down his face. She couldn’t understand why he was doing this. She wasn’t dead, but trapped.
Once completed she was placed next to her ancestors. She couldn’t see them, but she could feel their presence. They were all trapped. Trapped in a body that was no longer their own.
The Old Reservoir by Josh Blattenberger
The path that Henry walked was in broad daylight, tucked in the center of the ridge behind his home. He would often walk this way, gazing into the middle distance, kicking the gravel toward the knotted grass edges, listening to the birds hidden in the emerald trees. The oaks would sway in the wind and the pines stood off in the back, the stoic fathers of the Appalachian forests. They would forever guard them and rarely fall, and only to the direct actions of someone else.
On this particular day, Henry, in a short sleeve shirt and hugging jeans, in a position of life where his body not yet adjusted to itself, awkwardly hobbled over himself. It was the odd comment at school that did it. It was a long, warmer than usual bus ride home. It was the unsatisfactory amount of free time; he had three chapters to read and a spelling test to study for. He wanted none of it. He would like to be free from work as he had been several years back, under the protection of his second-floor classrooms, shared lockers, and large windows.
The path turned up the hill to where he knew the old reservoir was. It was a manmade pond at this point: no longer used by anyone and owned by the mountain creek that trickled nearby in a ditch. It was replaced by the monolithic white tanker, roughly five stories tall, that stood at a stroll behind him. He would often gawk at it, but the original had an allure to it, an underlying freedom in its irrelevance. Sure the grass was mowed once in a while, but it was its own entity that melded to its surroundings and lingered in an undeniable contentness.
Henry took the turn; a black form appeared below a tree, low to the ground and tucked ever so out of view in the shade of a young oak. Was it a panther? Some mountain side predator? Henry froze. He stood firm but hesitant, locking on to what he believed to be the eyes. They were vaguely red, maroon in the afternoon sun. Dare he run? Or do something else? He mustered the courage and threw a quarter sized stone, expecting a radical movement from the underbrush.
Nothing. There was no movement, no sound save for the distant rustle of a squirrel. Nothing but the calm hushing of the leaves. He picked up another rock, this one the size of a silver dollar, clutched tightly in a closed fist. His footsteps crunched against the gravel, and skated atop air in the grass. He readied himself, and upon his approach he found the enemy.
In the shade sat an old log, lying on its side by the edge of the creek.
On this particular day, Henry, in a short sleeve shirt and hugging jeans, in a position of life where his body not yet adjusted to itself, awkwardly hobbled over himself. It was the odd comment at school that did it. It was a long, warmer than usual bus ride home. It was the unsatisfactory amount of free time; he had three chapters to read and a spelling test to study for. He wanted none of it. He would like to be free from work as he had been several years back, under the protection of his second-floor classrooms, shared lockers, and large windows.
The path turned up the hill to where he knew the old reservoir was. It was a manmade pond at this point: no longer used by anyone and owned by the mountain creek that trickled nearby in a ditch. It was replaced by the monolithic white tanker, roughly five stories tall, that stood at a stroll behind him. He would often gawk at it, but the original had an allure to it, an underlying freedom in its irrelevance. Sure the grass was mowed once in a while, but it was its own entity that melded to its surroundings and lingered in an undeniable contentness.
Henry took the turn; a black form appeared below a tree, low to the ground and tucked ever so out of view in the shade of a young oak. Was it a panther? Some mountain side predator? Henry froze. He stood firm but hesitant, locking on to what he believed to be the eyes. They were vaguely red, maroon in the afternoon sun. Dare he run? Or do something else? He mustered the courage and threw a quarter sized stone, expecting a radical movement from the underbrush.
Nothing. There was no movement, no sound save for the distant rustle of a squirrel. Nothing but the calm hushing of the leaves. He picked up another rock, this one the size of a silver dollar, clutched tightly in a closed fist. His footsteps crunched against the gravel, and skated atop air in the grass. He readied himself, and upon his approach he found the enemy.
In the shade sat an old log, lying on its side by the edge of the creek.
Windows to the Soul by Angel Crouch
The wind blows my hair into my eyes as I survey the field around me. Families are gathered in small clumps on a desolate dry patch of grass in the middle of the post. The tension in the air is palpable. There is distance between all of us, but as my gaze travels the length of the field and back, I see the same sorrow etched on everyone’s features, no matter how hard they try to hide it. We are all gathered on this field for the same thing: to say goodbye to a loved one.
I glance to the right and see my mother and father whispering to each other, while my mother fusses over my father’s uniform for the last time. A nervous tick she has developed over the years as each goodbye took its toll. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy, blocking my view momentarily. I can’t help but remember the last time I had to say goodbye; the pattern is always the same…
I think the waiting is the worst. You hurry to get everything ready for their departure, just to wait. They get their orders to the hellish place they must visit, and then you hurry and pack all their things into their duffle, hurry to make sure everything is in place for their extended leave, and hurry to say your goodbyes. But once the goodbyes are exchanged, then you wait. You wait for the bus to come and take them away. You wait for the bus to leave. You struggle through the long wait for them to come home.
As the wind dies down, I notice my father looking at me. He smiles and puts on a brave front but his eyes… his eyes convey all the emotions his mouth refuses to utter. I see his pain at having to leave us once again. I see the love he has for us. But when I look close enough I can see the fear. He is about to be transported to a place of uncertainty and peril. Every day may be his last, every action he takes can be the decision that ends his life. He is a soldier, a man of action. It is his duty to put his life on the line. It is a noble cause, and yet, I can’t help but selfishly ask myself, why he must be the one to right the wrongs of the world, why I must suffer without him while he suffers in hell. I look down, pushing these thoughts from my mind, knowing it will cause me nothing but pain that it will reflect in my face more than it already does. I am attempting to put on a strong face for my father, just as he does for me, and it will not do for my eyes to betray me.
In my haste to avert my eyes I miss the bus that has come to take my father to hell arriving. I can’t tell if I am relieved or distraught. My waiting for the moment has ended, but soon the real waiting will begin. My father could be gone for three months… six months… a year… maybe even longer. The length of his deployment is determined by the military, something they will only divulge when he arrives in the pits. Hearing the bus rumbling toward us slowly, I take in my father one last time discreetly. He is standing tall and proud, at parade rest, in his uniform. Everything is prim and proper, perfect before the ravages of war make him and his uniform unrecognizable. The bus rolls to a stop about twenty feet away and the commander calls for his soldiers to board the bus and make their final goodbyes.
When my father looks at me again his strong front is gone. His eyes are conveying everything he feels in earnest. Nothing is hidden from me as I consider his eyes and he considers mine. He hoists his duffle over his shoulder and our eyes meet once again. He is staring at me with desolate eyes, eyes full of pain and misery, eyes that are attempting to hold back tears. He knows that this will be the last time he can show weakness. His long legs cross the few feet between us effortlessly, my mother following close behind. When he reaches me he cups my face gently, asking me to be strong and to take care of my mother. No words are spoken, yet this message is conveyed in the look he gives me with those eyes, the eyes that haunt my dreams. He turns to my mother next and no words are exchanged just a sweet kiss. They know that everything has been said in the hushed whispers that permeated their bedroom the night before. He pulls us both into a loving hug and I cling to him. I cling to him as if it’s the last time I’ll touch him, because for all I know it might be. He is going to an area of turmoil, a place he knows he may never return from. We never address this though, choosing to hope for the best and ignore the worst. If we verbalize our fears in this moment it almost feels like a death sentence, so we stay quiet and hide our true feelings until we have all retreated to the private corners of our mind.
Our goodbyes have been exchanged and at this point any delay will cause us more pain, so my father turns and begins walking. He is walking away from me, my mother, from our life. The strength I have clung to so desperately fails me and that is when the tears come. They wet my lashes and fall from my cheeks into a puddle on the ground. They come so fast and so swiftly I feel as though I may drown the world. My mother puts her arm around me, to comfort me, but tears fall just as swiftly down her cheeks and I find no comfort in her embrace. I already yearn for the arms of my father, the father that is swiftly making his way to a bus that will take him away from me, to do a job that will change him, a job that potentially could change the world. The thoughts I pushed from my mind earlier assaults me once again, so swiftly that I have no time to fight it.
A memory from the night before comes unbidden into my mind. I asked my father why he must be the one to go. Why he must be the one to put his life on the line. He explained to me in the simplest of terms that bad men were causing trouble and that he must go and stop them, if he doesn’t no one will.
My sorrow has over taken me. I wonder if our suffering will ever end, because it seems to me that it never will. This is the third time I have watched my father walk away from me, and every time my father comes back, he is a little bit less the loving, caring man I know, and a bit more the void, chipped toy soldier. These thoughts break my heart evermore. As they race through my mind, the tears fall even faster to the point where I’m almost blinded. My father is almost to the bus and I cannot hold back the choked sob that escapes my throat.
