Before I knew you, your grandfather died,

You refused to look at him.

Your father had to close the casket.

I find it a waste of time to consider the wishes of the dead but,

when I die I want to become a tree.

Death can freeze someone in time,

it can do many strange things.

“Here one minute, gone the next”

does not make any sense and I will be stuck until I see a body

or am the body.

You however,

are unable to face the reality of cold skinned death,

a corpse makes such reality far too difficult to ignore.

I cannot blame you.

This is why I do not want a casket.

but then again, it's all the same to me because

funerals are for the living

and I am utterly ecstatic I will never endure my own.

Friends and strangers and you, will dress like shadows and pose questions to god.

I will be neatly filed in a coffin to collect dirt and dust.

Tears spilling across handkerchiefs and elm,

as I am summarized inside a eulogy.

It is likely awful but,

I can make no remark, I do not hear a single word.

And there is nothing I want less than to spend eternity locked in a box

but still my wishes do not matter.

I do not believe in souls and I cannot haunt you.

Funerals are for the living.

And so I will be immortalized in a condition suitable for them.

I will me made up and locked away and buried

all before I begin to rot.

Only the worms will see my true form and you among the living,

can mourn me, not as I am but,

as I was.

but now it appears I was wrong,

my unfinished business seems to be to suffer through

this service on my own

i miss the certainty of us.

the way that we carved our names in picnic tables,

mementos of the defiant proclamations

that we were there, we existed,

we lived loud enough to leave

parts of ourselves behind.

i still marvel at every line etched

somewhere that it shouldn't be.

in the bathroom stalls,

the worn park benches,

the railing of a bridge

overlooking a bustling freeway.

every one of them a piece

of the person who marked it.

the optimistic permanence

of the letters we leave behind.

And in the gray ashes that envelope my energy,

lay those lingering, misguided hopes –

and here they come now to parade down on me!

Suffocating me –

catapulting me into

another catastrophic depression.

I cannot break hold;

its grip is tight around my neck.

And I begin to panic;

then fear sets in.

And all the while,

I am dousing myself in cold-hearted flames –

yes, I am burning.

Trapped in a vision –

so raw and real.

And I can feel it all.

Punishment for sins

that were not of my belonging.

Hauntings of a past,

within some version of me,

where a hint of familiarity

sets itself in gently.

Though,

I cannot see the depth of it;

I cannot reach the core.

And it weakens me;

I am withering away in the physical world

by some unknown attacks.

An invisible murder,

though never ending.

And I cannot see their approach;

only their collision with me.

I am not without pain

and a mighty, sore misery.

A servant to its hands –

I am forever bound in its grip.

Prose

without Finder

is like

the Heartbreakers

without Tom Petty.

X O X O X

Take a breath. I am leaving.

I've pondered long and hard over my own self, and my relationship to the lot of you, to my career, to my dear friends and family. I've spent too long a time trying to figure out why I feel outcasted by people who love me, and who I love in return. The conclusion I've reached is that I find it more easy to love you all from a distance. I suspect many of you feel the same way about me.

There are things I want to do, need to do--things I've put off for someone else's sake, time and time again. I'll not put myself off any longer. I'll be back, but only in my own time.

I am all right. I have supplies, money, and a plan. I am leaving by my own free will; I am under no duress, and I've told no one of my location.

I tell you this because I need you not to look for me. Do not file a missing persons report, don't enlist the help of rescue teams or do-gooders wanting to check off their good deed for the season. I don't want to be found. And I think that right now, if you go against this simple wish and look for me, you'll lose me for good.

You'd never find me anyway.

Those words probably don't mean anything anymore. I know I've said the same thing hundreds of times. I know I'm being a huge asshole saying this again. But I'm truly sorry. This time I'm serious, or at least as serious as a coward can be. You're right if you think I'm running away after today. I've only known to run my entire life; I am scared of confrontation after all. I wish I could say this to your face, all of my feelings and all of my heart but I just can't do that. It's okay if you hate me after this, if you want to strangle me or hope for my death. I understand. I've just had enough of everything. Work, life, relationships, it's all too much for me. It feels like I'm in a daze, or the butt of the punchline to some joke that a god, or maybe God himself, made just for me. I've tried to make things better. But now I'm just tired.

honey milk melon

make road marks

tell me when it’s safe

i trust you

feather of crow

fall with grace

red jam thumbprint

left on the glass

from Milk and Jelly

bribed from the cherry tree

Black Feathers from your jaw

Fallen with grace

i love you though im not supposed to

forbidden just like the apple

i hate you. i’m supposed to

like rejected peaches from their orchard

i trusted you. they told me not to

the breath; a tangerine daydream

yet still helpless

i trusted you though i’m not supposed to

In the magnolia field of hope

yet still hopeless

falling without grace.