When my father turns one last time before ascending the steps to his destiny, I put on a brave smile and lift my hand to wave and blow one last kiss. I know he will think back on this moment to give him strength in the private times of his weakness, the times when he lays in bed and wonders what he does this for. I know he thinks of me and my future and he thinks of my mother and how he must provide for us. I am determined to give him something positive to look back on in his times of vulnerability, and my hand is still lifted in farewell when the bus pulls away. Despite my momentary strength, once the bus is out of sight my legs fail me. I fall to my knees, allowing the tears to flow in earnest. I am sobbing and howling for my father, the father I may never see again, the father that may never hold me again. My mother comes and lifts me to my feet. Nevertheless, I still wish they were my father’s arms, I know she feels the same.
Our eyes meet in shared misery, tears falling from both of our eyes rapidly. We grasp each other tightly, finding some small comfort in this timeless embrace. Knowing the time has come to face our reality, sobbing and shaking, we both make our way to the car. Our arms still wrap around one another offering minute release from the pain clawing at our chests with a barbed wire sting. We get in the car and I look fixedly out of the window, gazing into the empty eyes that stare back at me and the tear stained face. Looking past my own visage, I watch the desolate faces of suffering pass me by. When any one of those faces turns to me, I see the same pain reflected in their eyes. In that moment, I feel connected to every one of these people. We share a bond of pain on this day. A bond that will only solidify as we all raptly watch the nightly news in the coming weeks and months only to see countless deaths, endless bombings, and abundant terror.
As we continue our drive home, everything around me blurs, passing me by at a speed that makes me yearn for this deployment to pass just as quickly. I know this is not the reality of my existence, however, and realize that the wait I have ahead of me is so much worse than what I have just experienced. That the tears that stream down my face now will dry, but the fear and pain I feel inside will never go away. Not until my father is home. Even then it is doubtful because he will leave again, and the cycle will continue.
The world is a blissful blur around me, unaware of the suffering I endure. It is almost a welcome relief from the pain… almost. The burden of this wait sits heavy on my chest, even as the tears dry on my cheeks. A constant reminder that something is missing, a puzzle piece that makes me whole. A mantra runs through my head, calming me: three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes…three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes… three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes.
This is the estimated amount of time that must elapse before I see my father again, until he can hold me again. The waiting… the anticipation…
It’s the worst, but it is my reality.
I glance to the right and see my mother and father whispering to each other, while my mother fusses over my father’s uniform for the last time. A nervous tick she has developed over the years as each goodbye took its toll. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy, blocking my view momentarily. I can’t help but remember the last time I had to say goodbye; the pattern is always the same…
I think the waiting is the worst. You hurry to get everything ready for their departure, just to wait. They get their orders to the hellish place they must visit, and then you hurry and pack all their things into their duffle, hurry to make sure everything is in place for their extended leave, and hurry to say your goodbyes. But once the goodbyes are exchanged, then you wait. You wait for the bus to come and take them away. You wait for the bus to leave. You struggle through the long wait for them to come home.
As the wind dies down, I notice my father looking at me. He smiles and puts on a brave front but his eyes… his eyes convey all the emotions his mouth refuses to utter. I see his pain at having to leave us once again. I see the love he has for us. But when I look close enough I can see the fear. He is about to be transported to a place of uncertainty and peril. Every day may be his last, every action he takes can be the decision that ends his life. He is a soldier, a man of action. It is his duty to put his life on the line. It is a noble cause, and yet, I can’t help but selfishly ask myself, why he must be the one to right the wrongs of the world, why I must suffer without him while he suffers in hell. I look down, pushing these thoughts from my mind, knowing it will cause me nothing but pain that it will reflect in my face more than it already does. I am attempting to put on a strong face for my father, just as he does for me, and it will not do for my eyes to betray me.
In my haste to avert my eyes I miss the bus that has come to take my father to hell arriving. I can’t tell if I am relieved or distraught. My waiting for the moment has ended, but soon the real waiting will begin. My father could be gone for three months… six months… a year… maybe even longer. The length of his deployment is determined by the military, something they will only divulge when he arrives in the pits. Hearing the bus rumbling toward us slowly, I take in my father one last time discreetly. He is standing tall and proud, at parade rest, in his uniform. Everything is prim and proper, perfect before the ravages of war make him and his uniform unrecognizable. The bus rolls to a stop about twenty feet away and the commander calls for his soldiers to board the bus and make their final goodbyes.
When my father looks at me again his strong front is gone. His eyes are conveying everything he feels in earnest. Nothing is hidden from me as I consider his eyes and he considers mine. He hoists his duffle over his shoulder and our eyes meet once again. He is staring at me with desolate eyes, eyes full of pain and misery, eyes that are attempting to hold back tears. He knows that this will be the last time he can show weakness. His long legs cross the few feet between us effortlessly, my mother following close behind. When he reaches me he cups my face gently, asking me to be strong and to take care of my mother. No words are spoken, yet this message is conveyed in the look he gives me with those eyes, the eyes that haunt my dreams. He turns to my mother next and no words are exchanged just a sweet kiss. They know that everything has been said in the hushed whispers that permeated their bedroom the night before. He pulls us both into a loving hug and I cling to him. I cling to him as if it’s the last time I’ll touch him, because for all I know it might be. He is going to an area of turmoil, a place he knows he may never return from. We never address this though, choosing to hope for the best and ignore the worst. If we verbalize our fears in this moment it almost feels like a death sentence, so we stay quiet and hide our true feelings until we have all retreated to the private corners of our mind.
Our goodbyes have been exchanged and at this point any delay will cause us more pain, so my father turns and begins walking. He is walking away from me, my mother, from our life. The strength I have clung to so desperately fails me and that is when the tears come. They wet my lashes and fall from my cheeks into a puddle on the ground. They come so fast and so swiftly I feel as though I may drown the world. My mother puts her arm around me, to comfort me, but tears fall just as swiftly down her cheeks and I find no comfort in her embrace. I already yearn for the arms of my father, the father that is swiftly making his way to a bus that will take him away from me, to do a job that will change him, a job that potentially could change the world. The thoughts I pushed from my mind earlier assaults me once again, so swiftly that I have no time to fight it.
A memory from the night before comes unbidden into my mind. I asked my father why he must be the one to go. Why he must be the one to put his life on the line. He explained to me in the simplest of terms that bad men were causing trouble and that he must go and stop them, if he doesn’t no one will.
My sorrow has over taken me. I wonder if our suffering will ever end, because it seems to me that it never will. This is the third time I have watched my father walk away from me, and every time my father comes back, he is a little bit less the loving, caring man I know, and a bit more the void, chipped toy soldier. These thoughts break my heart evermore. As they race through my mind, the tears fall even faster to the point where I’m almost blinded. My father is almost to the bus and I cannot hold back the choked sob that escapes my throat.
When my father turns one last time before ascending the steps to his destiny, I put on a brave smile and lift my hand to wave and blow one last kiss. I know he will think back on this moment to give him strength in the private times of his weakness, the times when he lays in bed and wonders what he does this for. I know he thinks of me and my future and he thinks of my mother and how he must provide for us. I am determined to give him something positive to look back on in his times of vulnerability, and my hand is still lifted in farewell when the bus pulls away. Despite my momentary strength, once the bus is out of sight my legs fail me. I fall to my knees, allowing the tears to flow in earnest. I am sobbing and howling for my father, the father I may never see again, the father that may never hold me again. My mother comes and lifts me to my feet. Nevertheless, I still wish they were my father’s arms, I know she feels the same.
Our eyes meet in shared misery, tears falling from both of our eyes rapidly. We grasp each other tightly, finding some small comfort in this timeless embrace. Knowing the time has come to face our reality, sobbing and shaking, we both make our way to the car. Our arms still wrap around one another offering minute release from the pain clawing at our chests with a barbed wire sting. We get in the car and I look fixedly out of the window, gazing into the empty eyes that stare back at me and the tear stained face. Looking past my own visage, I watch the desolate faces of suffering pass me by. When any one of those faces turns to me, I see the same pain reflected in their eyes. In that moment, I feel connected to every one of these people. We share a bond of pain on this day. A bond that will only solidify as we all raptly watch the nightly news in the coming weeks and months only to see countless deaths, endless bombings, and abundant terror.
As we continue our drive home, everything around me blurs, passing me by at a speed that makes me yearn for this deployment to pass just as quickly. I know this is not the reality of my existence, however, and realize that the wait I have ahead of me is so much worse than what I have just experienced. That the tears that stream down my face now will dry, but the fear and pain I feel inside will never go away. Not until my father is home. Even then it is doubtful because he will leave again, and the cycle will continue.
The world is a blissful blur around me, unaware of the suffering I endure. It is almost a welcome relief from the pain… almost. The burden of this wait sits heavy on my chest, even as the tears dry on my cheeks. A constant reminder that something is missing, a puzzle piece that makes me whole. A mantra runs through my head, calming me: three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes…three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes… three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes.
This is the estimated amount of time that must elapse before I see my father again, until he can hold me again. The waiting… the anticipation…
It’s the worst, but it is my reality.
Our Cherry Tree by Rachel Gokay
Pink petals floated down from dark brown branches that gracefully fell in the crisp, yet warm spring air. I had slowly stumbled up the slope of green, dragged with me a tin can of air, and was barely breathing by the time I bunkered down on the blanket of pink above the soft earthy hill. It was the same beautiful sight I saw ninety years ago, except the sight was missing an essential piece. You. You outshone the rest of the scene before me, “made it better,” I always said. Your light daisy colored sundress, opal slippers, and that beautiful sunshine smile. Do you remember how we met, Pearl? We met in this exact spot, ninety years ago... I can still remember, clear as a crystal.