Strawberry buds, a new hope

everyone here is really happy?

the feeling like a creamsicle

like im supposed to?

never

still melting

yet still failing

and falling

and strangling

still suffocating

i loved you

I have to be strong

the only choice

not privileged enough to be weak

not privileged enough to show strength

play the victim

it’s the only part

i’m supposed to know

but what does that make me

Go on, and sing my lullaby

where’s your mask?

you gave it to me?

to pretend it’s okay?

make it okay

please

please

i hate you

they told me to

they didn’t tell me

you’d make it safe

honey milk melon,

what does it mean to be missed when I’m not around?

I didn’t think so I didn’t think you knew

I fell from grace

that’s what I thought

broken like the rest

i still love you

even though i’m not supposed to

I will always love you even though

the strawberry lemonade spilled

and drown

the magnolias.

We lasted not more than three months. I was substitute-teaching and the school year was rapidly closing in on us. I had another part time job at $8 an hour in aftercare at the YMCA with a cap of 20 hours a week. I knew I had to find replacement work, fast. I had just moved to Michigan and money was tight. I told my husband, to his chagrin, that I would take the first job offer, whatever it was. (I hate being unemployed, i.e. not self-sufficient.) I was to be sure applying for regular teaching positions, but as it turned out Michigan and Jersey regulations don't align, and my qualifications for N-12 Art Teacher certification were not good enough. (It took a couple years to straighten that out and I'm still working on securing a position.)

In the meantime, we pounded the pavement. A local pub was hiring, and it seemed like a good bet, turn around being very high in these joints. The sign itself looked desperate. Shakespeare's Pub, Immediate Opening. I got the interview on the spot. Scott was running late, so I had a chat with the co-owner Ted, who seemed eager to fill the gap pronto, and by the time Scott arrived it was quickly determined to give me a try. The position was for a line cook. What restaurant experience did I have? None. But I did cook at the assisted living residences that I had worked at prior, so I hoped that that would count? It would. They needed somebody and fast. I started the next night.

Ted had facetiously said on closing the interview: "Make sure to learn the recipes right the first time." And when push came to shove, I knew exactly what he had meant. There were so many requested substitutions, that it was near impossible to pin down what the actual recipe was for this or that sandwich. Luckily, I grasped the build of the nachos with queso no prob, and I was reportedly the best pizza maker on staff, always assigned to that station when on shift and orders were up, especially large orders. I had a knack. (I should note that I frequently cook blind, even at home, as I don't eat a lot of things that most folks do, like milk, cheese, butter, meat, etc. And I do a very good job guesstimating the desired end result.)

If you have ever worked in a restaurant, you know pace can be grueling. Either an onslaught or naught. Mostly it was a steady stream of tickets, with three of us on the line, and a supervisor, though sometimes we were down to two cooks, and on party nights we had as many as four. Tensions were absurdly escalated. It wasn't teamwork. There was a strong underlying competition among the cooks, who it turned out were vying for scare managerial positions should one open. And they thought that I was lying in wait too. The place brimmed with hate and anger. As well as palpable sexual tensions. It was the closing shift 4:30 - 2:30am. Fatigue and accompanying error, worsened human relations. Added to this we had one fellow on staff, Christopher, who was diabetic and suffered anger management issues. We tiptoed around him knowing that at any minute he could explode, toss his apron and stomp out; yet, never lose his job, because replacements were so hard to come by.

One of our longest serving co-workers was a taciturn fellow that went by the name of KO (his real name was Kevin). He was the worst, in my estimation, and tried to give "good" free advice. Like when he hissed irritated-ly that I need to "fight" for my breaks-- Or I wouldn't get any. He was right. But I'm not a fighter, and I was annoyed at his aggressive handouts. He only settled down when I told him I was taking on a new job in August and that I was married.  Otherwise, he seemed to think I was after him and his potential managerial promotion or something. (I don't know why.)

I was going about doing my assignments as best as I knew how. I came in every day like a boxer readied to take a beating from opponents in the rink of the kitchen. There were of course some friendly faces like Coco and Phil, and the servers were appreciative of the artistic plating that garnered higher tips, as they later told me. I admit though I was relieved when I was assigned the messy task of doing dishes instead of cooking. I had a good strategy for this and could do it with efficiency and minimal mess, where others would emerge soaking wet, leaving behind a floor that looked like they lost the battle with the hose of the industrial kitchen faucet.