My twelve-hour shift at the manufacturing company had just ended. Tired and exhausted, I somehow still felt that I had some energy left, so I decided to walk around Fairmount Park, a sight for sore eyes, which I needed to see. As I entered the park, I saw the green buds sprouted from each tree branch, sighed with the sense of new life. The image filled the inside of my mind, but then was replaced with the bright flashes of pink from the hilltop. Curious, I made my way towards the grassy peak. I steadily walked up to the top, but immediately stopped when I got there I was paralyzed with my mouth slightly ajar, amazed at the beautiful sight in front of me, and that was you. You danced gracefully as the wind blew the soft, pink petals around the hilltop, making me believe that magic was real and you were its source. A few more minutes passed by before you noticed me standing there with my mouth opened and eyes that sparkled with amazement. You suddenly turned around with those golden topaz eyes which shined with the light of a thousand fireflies and curtseyed to me, like you do before a waltz. I bowed back, before I could catch my breath, amazed, and shook my head for a couple of seconds to acknowledge that your sparkling eyes were talking to me. Your smile lured me in and I thought I was a goner, a chump that had no chance, but you stretched out your delicate hand in my direction. Surprised, enchanted, and delighted, I reached out to you, silently grasped your marble like fingers in mine I placed a small kiss on the top of your milky white hand, and that was when our life’s dance had started.
The faint curve of my chapped pale lips eventually grew wider, making my heart flutter at the remembrance of us. A sudden pain quickly replaced the flutter in my chest reaching out for my medication I realized something. I wanted to dance one last time with my one and only, with nothing in our way. I took out the well-worn picture from my wallet, still beautiful as anything I’d ever seen. I held you to my chest as I slowly removed my oxygen mask and put it back by the heavy tank I had to carry with me, but no longer shall I need it. I then rise off the earth, looked at our tree as I swayed to the memory of how our life started together. Each past moment, the petals danced around as my pain gets stronger and my lungs slowly collapsed but still I stood, with the recollection of you in my arms. My head spun as I finished our dance, moving slower and slower with each movement. Unbearable pain fills my body as I collapsed on the ground, my heart erupted. You fluttered down next to me and I remembered your smile one last time, and how we met at our cherry tree.
My twelve-hour shift at the manufacturing company had just ended. Tired and exhausted, I somehow still felt that I had some energy left, so I decided to walk around Fairmount Park, a sight for sore eyes, which I needed to see. As I entered the park, I saw the green buds sprouted from each tree branch, sighed with the sense of new life. The image filled the inside of my mind, but then was replaced with the bright flashes of pink from the hilltop. Curious, I made my way towards the grassy peak. I steadily walked up to the top, but immediately stopped when I got there I was paralyzed with my mouth slightly ajar, amazed at the beautiful sight in front of me, and that was you. You danced gracefully as the wind blew the soft, pink petals around the hilltop, making me believe that magic was real and you were its source. A few more minutes passed by before you noticed me standing there with my mouth opened and eyes that sparkled with amazement. You suddenly turned around with those golden topaz eyes which shined with the light of a thousand fireflies and curtseyed to me, like you do before a waltz. I bowed back, before I could catch my breath, amazed, and shook my head for a couple of seconds to acknowledge that your sparkling eyes were talking to me. Your smile lured me in and I thought I was a goner, a chump that had no chance, but you stretched out your delicate hand in my direction. Surprised, enchanted, and delighted, I reached out to you, silently grasped your marble like fingers in mine I placed a small kiss on the top of your milky white hand, and that was when our life’s dance had started.
The faint curve of my chapped pale lips eventually grew wider, making my heart flutter at the remembrance of us. A sudden pain quickly replaced the flutter in my chest reaching out for my medication I realized something. I wanted to dance one last time with my one and only, with nothing in our way. I took out the well-worn picture from my wallet, still beautiful as anything I’d ever seen. I held you to my chest as I slowly removed my oxygen mask and put it back by the heavy tank I had to carry with me, but no longer shall I need it. I then rise off the earth, looked at our tree as I swayed to the memory of how our life started together. Each past moment, the petals danced around as my pain gets stronger and my lungs slowly collapsed but still I stood, with the recollection of you in my arms. My head spun as I finished our dance, moving slower and slower with each movement. Unbearable pain fills my body as I collapsed on the ground, my heart erupted. You fluttered down next to me and I remembered your smile one last time, and how we met at our cherry tree.
The Girl who Cried “Chiari” by Emily Behm
As my head smacks against the cement, everything goes black. The floor hugs me tight, assuring me that everything is alright. Its cold hands grasp my ears so I don’t hear any of my surroundings. As I lay suffocating with just me, my thoughts, and that monster of a floor, I realize that my situation is extraordinary.
I was hit 1, 2, 3, 4 times: punched in the back of my head, hit in the neck, kicked on my lower back, and shaken by the shoulders until I felt my body collapse. Spots flooded my eyes like a rainy day in Seattle.
This has happened before and you can get through it again, I think to myself. Just try not to dwell on it, and you’ll wake up soon.
I wake up short of breath. A random student helps me up, for I cannot stand on my own. The spots haven’t left, but my hearing has come back after leaving for a good ten minutes. Why, I think as I’m pulled to a chair, cold rags on my forehead. I bet no one will believe what really happened to me.
Mom comes and picks me up; at least she understands.
“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you home and let you rest.”
She pats my shoulder as tears race to the finish line at the bottom of my chin. I feel my body shake and my lungs cry for help as I choke on my tears. My body is tired. I am tired.
I lay my head on my pillow, and my blanket hugs me tight. I feel safe now. My stuffed bunny gives me a sympathetic look as my body trembles. At least you believe me, I think to myself as my blanket hugs me tighter.
You may be thinking that I’m being abused. You may think I’m being bullied. Well, you’re right and wrong. When I said no one believes me, I was telling the truth. My body hates me.
Each flare-up in my back feels like droplets of gasoline have been spat on my body and lit on fire. I hold onto the nearest item/person through my dizziness, as I’m sucked into the fiery pits of Chiari hell. As my back seizes and my legs go numb, I feel as if I’m being encompassed by a massive storm: Hurricane Syringomyelia. Each headache booms like a bomb set off by a terrorist. I am not crazy. My body is.
It happens again the next day. My body beats me to a pulp. I lay on the cold, hard, tiled floor, my eyes darting back and forth.
“Are you okay?” I hear a familiar voice ask.
I think no, but my body makes me speak “yes.”
“My name is Aubrey. Let me take you down to the nurse.”
Finally, someone has reached out to help me. It turns out that Aubrey and I both have Chiari. Someone understands me. Someone knows that I’m not faking it. Someone knows what it feels like to feel so alone and lifeless as my body tears me apart.
I don’t look sick...but I am sick. And now, someone can provide the empathy I’ve needed all along. Those who have called me a hypochondriac no longer matter. I found someone who cares and someone that understands. Chi-Aubrey.
I was hit 1, 2, 3, 4 times: punched in the back of my head, hit in the neck, kicked on my lower back, and shaken by the shoulders until I felt my body collapse. Spots flooded my eyes like a rainy day in Seattle.
This has happened before and you can get through it again, I think to myself. Just try not to dwell on it, and you’ll wake up soon.
I wake up short of breath. A random student helps me up, for I cannot stand on my own. The spots haven’t left, but my hearing has come back after leaving for a good ten minutes. Why, I think as I’m pulled to a chair, cold rags on my forehead. I bet no one will believe what really happened to me.
Mom comes and picks me up; at least she understands.
“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you home and let you rest.”
She pats my shoulder as tears race to the finish line at the bottom of my chin. I feel my body shake and my lungs cry for help as I choke on my tears. My body is tired. I am tired.
I lay my head on my pillow, and my blanket hugs me tight. I feel safe now. My stuffed bunny gives me a sympathetic look as my body trembles. At least you believe me, I think to myself as my blanket hugs me tighter.
You may be thinking that I’m being abused. You may think I’m being bullied. Well, you’re right and wrong. When I said no one believes me, I was telling the truth. My body hates me.
Each flare-up in my back feels like droplets of gasoline have been spat on my body and lit on fire. I hold onto the nearest item/person through my dizziness, as I’m sucked into the fiery pits of Chiari hell. As my back seizes and my legs go numb, I feel as if I’m being encompassed by a massive storm: Hurricane Syringomyelia. Each headache booms like a bomb set off by a terrorist. I am not crazy. My body is.
It happens again the next day. My body beats me to a pulp. I lay on the cold, hard, tiled floor, my eyes darting back and forth.
“Are you okay?” I hear a familiar voice ask.
I think no, but my body makes me speak “yes.”
“My name is Aubrey. Let me take you down to the nurse.”
Finally, someone has reached out to help me. It turns out that Aubrey and I both have Chiari. Someone understands me. Someone knows that I’m not faking it. Someone knows what it feels like to feel so alone and lifeless as my body tears me apart.
I don’t look sick...but I am sick. And now, someone can provide the empathy I’ve needed all along. Those who have called me a hypochondriac no longer matter. I found someone who cares and someone that understands. Chi-Aubrey.
Eight Minutes by Maddy Ohler
The rain bounced off of the roof like fingertips against a desk. The sky was a pencil shade of gray. Todd sat in his olive-colored recliner, facing the television that was mounted to the wall, which displayed the college basketball game. The sound of cabinets opening then slamming shut echoed behind him.
“Where the heck is it?” Sighs of frustration escaped from his wife, Stacey.
“What are you looking for?” His gaze never left the young man who was now throwing a free throw.
“The pepper. I need it for this new recipe I saw online today and it’s not with the salt.” Stacey sighed once more as she ran her fingers through her coarse hair.
“After this game is over I’ll go pick some up from the store.”
“How long until it’s over?”
“A little over eight…Oh what a shot! Did you see that, Stace?” The legs of the recliner turned to see Stacey with her arms crossed at her chest, eyes darting on Todd.
“Can you please go now?” Her voice was pleading.
“Okay. Okay.”
With a click of the remote the screen went blank. As Todd slid his feet into his rubber sandals, the keys jingled as they rested in between his index and middle finger. He placed a small kiss upon Stacey’s forehead as his free hand ruffled the ends of her hair. The sound of the screen door being pushed shut by the wind could be heard as the truck’s engine made its way down the quiet street.
“No pepper in here… Aw, we need milk,” Stacey realized as the cold air from the refrigerator hit against her face. As Stacey’s fingers typed away the message to her husband, she took note of the date. The screen became blurry as the tears from her eyes fell like giant puddles.
Three months, ninety days, no matter which way one put it it was all the same to Stacey.
***
Stacey woke that morning to Todd’s cold, clammy feet pressed against her back as his chest rose and fell peacefully against the satin sheets. She untangled herself from the plethora of blankets she had cocooned herself in from the night before and pulled the strings from the window blind to welcome the sunlight into the room. The sudden burst of light was followed by groans from Todd as he placed a pillow over his head.
“It’s too early,” Todd muffled into the pillow.
“It’s almost eight. Come on, we have to start getting ready. I don’t want us to be late again,” Stacey said as she gently placed her hand on Todd’s bare bicep.
As Todd slowly sat up, a smile formed across his face revealing his perfect white teeth. His eyes were fixated on Stacey as she walked into the bathroom and turned the shower handle to what Todd could only imagine was scalding hot, the only way Stacey preferred her showers.
“Any room in there for me?” Todd’s voice was hopeful as he bellowed over the sound of the water crashing against the marble floor.
Stacey’s infectious laugh could be heard as she opened the shampoo bottle. “Nice try.”
“Please?” Todd asked as if her were a little kid who wanted ice cream.
“No. That’s how we got here in the first place.” Stacey let out another cackle at how ridiculous her husband could be when she wasn’t in the mood.
Todd crashed his head against the pillow; the smile stayed tattooed on his face.
It was the third Wednesday in April. The weather was warm when the sun was radiating off of their bodies, but when it went to hide away behind the clouds, it became cool. The sidewalk was made up of uneven patches that needed filled. Stacey’s yellow dress that matched the sun hit above her knee and as her body swayed back and forth; her dress followed suit.
Stacey’s hand interlocked with Todd’s as they made their way in front of the old, dilapidated building. Built in the 1980s, not too much had appeared to change since then with the exception of the elevator that had been installed not even ten years ago. The smell of freshly used hairspray greeted them as the sensor from the sliding doors activated. Every time they came to this place, Todd made the joke that hairspray must be in the vents because there is no other logical explanation for why the smell was so strong.
The elevator door dinged multiple times before the doors of it welcomed the two of them. As Stacey pressed the button changing it from white to red, the grip on Todd’s hand tightened. Todd exchanged laughs with himself as the elevator clanked and rumbled.
“What’s so funny?” Stacey asked as she used her reflection to wipe around the corners of her mouth and check her nose.
“I just keep thinking about the ten dollars you’re going to owe me; that’s all.”
Stacey hit his arm playfully as she rolled her eyes. “I thought I had something on my face. You, my friend, can keep dreaming,” she said as a chuckle left her mouth.
As the elevator reached their stop, a deep breath was shared between the two of them as they made their way down the green hallway with floral wallpaper.
“Who would have thought that I could get my haircut, get my taxes done, and check on the development of our baby all in one building?” Todd expressed in amazement as each of the doors they passed represented something different.
“You can go get a haircut once we’re done. You need it.” Stacey’s tongue rested on her front teeth as she ruffled Todd’s hair, which was growing down his neck.
“Hey, it’s in style,” Todd said, running his fingers through his hair.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Stacey turned the door handle as a bell went off to let their presence be known.
Todd’s leg bounced restlessly as the sound of the pen pressed against the clipboard. He studied the strangers that despite being just that, he had something in common with. His study session was quickly interrupted as high-pitched screeches along with abrupt kicks came from the seat in which his back faced.
“Our kid will never have a meltdown in public,” Todd whispered as Stacey placed her signature on the final piece of paper.
“Oh no. Our kid is going to be a perfect angel.”
“They’ll take after their mom if that’s the case.” Todd’s smile reflected off of the florescent lights.
“You’re so cheesy,” Stacey said, as a smile that matched his unraveled across her face.
As Todd returned the clipboard to the front desk; his hands folded in front of his mouth as he once again took the seat next to his wife. Her name echoed as the door swung open and a woman wearing purple scrubs with poodles on them called for her. Todd offered his hand as the cold air closed in behind them.
The two were shown to a room with white walls and multiple colored posters that displayed cartoon-like images of a woman’s insides. Stacey made her way over to the table and as she sat down her eyes became fixated on the poster, which showed the baby coming out. Todd took the seat next to her and followed her gaze.
“Ouch. Can you believe that something the size a watermelon is going to be coming out of you?” Todd’s eyebrows were raised; his eyes squinted as he placed his hands over his private parts.
“Wow. Way to make me feel better.” Stacey’s eyes glared at her husband.
“Sorry, Babe. Here, let’s play a game while we wait. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten. What is it?”
“Five.”
“Nope. It was eight. So sorry, better luck next time.” Todd crinkled his nose at his wife, who looked as though she were an angle from the way the lights were hitting her.
The doctor knocked twice as he entered the room. His white coat matched his hair; each handshake passed out was received with a smile.
“Stacey, Todd, good to see you both again. How are things?”
“Things are well; I’m ready to get this baby out of me, though,” Stacey responded as she laid back in the paper that crinkled underneath her.
“You don’t have much longer to wait. This should be a quick appointment. Let’s take a look at the little one, shall we?”
As the doctor moved the warm jelly around Stacey’s stomach, the image showed the baby’s legs kicking a million miles a minute. The silence was broken up by the sound of the baby’s heartbeat echoing off of the monitor.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to know the gender?”
“We’re sure. We’ve waited this long. A few more weeks won’t hurt,” Stacey said as she rested on her elbows, holding the rest of her body up.
As the doctor checked her cervix, Stacey and Todd exchanged innocent smiles with one another.
Well, it looks like you’re going to meet the baby sooner rather than later. It turns out you’re five centimeters dilated,” the doctor announced as he threw the latex gloves in the garbage and lathered his hands with soap.
“I’m sorry, what?” Stacey sat up completely with the help of Todd’s hand.
“You’re in labor. I will call the hospital so they can have a room ready for you when you arrive. Congratulations.” The words were said casually as the paper towel dispenser moved up and down.
“I thought the pain I felt this morning was from the dinner I had last night.” Stacey laughed nervously as she wiped the goop off of her stomach.
The doctor chuckled for what Stacey and Todd took to mean them being naïve soon-to-be first time parents. The door shut behind him as the whistling and his footsteps faded off down the hall.
Stacey and Todd’s eyes widened as the realization of what was happening set in.
It took but eight minutes for the two of them to arrive at the hospital. Todd’s knuckles turned white as the grip on Stacey’s wheelchair tightened. The bag that had been packed months ago was now sliding up and down Todd’s shoulder like a woman carrying an oversized purse.
“Keep breathing, Stace,” Todd repeated, until the two of them made it into the brightly lit room.
As Stacey transformed into her hospital gown, the IVs in her forearm began pumping fluids all throughout her body. Todd sat in the squeaky metal chair as he placed his hand on hers.
“Well, becoming a dad wasn’t in my plans for today, but I’m so glad its happening.” Todd looked endearingly into Stacey’s clover-colored eyes.
Tears began to fall against the white pillowcase as she stared her husband.
“You okay, baby?” Todd rubbed her shoulder as a look of concern fell over his face.
“I’m just so lucky. You’re an amazing husband and I know you’re going to be a great dad. I love you.”
“I love you more.” A light kiss was pressed against Stacey’s lips.
The time waiting for Stacey to become fully dilated was spent watching a Brady Bunch marathon on TV Land. As the show became monotonous, so did Stacey’s contractions.
“Damn, these contractions are getting intense.” Stacey began breathing quickly.
“The doctor will be in in just a minute. Hang on,” Todd’s thumb caressed her forehead.
“Hang on? I have a freaking baby about to come out of me, Todd! I can’t hang on!”