During my short time there we were of course up for state inspection. This prompted a mass cleaning of the ultra-grim covered ovens. We came in extra to scrub the unacceptable buildup. Amazingly, we passed. The place made me nervous the entire time I was there, as a state of hazard and accident waiting to happen; and I still can't believe that I was on the inside. I suffered several grease burns, which fortunately didn't leave scars. But they don't call it Shakes for nothing, and to this day I've never been to the pub upstairs.

What made the work particularly difficult was that I was pregnant with Remy Niko. Morning sickness can hit at 10pm as much as at 1am--- working with food not at all conducive as you can imagine. When I started puking in the back, I knew my days were numbered and I prayed that I could make it unnoticed until the end of the summer and take up my next job. As a preschool teacher.

Part 1: Jack and Black Betty

I pat down my jacket pockets sloppily feeling around for my only Bic lighter. A flash of florescent lights pass through the wrinkled folds of my eyes which might as well be closed considering every object I see is either blurry or floating through the room with grace. I, however, feel fucking good; Great in fact. A cigarette hangs loosely from the edge of my lips eager to be lit, yet nothing is found in my initial search, prolonging the warm embrace of nicotine and smoke in my mouth. I swivel in my bar stool to get a better reach. My probing hand reaches down and gets hung up inside my left pocket. I begin contorting my wrist into freakish angles attempting to break free from its grasp and stumble forward into the empty seat next to me. The stool falls over onto its side into the empty main walkway that has naturally formed between the dance floor and the bar crowd. I fall with it ending in a straddled pretzel over the stool. Zoey, the bartender, shoots me a death stare, as I fumble with my free hand to stand the chair and myself upright. Smiling nervously I attempt to break through her scowling tension, but have no success. She is not impressed, giving me that familiar final-warning look that I have seen before. In retrospect, I suppose I am feeling too good, and need to settle down. The doorman, Ronnie, who goes by the nickname, Grizzly, for his large mass and unnaturally harry body, has also sniffed me out. I know now that I am on thin ice for the rest of the night. I nod my head, raise my hand in surrender, and tuck my pride between my legs as I back myself onto my stool.

"Sourrey, Sawrrey"

The seat I had just toppled over, I carefully place into position and finish my apology tour with a few pats along its vinyl top, as if to make it feel better too. I then offer one more awkward wave toward security for, extra assurance. A low profile I think will benefit me.

"Sourrey"

With a final heave of my arm I dislodge my hand from my pocket and shift my focus onto my pants. I begin patting myself in the same fashion as before, solely dedicated to the liberation of my soggy menthol, which is pinched in the corner of my mouth. Besides locating my wallet, some dried particles of tobacco mixed with lint, and a crumpled illegible receipt, I again find nothing.

I irritably twist my body in confusion, while I start scanning myself from head to toe, and promptly begin patting myself all over again. Nothing. I check the bar. I find nothing.

"Werriss, Werrissit?"

"I juss. I jus-haa-dit here sumwhurrrr"

The floor shifts below me as if I am standing in a bowl of jello, and my body bounces at the knees a few times to offset it. I catch myself grasping the countertop for stability, while my knees get their legs back underneath them. I wait until the spinning room slows when I realize the Jack Daniels is in full swing.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

A familiar beating sound steers my focus. The beating is soon followed by a guitar cutting through the room like butter melting on toast, and I am transported into full party mode.

"Whoa Black Betty (Bam-ba-Lam), Whoa Black Betty (Bam-ba-Lam), Black Betty had a Child (Bam-ba-Lam)...."

I scan the dancing crowd as my favorite Ram Jam song begins pounding out of the speakers into my ears and pulsing through the floorboards into my feet. I get a wiggle in my step and am roused to reach for another swig of my drink. I pump my fist high in the air while I down another. I move like water to the beat and begin tapping my hands on my leg, which is irrationally jerking in my seat. The collective cheer throughout the room was infectious. This was my song. Hell, it was clear it was everyone's song. I force another swig down the hatch, then open my pack of cigs to celebrate with a smoke.

"The Damn Thing gone Blind (Bam-ba-lam), I said oh, Black Betty (Bam-ba-lam)..."

I pull a fresh cig and my lighter out of my pack of Newport's, attempting to place it into my mouth. I become immediately amused.

"Hmp!"

I must have forgotten that I already had one locked and ready. I snicker a little more to myself as I sway to the music in my seat, place the saliva-logged cigarette back into my pack, then light the new one. I snort out my nose becoming even more amused.

"Hmp, Hmp, I guess I found the lighter too, Hmp."

I hunch over my ashtray tapping the edge of the bar. My eyes are closed, as I am mindful of the heartbeat of the nightclub, and the rhythm of the crowd. I flick my ashes onto the floor without care, my cigarette hangs loosely between my fingers. The trance of the music calms me, and the breeze from the fans above sends a refreshing flow of air over me. The breeze was calming and cool.

Part 2: Dylan's Big Catch

The summer breeze was especially calming that day on Beaver Pond. It flowed over my body like a cool, and weightless feather tickling the hairs on my arms, while it washed over me. I had only a few bites on my line all day and decided to take in the shade underneath my favorite oak tree.

"Jimmy.!"

"Jimmy, help me reel it in. It's a big one!"

I snapped my head up, spooked from the break in the silence to see my six-year-old brother, Dylan's, fishing line pulled tighter than a fiddle's strings. The fish fought hard and started dragging him toward the water's edge as it gained momentum. In its wake, a sigmoid trail bubbled across the surface of the water. The line slacked a little, and we thought he lost it until it immediately pulled tighter than before. Before we could blink the largemouth bass leaped with all of its might into the air kicking its tail in a furious display. A splash of water shot across the pond. For a moment the fish flapped its fins seemingly taking flight, but predictably dove back under the ponds surface almost as quickly. I threw my pole onto the bank next to me and began racing along the ponds edge to get to him before he lost it. His shoulders were cocked horizontally to the ground, his hips were thrusting forward, and his heels digging into the dirt. All of his 38 lbs were holding onto his ugly stick for dear life. He was frozen, and all he could do was yell at me.

"Jimmayy!"

My legs were burning underneath me like the lighting of our Tennessee summer storms, but I knew I couldn't give up on him now. In a full sprint, I was a quarter way around that pond in no time.

"I'm coming Dee! Just hold onto it. I'm coming!"

"I'm losing it, Jim!"

I punched through the tall grasses, slammed into the cattails, leaped over downed logs, and splashed through every mud puddle along the embankment until I eventually found myself tumbling through a large concentration of thickets, and onto the path that led me to Dylan. I winced in pain but had no time to tend to the scrape on my shins or to scorn the oak roots that jutted onto the pathway causing me to spill my blood. I had a fish to help pull in and a brother that needed me.

"Jimmy!"

"Jimmy!"

Part 3: Jim's Rowdy Exit

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy, It's time to go."

The sound of my name echoing inside my skull grows louder and more real. My body begins shaking abruptly, and I jolt upwards becoming more alert, but annoyed. In response, I shrug off the rude and forceful hands holding onto me with a swing from my elbow, but instantly I am met with resistance I can only conclude is a concrete wall. My arm somehow makes it behind my back, and I have twisted around before I can fully open my eyes. A heavy weight presses across my chest and the center of my back is squished into the hardwood bar behind me.

"Your out of here, Jim. You've had too much tonight"

The lights in the bar are shooting daggers into my eyes, and I cannot make out the face in the brightness, but the mans growling voice sounds serious and deliberate. My fingers press into a bristle pillow and end when they reach the solid stone. I assume it must be Grizzly.

"Let's go, Grab your stuff, your done. "

I try to re-familiarize myself with my surroundings, but I guess that is not fast enough for Grizzly, and I am instantly raised into the air left only to watch the floor pass under me. I have outstayed my welcome. Somehow in this lucky affair, I am learning what it's like to fly while being attacked by a bear at the same time. I can attest, it is not that great. It is an oddly uncomfortable feeling, being a grown man carried in the arms of another grown man. There is an adolescence to it that hurts the soul, but I guess I had it coming.

I am not a fighter normally, yet my pride is being carried out of here along with me, and I instantly find the urge to struggle. The bear hug I am entangled in gets tighter with every attempt I make to battle harder. The more I fight, the more I start to lose air in my lungs. I twist and turn, then push and punch, but the enormity of the mismatch is realized when I make no impact on my trip floating out of this place. I can hear the disruption in the crowd, yet can only see random sets of feet as I zoom by. The gasps and cheers barely are heard over the DJ attempting to catch their attention and maintain their focus and order.

Before long my head is used as a battering ram to open the entrance doors. It is much easier than one would imagine, and I am rag-dolled into the back alley along with my keys and wallet. My pack of cigs hits me in the chest. I scramble my way up to a seated position. The pack rolls off my body, and into a puddle collecting just enough water to be ruined. I sit on the cobble stone, legs agape, with my pride left somewhere inside the bar. The light rain that sprinkles over me sets the tone for my mood, which contrasts the upbeat muffled sounds coming from behind the bar door that now shuns me out for the night.

I scramble up my things, and waver to my knees; Then I stand. For a moment, I have difficulty gathering my bearings, while I look around as the back door was not my original entry, but I sluggishly find my way to the parking lot in the course of a few minutes. Slumping along other people's vehicles, I traverse the parking lot and find my vehicle. I get in. The familiarity of my seat combined with the quiet and dry air begin to comfort me. I exhale a sigh of relaxation fading deeper into my seat. The dull green numbers on the dashboard read 12:45 am.