“You know, I was just thinking to myself a little bit ago that you hadn’t had a mood swing yet today, but I thought too soon.”
A stone cold glare formed across Stacey’s face as footsteps and a knock took place outside of her room before abruptly entering.
“I have good news; it’s time to push.” The doctor’s face lit up as the blue latex gloves hit against his skin. Several nurses accompanied him. Two were on both sides of him. While three more went to designated areas in the room for weight, washing, and vitals. He smiled at the anxious couple as he positioned himself accordingly.
Todd wrapped his hand around Stacey’s left leg as it hung dangling in the air; one of the nurses by the doctor mimicked the same action on the other side.
“Okay, Stacey, now I want you to push as hard as you can,” the doctor instructed.
Stacey pushed restlessly for twenty-eight minutes. Tears and sweat saturated her face as the baby, who was unknown to the world one minute, was emerging to be someone in the next.
“You’re doing so well, Stace,” Todd reassured his wife, with gentle smiles and shoulder rubs.
“I’m never having sex with you again,” Stacey said in between breaths as she let out one last push.
The same high-pitched screeching he had heard earlier that day quickly interrupted Todd’s laughter.
“You just gave birth to a baby boy,” the doctor said as the baby was taken to be cleaned off. “Have any ideas for a name?”
“Hudson Todd Caperelli,” Stacey said as a smile greeted with tears formed in her eyes.
“You so owe me ten dollars.” Todd brushed Stacey’s hair out of her face as he placed a kiss upon her forehead. The two of them placed their foreheads together, smiling.
Their smiles quickly faded as panic filled the room.
“P28.5 The baby is blue. The baby is not breathing,” the nurse by the scale, yelled.
A medical team rushed in within a matter of seconds. Stacey hid her face in Todd’s chest as shrieking screams vibrated his shirt.
For fifteen minutes the team surrounded Hudson. The doctor’s somber expression in the end said what words he could not.
“I’m sorry to tell you that little Hudson didn’t make it,” the doctor said as he chocked back tears
“How long? How long was he alive for? I need to know!” Stacey demanded, as her face grew hot.
“Eight minutes.” The doctor walked over and placed a lifeless Hudson in Stacey’s arms.
Stacey talked to Hudson in a soft, slow tone. “Hi, Hudson. It’s Mommy. You have your daddy’s nose and my green eyes. I bet you’d have your daddy’s goofy sense of humor, too. I wish you were just sleeping. Be mine and daddy’s guardian angel, okay?” Tears fell on the blue blanket he was wrapped in.
“Baby. Baby I’m so sorry. We’ll get through this together, I promise,” Todd said in between cries as he kissed Hudson’s forehead.
“I guess being a father wasn’t in your plans today, after all.” The look of heartbreak reflected in their eyes.
“For several hours Stacey and Todd passed little Hudson back and forth, telling him stories of the family members he would never get to meet. And for a short amount of time, they were a family of three.
Stacey spent many of the following weeks in bed. Todd stayed up with her in the middle of the night as she cried into his chest questioning what she had done wrong. Doctors said the heart condition could not have been prevented and it didn’t have anything to do with the way Stacey cared for herself during the pregnancy.
Despite being told this, Stacey felt that she was one hundred percent to blame.
***
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Todd placed the bags on the floor next to her and rubbed her shoulder.
“It’s been three months,” Stacey managed to get out.
“I know, I know. I realized it on my way to work today but didn’t want to bring it up because I didn’t want to upset you. But Hudson wouldn’t want his mommy and daddy to be sad. We have to try and be strong.
“I can’t be strong, Todd. I want our baby boy. Here. With us. It’s not fair,” Stacey’s face was saturated as she once again broke out into sobs.
Tears fell from Todd’s eyes as he wrapped his arms around his hurting wife. “I know, Baby. I know.”
For a long time, silence made up the conversation as the two of them breathed in unison.
“Hey, I got you something at the store,” Todd said as he rummaged through the bag next to him, placing the item in her shaking hands.
“You got me the pepper I asked for?” Stacey raised her brow in confusion.
“Yeah, but look at the brand.”
As Stacey read the name of the pepper, a small smile formed on her lips as she wiped the sticky tears from her face.
“Hudson’s. Aw, I love it.”
“Where the heck is it?” Sighs of frustration escaped from his wife, Stacey.
“What are you looking for?” His gaze never left the young man who was now throwing a free throw.
“The pepper. I need it for this new recipe I saw online today and it’s not with the salt.” Stacey sighed once more as she ran her fingers through her coarse hair.
“After this game is over I’ll go pick some up from the store.”
“How long until it’s over?”
“A little over eight…Oh what a shot! Did you see that, Stace?” The legs of the recliner turned to see Stacey with her arms crossed at her chest, eyes darting on Todd.
“Can you please go now?” Her voice was pleading.
“Okay. Okay.”
With a click of the remote the screen went blank. As Todd slid his feet into his rubber sandals, the keys jingled as they rested in between his index and middle finger. He placed a small kiss upon Stacey’s forehead as his free hand ruffled the ends of her hair. The sound of the screen door being pushed shut by the wind could be heard as the truck’s engine made its way down the quiet street.
“No pepper in here… Aw, we need milk,” Stacey realized as the cold air from the refrigerator hit against her face. As Stacey’s fingers typed away the message to her husband, she took note of the date. The screen became blurry as the tears from her eyes fell like giant puddles.
Three months, ninety days, no matter which way one put it it was all the same to Stacey.
***
Stacey woke that morning to Todd’s cold, clammy feet pressed against her back as his chest rose and fell peacefully against the satin sheets. She untangled herself from the plethora of blankets she had cocooned herself in from the night before and pulled the strings from the window blind to welcome the sunlight into the room. The sudden burst of light was followed by groans from Todd as he placed a pillow over his head.
“It’s too early,” Todd muffled into the pillow.
“It’s almost eight. Come on, we have to start getting ready. I don’t want us to be late again,” Stacey said as she gently placed her hand on Todd’s bare bicep.
As Todd slowly sat up, a smile formed across his face revealing his perfect white teeth. His eyes were fixated on Stacey as she walked into the bathroom and turned the shower handle to what Todd could only imagine was scalding hot, the only way Stacey preferred her showers.
“Any room in there for me?” Todd’s voice was hopeful as he bellowed over the sound of the water crashing against the marble floor.
Stacey’s infectious laugh could be heard as she opened the shampoo bottle. “Nice try.”
“Please?” Todd asked as if her were a little kid who wanted ice cream.
“No. That’s how we got here in the first place.” Stacey let out another cackle at how ridiculous her husband could be when she wasn’t in the mood.
Todd crashed his head against the pillow; the smile stayed tattooed on his face.
It was the third Wednesday in April. The weather was warm when the sun was radiating off of their bodies, but when it went to hide away behind the clouds, it became cool. The sidewalk was made up of uneven patches that needed filled. Stacey’s yellow dress that matched the sun hit above her knee and as her body swayed back and forth; her dress followed suit.
Stacey’s hand interlocked with Todd’s as they made their way in front of the old, dilapidated building. Built in the 1980s, not too much had appeared to change since then with the exception of the elevator that had been installed not even ten years ago. The smell of freshly used hairspray greeted them as the sensor from the sliding doors activated. Every time they came to this place, Todd made the joke that hairspray must be in the vents because there is no other logical explanation for why the smell was so strong.
The elevator door dinged multiple times before the doors of it welcomed the two of them. As Stacey pressed the button changing it from white to red, the grip on Todd’s hand tightened. Todd exchanged laughs with himself as the elevator clanked and rumbled.
“What’s so funny?” Stacey asked as she used her reflection to wipe around the corners of her mouth and check her nose.
“I just keep thinking about the ten dollars you’re going to owe me; that’s all.”
Stacey hit his arm playfully as she rolled her eyes. “I thought I had something on my face. You, my friend, can keep dreaming,” she said as a chuckle left her mouth.
As the elevator reached their stop, a deep breath was shared between the two of them as they made their way down the green hallway with floral wallpaper.
“Who would have thought that I could get my haircut, get my taxes done, and check on the development of our baby all in one building?” Todd expressed in amazement as each of the doors they passed represented something different.
“You can go get a haircut once we’re done. You need it.” Stacey’s tongue rested on her front teeth as she ruffled Todd’s hair, which was growing down his neck.
“Hey, it’s in style,” Todd said, running his fingers through his hair.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Stacey turned the door handle as a bell went off to let their presence be known.
Todd’s leg bounced restlessly as the sound of the pen pressed against the clipboard. He studied the strangers that despite being just that, he had something in common with. His study session was quickly interrupted as high-pitched screeches along with abrupt kicks came from the seat in which his back faced.
“Our kid will never have a meltdown in public,” Todd whispered as Stacey placed her signature on the final piece of paper.
“Oh no. Our kid is going to be a perfect angel.”
“They’ll take after their mom if that’s the case.” Todd’s smile reflected off of the florescent lights.
“You’re so cheesy,” Stacey said, as a smile that matched his unraveled across her face.
As Todd returned the clipboard to the front desk; his hands folded in front of his mouth as he once again took the seat next to his wife. Her name echoed as the door swung open and a woman wearing purple scrubs with poodles on them called for her. Todd offered his hand as the cold air closed in behind them.