Part 4: Forgotten Chores

I barrelled through the front door of our home and stopped myself in my tracks. Dylan, hot on my tail, bumped into me from behind. My mother, Grace, had peaked her head out from the kitchen, instantly halting our advancement further into the house.

"No, No, Not in here you aren't. Put your stuff outside. Then get to washin' ya'lls hands. Take off dem shoes too"

"Yes Mom." we replied in unison.

We were so excited to share the news that we forgot we were still carrying all of our fishing gear. We kicked off our shoes, ran back onto the porch, and laid the tackle against the railing, as Mom could be heard spouting a continued rant toward us about our filthiness. We rushed back in, raced each other down the hallway to the bathroom, fought for control over the use of the water lever, and wrestled for the soap dish. We were giggling in glee.

"Mom, you won't believe it!"

"Yeah. go on."

"Dylan caught the biggest fish ever!"

"It's true, It's true Mom, my biggest yet. Bigger than Jimmy's!"

I bumped into him playfully, then wiped my hands on my overalls. Dylan did the same, and we ran into the kitchen to meet her. My mother was finishing plating supper in her favorite red and white polka-dot apron. She wiped off any debris from the front of her clothing and fanned out the fabric to present herself more appropriately, then turned to us.

"Here, Both of you take these to the table."

She handed us each a glass bowl, one filled with mashed potatoes, and the other heaped over the top with green beans. Both sides were from our garden. Dylan's face scrunched when he grabbed the beans, and he walked towards the table holding it away from his body as far as he could. Mom shook her head in displeasure.

"You're gonna eat some, I'm telling you now."

Facing away from her, Dylan began mouthing her words back to her in a mocking display. We both sat down the bowls in the center of the table, then turned to face her standing still and motionless. We stared at her anxiously waiting, but patient not to interrupt. She avoided making eye contact with us as I could tell that she was aware we were burning a hole in the back of her head. Without much control, Dylan excitedly broke the silence first.

"Where is Da...."

I grabbed his mouth and covered it.

"Ssshh. Be patient, Dylan."

I looked back to my mom just in time to catch a glimpse of the corner of her mouth curled with a brief smile as she was placing a dish into the sink. It disappeared quickly. She seemed to enjoy making us wait. It seemed like it was a game to her like Simon Says or Red-light, Green-light. Regardless, there was a long pause that filled the room followed by a deep sigh bellowing from her, as she turned her back to us bending over toward the oven.

"He's in the barn feedin' da pigs and working on somethin'...."

We instantly started high tailing it out the back screen door before she could even finish her sentence, but we could hear her yelling out as we made our way across the back lawn.

"Suppers in five minutes, Don't you both dare get dirty again! Be quick."

Naturally being older and faster, I made it to the barn door first and ripped it open.

"Dad, Dad, Guess what!"

We rushed through the doorway, and into the barn. Dylan almost fell sideways, sliding across the wooden floorboards, and on top of the slick hay into my back again.

"Daddy, I caught the biggest, Bass, ever!"

Our dad, Wendell, was sitting on a wooden stool that he had built when Dylan was two. He hunched over his work table tinkering with something we couldn't make out. It appeared to be a small engine. We began approaching closer. A set of lights hovered over him highlighting just the workspace he stood in. Though the rest of the barn was lit up, it was dull, and creepy in comparison, offering many shadowy spaces to be scared of. Dad didn't respond as we got closer. This was a different kind of ignoring. Unlike Mom'sfather's way of creating suspense and fun, this was a meaner kind of stubbornness, and I had seen it before often trying to avoid it. Dylan had yet to. I responded reluctant and cautious.

"Dad. Dylan caught a fish. He was excited to tell you about it."

There was a pile of blue, and silver Keystone Lights spilling out of the trash bin at his feet. Many had made it onto the floor, some folded, some crushed, but all were empty. The excitement of sharing the news with our father immediately shifted to solely protecting my brother. His disoriented gravelly voice cut through Dylan's innocence and stopped me before I could say anything further.

"I thot I toad you to feed dem chickens 'fore you dew anyting else"

I could see the muscles in my fathers back pulsing with anger through his shirt, but his back remained still square to us. Dylan was confused, looking to me for what to do next. I stepped back a step.

"Dad, I think we. I mean I remember.....!"

"Youthannk! You, Thankahh, you remembah!"

He rose out of his seat and straightened up taller than I have seen him stand ever before. He towered above us morphing into a monster.

"You deedint do what I asked"

He began unlatching his belt, and ripped it through the loops in one pull, then slammed it down onto the table next to him. Dylan began trembling and tearing up whimpering in fear. I stepped up and placed my hand across the back of his shoulders. He attempted to sputter a few coherent words.

"Daddy, we're sorry. We forgot."

Wendell bubbled with anger. In one smooth swipe of his forearm, he transported the entire contents of the table top onto the floor. Motor parts crashed into the wall, and oil splashed across the small window next to the table. Glass from an unknown source, shattered across the room, sending shards flying back through the air at us. It was too overwhelming for Dylan, and in shock, he remained standing there frozen with dread. Our dad turned and kicked the bin of beer cans at us; Many landing against our feet.

"I'm guna make you rememba!"

He turned towards, us and whipped his belt at the barn post next to us. I began inching backward. Dylan still shivering with fear; His eyes wide and tear-filled. I pulled at his shirt and dragged him along with me toward the doorway.

"Dad, No! We didn't mean it."

A bell began dinging from outside the barn. A familiar sound that we usually prolonged to get a few more moments of playing outside, but this time, it was a bell of presumed safety. My mom's voice soothed our tense bodies while we continued backing closer to the doorway.

"Boys, Supper."

I locked gazes with my dad. His face was moist with sweat, and when he spoke, a mist of booze and spit entered the air around him. I could feel it on my skin. I smelled the sweet fermentation mixed with musky body odor as it floated through the air onto us. He wiped his motor oil stained his hands on his pants and re-affirmed a strong grip on his belt as he continued hobbling toward us. He was fueled by liquid anger, and channeling what our pastor, Father Henry, could only describe as a demon deep within. Lucky for us my mom distracted him enough to give us room for an escape from the impending doom, at least for supper. The bell sounded again. We continued backing out the door, took our opportunity, then sprinted our way toward the house to safety. I looked back as we ran inside to see my father standing in the darkness, his belt gripped sturdily at his side, only his face was highlighted by the sunlight. He bawled a menacing warning to both of us just as we were rounding the side of the house.

"Uugh- K. I can wait. After dinna it is."

The bell sounded again.

Ding, Ding, Ding......

Part 5: The Racing Snakes

....Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding. I am startled awake by the constant ringing in my ears and slide myself upright from my slumped position to better gather my surroundings. I grab the steering wheel realizing I am still in my car, then realize that my foot is loosely holding the brake pedal. I restore a proper placement. I wipe my eyes attempting to regain a clearer picture, yet the flashing red lights of the railroad sign blind my vision, and I raise my left hand to shade it. Train cars, one after another, are rushing across my view. The railroad gate is secured in a down position. The repetitive dinging agitates my growing headache, and I rub my temples for relief. I glance up at my rearview mirror and notice that I am the only one on this side of the track. The road behind me is near-perfect darkness except for the immediate area around the car, which is illuminated by the lights from the brakes, and those flashing on the crossing sign. It is eerily absent of all living things, at least those that I could see. I attempt to decipher the digits lit up on the clock. I think it reads 1:13 am, but it still is hard to clearly make things out. Waiting patiently, my fingers make their way to the volume dial on the radio. The speakers grow louder while I settle into my seat.

"...yesterdays classics, today's hits, your tuning into 101.5 Knoxville's number one Rock Station. Coming to you next is a little AC. DC."

".....Livin' easy. Lovin' free. Season ticket for a one-way ride. askin' nothin...."

Two songs and a few sips from my flask later, the railroad barrier finally begins lifting, allowing me to continue homeward. I get into a ready position right away in anticipation. Considering my only backup alcohol is now empty, getting there sooner becomes a more urgent matter. Just as the barrier should be clear of the roof, I throw my metal canteen into the passenger seat, grip the wheel, and release the brake. I am propelled backward into my seat with brute force as my heavy foot accelerates me much faster than I anticipated. Knowing this area well, I let off a little after I spin down the road and climb to a regular speed, as the cops and I are on a first-name basis. I would rather not rouse any more interest than I already have tonight.

My headlights are useless as the darkness surrounding them seems to swallow up their luster, something these back roads are notorious for, but I know that the main road leading home is just up ahead. I pass over the small bridge of Conasauga Creek, a place where I used to swim as a boy with my friends and brother, Dylan. The pair of yellow median lines centers on my car, then the white one does the same. They both merge before my eyes as if snakes are racing back and forth in front of me. I am hypnotized, yet as entertaining as it is, I rub my face attempting to see a clearer image. The result ends with no success. A red fuzzy blob rapidly approaches the car out of the darkness, and I know that I have arrived at my third-to-last turn home. I step on the brakes more aggressively which lunges me forward in my seat forcing me to have little time to brace myself. I smack my already throbbing forehead off the top of the wheel, then grind to a halt parallel to the stop sign. My body is loose and stiff at the same time.