The two were shown to a room with white walls and multiple colored posters that displayed cartoon-like images of a woman’s insides. Stacey made her way over to the table and as she sat down her eyes became fixated on the poster, which showed the baby coming out. Todd took the seat next to her and followed her gaze.
“Ouch. Can you believe that something the size a watermelon is going to be coming out of you?” Todd’s eyebrows were raised; his eyes squinted as he placed his hands over his private parts.
“Wow. Way to make me feel better.” Stacey’s eyes glared at her husband.
“Sorry, Babe. Here, let’s play a game while we wait. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten. What is it?”
“Five.”
“Nope. It was eight. So sorry, better luck next time.” Todd crinkled his nose at his wife, who looked as though she were an angle from the way the lights were hitting her.
The doctor knocked twice as he entered the room. His white coat matched his hair; each handshake passed out was received with a smile.
“Stacey, Todd, good to see you both again. How are things?”
“Things are well; I’m ready to get this baby out of me, though,” Stacey responded as she laid back in the paper that crinkled underneath her.
“You don’t have much longer to wait. This should be a quick appointment. Let’s take a look at the little one, shall we?”
As the doctor moved the warm jelly around Stacey’s stomach, the image showed the baby’s legs kicking a million miles a minute. The silence was broken up by the sound of the baby’s heartbeat echoing off of the monitor.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to know the gender?”
“We’re sure. We’ve waited this long. A few more weeks won’t hurt,” Stacey said as she rested on her elbows, holding the rest of her body up.
As the doctor checked her cervix, Stacey and Todd exchanged innocent smiles with one another.
Well, it looks like you’re going to meet the baby sooner rather than later. It turns out you’re five centimeters dilated,” the doctor announced as he threw the latex gloves in the garbage and lathered his hands with soap.
“I’m sorry, what?” Stacey sat up completely with the help of Todd’s hand.
“You’re in labor. I will call the hospital so they can have a room ready for you when you arrive. Congratulations.” The words were said casually as the paper towel dispenser moved up and down.
“I thought the pain I felt this morning was from the dinner I had last night.” Stacey laughed nervously as she wiped the goop off of her stomach.
The doctor chuckled for what Stacey and Todd took to mean them being naïve soon-to-be first time parents. The door shut behind him as the whistling and his footsteps faded off down the hall.
Stacey and Todd’s eyes widened as the realization of what was happening set in.
It took but eight minutes for the two of them to arrive at the hospital. Todd’s knuckles turned white as the grip on Stacey’s wheelchair tightened. The bag that had been packed months ago was now sliding up and down Todd’s shoulder like a woman carrying an oversized purse.
“Keep breathing, Stace,” Todd repeated, until the two of them made it into the brightly lit room.
As Stacey transformed into her hospital gown, the IVs in her forearm began pumping fluids all throughout her body. Todd sat in the squeaky metal chair as he placed his hand on hers.
“Well, becoming a dad wasn’t in my plans for today, but I’m so glad its happening.” Todd looked endearingly into Stacey’s clover-colored eyes.
Tears began to fall against the white pillowcase as she stared her husband.
“You okay, baby?” Todd rubbed her shoulder as a look of concern fell over his face.
“I’m just so lucky. You’re an amazing husband and I know you’re going to be a great dad. I love you.”
“I love you more.” A light kiss was pressed against Stacey’s lips.
The time waiting for Stacey to become fully dilated was spent watching a Brady Bunch marathon on TV Land. As the show became monotonous, so did Stacey’s contractions.
“Damn, these contractions are getting intense.” Stacey began breathing quickly.
“The doctor will be in in just a minute. Hang on,” Todd’s thumb caressed her forehead.
“Hang on? I have a freaking baby about to come out of me, Todd! I can’t hang on!”
“You know, I was just thinking to myself a little bit ago that you hadn’t had a mood swing yet today, but I thought too soon.”
A stone cold glare formed across Stacey’s face as footsteps and a knock took place outside of her room before abruptly entering.
“I have good news; it’s time to push.” The doctor’s face lit up as the blue latex gloves hit against his skin. Several nurses accompanied him. Two were on both sides of him. While three more went to designated areas in the room for weight, washing, and vitals. He smiled at the anxious couple as he positioned himself accordingly.
Todd wrapped his hand around Stacey’s left leg as it hung dangling in the air; one of the nurses by the doctor mimicked the same action on the other side.
“Okay, Stacey, now I want you to push as hard as you can,” the doctor instructed.
Stacey pushed restlessly for twenty-eight minutes. Tears and sweat saturated her face as the baby, who was unknown to the world one minute, was emerging to be someone in the next.
“You’re doing so well, Stace,” Todd reassured his wife, with gentle smiles and shoulder rubs.
“I’m never having sex with you again,” Stacey said in between breaths as she let out one last push.
The same high-pitched screeching he had heard earlier that day quickly interrupted Todd’s laughter.
“You just gave birth to a baby boy,” the doctor said as the baby was taken to be cleaned off. “Have any ideas for a name?”
“Hudson Todd Caperelli,” Stacey said as a smile greeted with tears formed in her eyes.
“You so owe me ten dollars.” Todd brushed Stacey’s hair out of her face as he placed a kiss upon her forehead. The two of them placed their foreheads together, smiling.
Their smiles quickly faded as panic filled the room.
“P28.5 The baby is blue. The baby is not breathing,” the nurse by the scale, yelled.
A medical team rushed in within a matter of seconds. Stacey hid her face in Todd’s chest as shrieking screams vibrated his shirt.
For fifteen minutes the team surrounded Hudson. The doctor’s somber expression in the end said what words he could not.
“I’m sorry to tell you that little Hudson didn’t make it,” the doctor said as he chocked back tears
“How long? How long was he alive for? I need to know!” Stacey demanded, as her face grew hot.
“Eight minutes.” The doctor walked over and placed a lifeless Hudson in Stacey’s arms.
Stacey talked to Hudson in a soft, slow tone. “Hi, Hudson. It’s Mommy. You have your daddy’s nose and my green eyes. I bet you’d have your daddy’s goofy sense of humor, too. I wish you were just sleeping. Be mine and daddy’s guardian angel, okay?” Tears fell on the blue blanket he was wrapped in.
“Baby. Baby I’m so sorry. We’ll get through this together, I promise,” Todd said in between cries as he kissed Hudson’s forehead.
“I guess being a father wasn’t in your plans today, after all.” The look of heartbreak reflected in their eyes.
“For several hours Stacey and Todd passed little Hudson back and forth, telling him stories of the family members he would never get to meet. And for a short amount of time, they were a family of three.
Stacey spent many of the following weeks in bed. Todd stayed up with her in the middle of the night as she cried into his chest questioning what she had done wrong. Doctors said the heart condition could not have been prevented and it didn’t have anything to do with the way Stacey cared for herself during the pregnancy.
Despite being told this, Stacey felt that she was one hundred percent to blame.
***
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Todd placed the bags on the floor next to her and rubbed her shoulder.
“It’s been three months,” Stacey managed to get out.
“I know, I know. I realized it on my way to work today but didn’t want to bring it up because I didn’t want to upset you. But Hudson wouldn’t want his mommy and daddy to be sad. We have to try and be strong.
“I can’t be strong, Todd. I want our baby boy. Here. With us. It’s not fair,” Stacey’s face was saturated as she once again broke out into sobs.
Tears fell from Todd’s eyes as he wrapped his arms around his hurting wife. “I know, Baby. I know.”
For a long time, silence made up the conversation as the two of them breathed in unison.
“Hey, I got you something at the store,” Todd said as he rummaged through the bag next to him, placing the item in her shaking hands.
“You got me the pepper I asked for?” Stacey raised her brow in confusion.
“Yeah, but look at the brand.”
As Stacey read the name of the pepper, a small smile formed on her lips as she wiped the sticky tears from her face.
“Hudson’s. Aw, I love it.”
A Different Light by Jennifer Zelkovic
Rich was staring out the window of a coffee shop when he saw her. She wore a black dress with white polka dots and a black lace jacket that went over her head. She skipped across the street to the reach the window he looked out of. Her dark eyes exchanged a small glance with him before she disappeared. Rich stared down at his coffee cup watching the hot steam rise only to disappear before it reached his face.
The coffee shop bell rang as the door opened. The click of high heel shoes bounced off the walls. Rich turned his head and his eyes widened. It was her. Her gray fingers lifted her hood off her head to reveal beautiful light blonde hair. She stood at the counter pointing up at the menu on the wall as she ordered. The young teen behind the counter stared down at the green bill she brought from her pocket. He cautiously took the money with two fingers, trying not to touch hers. She sighed as he sat the cup on the counter, not handing it to her directly. She took her cup and turned toward the seating area where customers quickly turned away and tried not to make eye contact. Rich, however, kept his stare and when their eyes met he smiled, lifting his hand to a wave.
“This seat’s not taken.” Rich gestured to the seat in front of him.
She smiled and slowly sat down. “Not many people would offer me a seat.”
“You don’t seem so scary.” Rich shrugged.
They sat there for what seemed like hours talking, joking, flirting, and taking sips of their coffee. When she had finished her cup he offered to buy her another, but she lifted her arm to reveal a watch on her wrist.