I take a deep breath, flick the blinker switch down, and turn left onto the main road cautiously. It is smooth and easy. I feel confident that I am in control until the car's horizon tilts downward, and somehow I am staring into the grassy median in the center of the road. The car immediately begins to spin side to side, while I give it more gas. It struggles forward, digging into the grass deeper with every foot, yet after only a couple of bumps and thumps later I am able to force the car across the field, and back onto the asphalt. My stubbornness paid off. As I continue on toward home, I look back and notice that my tires had left a path of destruction that only Jackson Pollack would appreciate. I amuse myself in the thought.

a little rough, but a success.....

I keep driving for some time eventually finding the outskirts of town, which for locals is implicit to passing fire station 86, a small, but brilliantly lit building in the middle of nowhere. Up ahead, the outstretched limbs hanging over the road start gleaming with light. With expectancy, I attempt to wrangle in the twisting snakes ahead of me and do my best to ensure that the yellow pair stays on my left. It's easier said than done. The limbs get brighter, then transform into a beam of blinding lights heading straight for me. I am transfixed. Everything turns white and fully encapsulates my vision. I squint to see but cannot. It's too bright. White is all I can see.

Part 6: The Punishment

White was all I could see. My vision had been knocked out of me, and both my ears were ringing. I closed my eyes wincing in agony. I begged for mercy, but in retrospect, I wish I hadn't. I had been punished enough times to know that normally my mother stood nearby when I got hit. I wondered when she would intervene. She was a kind of punishment meter for my father, and though he dished out the beating, she would determine the duration usually coming in shortly after to distract him and end it, yet on this day, I still laid on the ground helpless hoping for her relief. I struggled to reach for anything solid to hold onto, and eventually found the leg of my bed. Half under my bed and half exposed, I wrapped my arms around the metal leg, holding on for dear life. I wished and prayed it away.

I wanted it to stop, but then suddenly it did. To my surprise, either by coincidence or my wishes actually being granted, the thrashing across my tattered backside ceased, but it was unfortunately at the expense of Dylan. His pained cries for help had begun penetrating my ringing ears. They were the kind of dreadful howls that only come from a horrified child who has lost all his trust in a loved one. Today, my brother learned there was a dark side to our father for the first time. His tiny six-year-old frame thumped against the wooden floorboards, and his tears puddled below him. My father's hands and belt worked Dylan's backside with the same ferocity as he had mine.

"Daddy! No! Oww Daddy. Ow!"

Hearing Dylan in this way cut through my soul because I knew he was losing his innocence. I knew that he would look at Dad a different way and that he would change how he saw the world. I could remember the first time this happened to me except my first time was much less severe and did not involve so much alcohol. I was also eight, a year older than him now. My father continued his angry barrage on us.

"Yur Gonna Rememba now ain't ya?"

He screamed in pain as he answer him.

"Yeass! Daddee"

Blow after blow, hit after hit, he was relentless. I wished my dad had switched back to me instead. I remained still and unharmed now. He continued beating Dylan until his screams turned silent. Something seemed wrong, yet my father kept on as if nothing changed. I could feel the loud slap of leather against Dylan's bare skin, and the dull thud of my father's hands smacking across his body. Every hit pounded into my chest as if it was my brother's heartbeat leaving his body, and moving into mine. I peeked over my bruising shoulder to see him laying lifeless without expression staring back at me. His mouth was gaped, his eyes were wide, and his tears still moistened his cheeks. With every hit, his body bumped forward and then rolled back, but his face remained the same. Heavy breathing was all that filled the room. My father hovered in between us temporarily forced to catch his breath and stop the attack. His heated exhales dispersed across my legs. My eyes filled with tears, and I began crying in silence trying not to disturb my father's moment of letup.

The pounding of my mother's feet rumbled up the stairs. Her muffled screams reverberated into the room.

"Wendell, Stop it!"

I glanced over to the doorway to watch her feet barge into our room. I pulled myself out from under the bed and twisted into a ball in the corner of the room. Mom shuffled closer to us, and suddenly stopped, then took a step back when she saw Dylan. Her assuming eyes shivered with anxiety while she muffled her scream with her hands gasping in panic.

"Wendell, No, No, No!"

She rushed passed my palpitating father to Dylan's side, and pulled his body up to hers. She frantically checked his breath, then desperately tapped his face. Each slap got more frantic, and when she did not receive a positive response became harder. Tears flooded her eyes and she wailed a dreadful howl that deepened into a low angry growl of realization. Her body and voice trembled in pain, but anger toward my father began flooding through her veins.