“It’s time for work.” She frowned and shook her head.
“Can I call you?” Rich asked as she slid her chair back.
With a flick of her wrist and twist of her fingers, a small black card appeared in her hand. She slid the card over to him and smiled. “Have a nice day, Rich.”
As her heels clicked away, while Rich grinned down at the black card with white numbers. He glanced up out the window as the bell rang behind him. He watched as she stood by the curb to flag down a taxi. Everyone had told him that Death was a cruel man in a suit, but nobody ever told him how beautiful she could be.
On their first date Rich took her to dinner and a walk in the park where she described how lonely her life had been.
“It’s a job that everybody knows,” she explained, brushing her hair back with her hand.
“It’s something everybody is afraid of,” Rich tried. “Instead of being afraid of the actual job they are afraid of the person who does it.”
They stopped on a bridge where they leaned over the edge staring down at the crystal water.
“I’ve never met someone who gets it.” She smiled over at him.
“I’ve never met someone like you.” He smiled back leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder.
She turned to him and stretching up, placed a small kiss on the side of his cheek. As she balanced herself back on the ground, her eyes grew wide. A small bundle of smoke appeared on his cheek.
“What is it?” He turned to her, trying to read her face.
She stared at him as the smoke ran down the side of his face, dripped off and disappeared before it reached the ground. As the smoke finally drifted away, the side of his face no longer contained the rosy flesh of his cheek but instead bone and teeth. Death gasped as tears began to build in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” Her hands covered her mouth. Rich lifted his hand towards his face but she smacked it away. “Hold on.” She wiped away a tear, then placed her hand on the mistake she had made. Letting out a deep breath she slowly removed it, hoping the flesh would reappear. However, only a small grayness appeared like a see through coating or mist. “I’m sorry, I thought that would work!” she exclaimed as she placed her hand on her forehead.
Rich then carefully lifted his hand where the gray barrier stopped him from the hole in the side of his face. His fingers brushed over the new patch that clearly matched hers.
“I can’t feel it.” He stared at her. “It’s like it’s numb.” He squished the gray skin, then the other cheek.
“It’s very obvious.” She looked toward the ground. “Everyone will know it was me.”
He leaned over the side of the bridge glimpsing down at the water. At first his eyes grew wide with fear but then with shock.
“What are those?” He pointed down at the water.
Confused, she turned and looked over. In the blue water were small white clouds of fish swimming but not living. Rich could see their white bones encased in a glowing blue outline that would normally be scales.
“They weren’t there before.” Rich scratched his head.
“You can see them?” Death looked over at him, shocked.
“They’re beautiful.” He shook his head.
“What about your face?”
He looked up to her and studied her red face. “It’s something I can live with.” Rich shrugged with a smile as he brushed back a piece of her hair. “I’ll make up a good story for it.”
Although Rich’s new cheek turned a lot of faces, he was introduced into a world he never knew existed. Sometimes people asked about his face, but he didn’t seem to mind the attention. Every day his eyes pointed out something different about the world.
“I thought there would be more of them,” he explained as he poured tea into her cup before sitting down next to her at his kitchen table.
“There is another world just for them, but they have access to this one, too.”
“But I don’t, right?” He slid the sugar bowl over to her.
“No.” She giggled as she took a cube.
“It’s not fair,” he began. “I don’t get to see you as often as I like.”
“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand on his. “This isn’t exactly the dream job.”
“What if you moved in here?” He took a sip of his tea.
“What?”
“You could move in here, then I would see you at least every night when you get off work.” He set his cup down.
“Really?” She smiled.
“Really.” He rubbed his thumb against her hand.
At first, Death loved the idea of moving into Rich’s place. However, after a couple of weeks, Rich began to notice a different side of her.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“It’s just different here. I miss my friends. Everyone on the other side isn’t afraid of me.” She stared out the kitchen window.
“Well, what if we.” Rich began only to be interrupted by a sudden crash outside the apartment.
“Oh no!” Death rose.
They both ran outside to find a taxi curved in the middle of the road. In front of the car lay a yellow furry dog, motionless. The cab driver stood over the still animal, yelling into his phone. Rich, about to walk onto the street, was stopped by Death who grabbed his hand and shook her head.
“Wait,” she whispered before taking a step onto the road.
A small crowd began to form, watching as she walked slowly towards the taxi. The cab driver opened his mouth as if to say something, but she lifted a finger causing him to close his mouth. She bent down to the dog and using her small fingers began lifting, only when she stood, the dog was not in her hands only a blue cloud of smoke. Gracefully, Death walked back, past Rich, and into the apartment. Rich looked back towards the taxi to see no dog and the cab driver getting back inside his car. The crowd mumbled as they all slowly dispersed from the scene. Rich then rushed back into his apartment to find Death sitting at the small kitchen table staring down at the floor where a dog now encased in a blue glow and made out of bones wagged his tail.
“Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.” She patted the dog’s head.
Rich took a seat at the table. “You really are something.” He reached down to scratch the dog’s ear only to lift his hand and stare at it. “Why don’t you just do that to me?”
“You know I didn’t mean to do that to you on purpose. I didn’t know that would happen.” She reached her hand across the table.
He placed his fingers on hers and smirked. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because it’s not your time.” She stuck her tongue out.
“Psh.” Rich rolled his eyes and laughed.
The dog wagged his tail then jumped up onto Rich, giving him a big lick on the side of his ruined cheek. Rich’s eyes grew wide and his body stilled at the sensation. The dog jumped off as Rich raised his hand to feel the cheek. When he lowered his hand to stare down at his fingers, he saw the clear slobber on the tips.
Death picked the dog up and grinned as the dog nuzzled against her, “Because life is beautiful and nobody tells you that when you’re living.”
The coffee shop bell rang as the door opened. The click of high heel shoes bounced off the walls. Rich turned his head and his eyes widened. It was her. Her gray fingers lifted her hood off her head to reveal beautiful light blonde hair. She stood at the counter pointing up at the menu on the wall as she ordered. The young teen behind the counter stared down at the green bill she brought from her pocket. He cautiously took the money with two fingers, trying not to touch hers. She sighed as he sat the cup on the counter, not handing it to her directly. She took her cup and turned toward the seating area where customers quickly turned away and tried not to make eye contact. Rich, however, kept his stare and when their eyes met he smiled, lifting his hand to a wave.
“This seat’s not taken.” Rich gestured to the seat in front of him.
She smiled and slowly sat down. “Not many people would offer me a seat.”
“You don’t seem so scary.” Rich shrugged.
They sat there for what seemed like hours talking, joking, flirting, and taking sips of their coffee. When she had finished her cup he offered to buy her another, but she lifted her arm to reveal a watch on her wrist.
“It’s time for work.” She frowned and shook her head.
“Can I call you?” Rich asked as she slid her chair back.
With a flick of her wrist and twist of her fingers, a small black card appeared in her hand. She slid the card over to him and smiled. “Have a nice day, Rich.”
As her heels clicked away, while Rich grinned down at the black card with white numbers. He glanced up out the window as the bell rang behind him. He watched as she stood by the curb to flag down a taxi. Everyone had told him that Death was a cruel man in a suit, but nobody ever told him how beautiful she could be.
On their first date Rich took her to dinner and a walk in the park where she described how lonely her life had been.
“It’s a job that everybody knows,” she explained, brushing her hair back with her hand.
“It’s something everybody is afraid of,” Rich tried. “Instead of being afraid of the actual job they are afraid of the person who does it.”
They stopped on a bridge where they leaned over the edge staring down at the crystal water.
“I’ve never met someone who gets it.” She smiled over at him.
“I’ve never met someone like you.” He smiled back leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder.
She turned to him and stretching up, placed a small kiss on the side of his cheek. As she balanced herself back on the ground, her eyes grew wide. A small bundle of smoke appeared on his cheek.
“What is it?” He turned to her, trying to read her face.
She stared at him as the smoke ran down the side of his face, dripped off and disappeared before it reached the ground. As the smoke finally drifted away, the side of his face no longer contained the rosy flesh of his cheek but instead bone and teeth. Death gasped as tears began to build in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” Her hands covered her mouth. Rich lifted his hand towards his face but she smacked it away. “Hold on.” She wiped away a tear, then placed her hand on the mistake she had made. Letting out a deep breath she slowly removed it, hoping the flesh would reappear. However, only a small grayness appeared like a see through coating or mist. “I’m sorry, I thought that would work!” she exclaimed as she placed her hand on her forehead.
Rich then carefully lifted his hand where the gray barrier stopped him from the hole in the side of his face. His fingers brushed over the new patch that clearly matched hers.
“I can’t feel it.” He stared at her. “It’s like it’s numb.” He squished the gray skin, then the other cheek.
“It’s very obvious.” She looked toward the ground. “Everyone will know it was me.”
He leaned over the side of the bridge glimpsing down at the water. At first his eyes grew wide with fear but then with shock.
“What are those?” He pointed down at the water.
Confused, she turned and looked over. In the blue water were small white clouds of fish swimming but not living. Rich could see their white bones encased in a glowing blue outline that would normally be scales.
“They weren’t there before.” Rich scratched his head.
“You can see them?” Death looked over at him, shocked.
“They’re beautiful.” He shook his head.
“What about your face?”
He looked up to her and studied her red face. “It’s something I can live with.” Rich shrugged with a smile as he brushed back a piece of her hair. “I’ll make up a good story for it.”
Although Rich’s new cheek turned a lot of faces, he was introduced into a world he never knew existed. Sometimes people asked about his face, but he didn’t seem to mind the attention. Every day his eyes pointed out something different about the world.
“I thought there would be more of them,” he explained as he poured tea into her cup before sitting down next to her at his kitchen table.
“There is another world just for them, but they have access to this one, too.”
“But I don’t, right?” He slid the sugar bowl over to her.
“No.” She giggled as she took a cube.
“It’s not fair,” he began. “I don’t get to see you as often as I like.”
“I’m sorry.” She placed her hand on his. “This isn’t exactly the dream job.”
“What if you moved in here?” He took a sip of his tea.
“What?”
“You could move in here, then I would see you at least every night when you get off work.” He set his cup down.
“Really?” She smiled.
“Really.” He rubbed his thumb against her hand.
At first, Death loved the idea of moving into Rich’s place. However, after a couple of weeks, Rich began to notice a different side of her.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“It’s just different here. I miss my friends. Everyone on the other side isn’t afraid of me.” She stared out the kitchen window.
“Well, what if we.” Rich began only to be interrupted by a sudden crash outside the apartment.
“Oh no!” Death rose.
They both ran outside to find a taxi curved in the middle of the road. In front of the car lay a yellow furry dog, motionless. The cab driver stood over the still animal, yelling into his phone. Rich, about to walk onto the street, was stopped by Death who grabbed his hand and shook her head.
“Wait,” she whispered before taking a step onto the road.
A small crowd began to form, watching as she walked slowly towards the taxi. The cab driver opened his mouth as if to say something, but she lifted a finger causing him to close his mouth. She bent down to the dog and using her small fingers began lifting, only when she stood, the dog was not in her hands only a blue cloud of smoke. Gracefully, Death walked back, past Rich, and into the apartment. Rich looked back towards the taxi to see no dog and the cab driver getting back inside his car. The crowd mumbled as they all slowly dispersed from the scene. Rich then rushed back into his apartment to find Death sitting at the small kitchen table staring down at the floor where a dog now encased in a blue glow and made out of bones wagged his tail.
“Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.” She patted the dog’s head.
Rich took a seat at the table. “You really are something.” He reached down to scratch the dog’s ear only to lift his hand and stare at it. “Why don’t you just do that to me?”
“You know I didn’t mean to do that to you on purpose. I didn’t know that would happen.” She reached her hand across the table.
He placed his fingers on hers and smirked. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because it’s not your time.” She stuck her tongue out.
“Psh.” Rich rolled his eyes and laughed.
The dog wagged his tail then jumped up onto Rich, giving him a big lick on the side of his ruined cheek. Rich’s eyes grew wide and his body stilled at the sensation. The dog jumped off as Rich raised his hand to feel the cheek. When he lowered his hand to stare down at his fingers, he saw the clear slobber on the tips.
Death picked the dog up and grinned as the dog nuzzled against her, “Because life is beautiful and nobody tells you that when you’re living.”
Chasing Dreams by Megan Vivian
Every time I wake up, the first thing on my mind is whatever I had dreamt of the night before, and I always have to check every few minutes to see if I’d already forgotten the whole thing, because my memory is so sub-par with things, even things I care about, except when those things cause me some kind of distress or worry or sadness, meaning that the nightmares, the fever dreams, the long falls that end with me jerking awake feeling like I’d crashed through the floor, the visions of living under a tyranny and hiding from the people that think I trust them, and the dreams of being chased, especially when the thing chasing is something or someone I recognize and the place I’m being followed through is somewhere I’ve been before, will always be remembered more than the good dreams (which I can only assume come across as rare and exceptional by most people’s standards), of which I’m not even sure I’d be able to accurately reproduce through words or descriptions because of my own unawareness of them, even after experiencing one as recently as last night, and no matter how good the dream felt, no matter how comfortable I was inside of it and how much I was afraid of waking up and facing what was going to happen to me when I was awake again, I somehow always remember them less than I remember all of the images of slick-faced, thin men with flashlights following me around my mother’s neighborhood and yelling for me to show myself, and, regardless of whether it’s because my mind is too busy trying to make me happy to dedicate itself to storing the memories or if there’s some unconscious desire deep within me to take into account every negative or terrifying, real or imagined, situation that I go through, it still makes me worry about how this kind of trend is going to bleed into my real life and how I’m eventually going to end up looking back onto it if and when I make it long enough to want to reminisce, and it makes me worry about how my grandmother only tells stories of tears and confrontation and the dead, how my grandfather only seems to remember how many co-workers or classmates got mangled in accidents and which houses they had that have since been torn down, how my mother can only seem to talk about the people who’ve hurt her and not the people that have helped, and I can’t tell if it’s because they’ve all just lived unhappy, uneventful lives, or if one day I’m going to forget what it was like to have a real friend and forget what it was like for someone to tell me they loved me and forget the smell of sugared pretzels in the mall when my family was made up of the people who would tell me that, and that I’ll only be able to remember and tell stories about what it was like for friends to fade away, for the people I thought knew and trusted to turn against me, and to feel like I’m being chased through my own home like I was still in some sort of dream.
Orphan by Megan Vivian
Dim bulbs brightening.
Stiff joints loosening.
Scanning archived data for information.
Memories of blue skies turning grey, of grey becoming red, and red returning to blue again.
Unsettled dust, disturbed shelves, and overturned trays altered the dark hiding place for the first time in decades.
The sound of glass shattering filled the bunker as light from the LEDs in their head filled the room. When they attempted to ask the dim glow what was happening, the only thing that came out was a grinding, metallic tone, words caught on the speakers infested by time, not yet having begun self-repair. The tone is not one that they themself could hear yet, as they were still 97% unconscious.
They remained still as their systems booted up and scheduled maintenance resumed. The sense of time imbued within them was eroded, and they did not know when they woke up, only that they could now breathe again.
An artificial will burns away the rust.
Scrap metal and scattered wires carpeted the secluded, dust-darkened corner they sat in. Plugged into 40 machines at once, they soon began to hear sound again, sounds of sirens and gunshots and shouting far above them.
Screams filled their vulnerable auditory input receptors.
They slowly regained the ability to understand that days were passing.
An automatic system restore for their motor functions had been activated. A factory reset.
Sun and moon remained absent from their corner, despite the obvious progression of the clock, ticking up the seconds on a monitor hidden behind their left breast. Files are pulled from a secondary storage device hooked into the slot under their chin. The constant whirring of cooling fans and debris filters accompanied the panicked sounds from the distant, ground-level ceiling.
Cobwebs were torn down and wires became untangled.
They only realized they were standing after the fact, when their sense of spatial awareness had been fully revitalized. But they did stand, and would walk. Light shone against a faraway wall, trickling down the staircase. Now unsteady steps carry them upwards.
Fanfare.
Archived data received.
It has been 143 years since last boot sequence.
Warning: OS out of date, contact appointed guardian for immediate update. Have a nice day.
Scanning… Scanning...
Route to last known location of user profile 00203C set.
Sentience reinstated.
Hello World.
Stiff joints loosening.
Scanning archived data for information.
Memories of blue skies turning grey, of grey becoming red, and red returning to blue again.
Unsettled dust, disturbed shelves, and overturned trays altered the dark hiding place for the first time in decades.
The sound of glass shattering filled the bunker as light from the LEDs in their head filled the room. When they attempted to ask the dim glow what was happening, the only thing that came out was a grinding, metallic tone, words caught on the speakers infested by time, not yet having begun self-repair. The tone is not one that they themself could hear yet, as they were still 97% unconscious.
They remained still as their systems booted up and scheduled maintenance resumed. The sense of time imbued within them was eroded, and they did not know when they woke up, only that they could now breathe again.
An artificial will burns away the rust.
Scrap metal and scattered wires carpeted the secluded, dust-darkened corner they sat in. Plugged into 40 machines at once, they soon began to hear sound again, sounds of sirens and gunshots and shouting far above them.
Screams filled their vulnerable auditory input receptors.
They slowly regained the ability to understand that days were passing.
An automatic system restore for their motor functions had been activated. A factory reset.
Sun and moon remained absent from their corner, despite the obvious progression of the clock, ticking up the seconds on a monitor hidden behind their left breast. Files are pulled from a secondary storage device hooked into the slot under their chin. The constant whirring of cooling fans and debris filters accompanied the panicked sounds from the distant, ground-level ceiling.
Cobwebs were torn down and wires became untangled.
They only realized they were standing after the fact, when their sense of spatial awareness had been fully revitalized. But they did stand, and would walk. Light shone against a faraway wall, trickling down the staircase. Now unsteady steps carry them upwards.
Fanfare.
Archived data received.
It has been 143 years since last boot sequence.
Warning: OS out of date, contact appointed guardian for immediate update. Have a nice day.
Scanning… Scanning...
Route to last known location of user profile 00203C set.
Sentience reinstated.
Hello World.