"Oh, what did you do?"

She laid his body down, turned toward my father, and stood up. She dragged herself closer in his direction and her body doubled in size.

"You drunk son of a bitch!"

She raised her hand reaching toward the ceiling and lunged at him, clobbering his body with all of her might. He absorbed most of them without retaliation, but a couple grazing his face riled him up. He jumped up fighting off the blows and grabbed my mother's arms tossing her into the wall. He stepped over my brother's body and began kicking her while she was down. He booted her in the stomach and stomped on her legs. I couldn't sit back, and watch any longer. Her body was curled against the bureau. She had nowhere else to go. I stood up and demanded it to end.

"Dad, Stop it now your killing her!"

He ignored me. Without thought, my body thrust into action, I ran across the bedroom and began pounding on my father's back. His kicks alternated with slaps, then punches. My mother held out her arms attempting to soften each blow, but was quickly grew weaker.

"Dad, No!"

I punched him hard and kicked him even harder. I tried grabbing onto his arms and legs but kept getting thrown back with his force. Nothing seemed to dull his rage. He was too strong for me. I had to do something or my mother was going to die too. Impulsively, I jumped on his back like those I had seen at the rodeo do to the bulls. I then dug my teeth into his shoulder and bit off a chunk of flesh into my mouth. This worked. I had gotten my father's attention alright. It finally took his focus off my mother and placed it on me, but before I could adjust for my next move, he bucked me off his back. I hit the ground harder than I had ever hit anything before. My chest burned, and I couldn't take in any more air. I gasped for more. My arms reached for anything to help force oxygen back into me, and I squirmed in anguish. I gasped for air.

Part 7: Upside Down

I gasp for air. The veins in my neck are throbbing fast while I strain to breathe. My pulsating eyes flutter open only as far as the onset swelling will allow. Darkness engulfs me, except for a dull glowing light emitting from somewhere outside, which highlights the edges of the various strewn objects around me. My mouth is gaping wide searching for more oxygen to suck in. I struggle to find a little as most of the air is mixed with smoke causing me to choke with every attempt. My head feels like it is spinning in circles about to lift off my body, and I am reminded of The Gravitron ride from the carnival I used to frequent as a kid, but this is actually painful. My face is covered in my blood, and every drip that leaves my body adds to a puddle below me. As my vision begins to re-focus, I realize I am still in my car, but it's not right side up. Instead, I am strapped in my seat belt dangling in a twisted metal casket. The roof is almost fully caved in, crumbled beneath me, and inches from my face. Just like a quilt, the windshield is stretched across my chest and lap, having been mangled into three large pieces, and barely bound together by a thin membrane. The rain from the storm is flooding in water through what's left of the front end. My deflated airbag drapes across my steering wheel torn into shreds and twisted up with the tree limbs that are poking through the front end of the car.

I attempt to look around to gain my bearings. To my left, the door is caved in and is pressing against my ribs. The window is shattered, and the opening to climb out is barely large enough for even a baby to fit through. That won't work. To my right, it appears there is much more room to get out as the passenger side seems to have taken less damage, but its still narrow. Stretching to see out the hole in the door, I observe a large pool of liquid swirling about. From my angle, I assume it is oil or gas coming from the car due to its oil-slick properties, but I cannot confirm it. My pupils constrict when my focus is drawn to an orange flickering light in the reflection of the liquid. It's a fire. My car is on fire! My panic increases, and my attempts to suck in air quicken, yet the smoke continues to overwhelm my gasps. I am getting weaker. I have been in a car accident. I attempt to yell out for assistance.

"Help, Please help me. Is anyone there?"

My words come out hoarse and lack oomph. No one is going to hear me if I cannot be heard. Every time I attempt to yell a sharp pain stabs me deep inside my body. I am throbbing everywhere. The nerve endings throughout my body places are sending stinging pains all over me like tiny fireworks of torment. How did I get here? I am baffled at how I even got here in the first place. The last thing I can remember was when I was walking through the alley towards my car after I left the bar. My head is getting light. My mind is fuzzy, but I try to call out again.

"Help!"

I see no other light around within my limited view; Only the growing fire through the thickening smoke. I take in a deep breath, yet my throat instantly burns and forces me to retract my attempt. I begin moving my head around to find cleaner air.

"Hey. You down there. Can you hear me?"

I hear the faint voice of a man echoing around me. I respond.

"Help!"

My voice doesn't seem to travel beyond the car walls. I attempt another few breaths. My vision is fading.

"Are you okay? I gonna try to come down to you. If you can hear me hang tight"

I don't know if I have time to wait. The snaps and cracks of the building inferno cause immediate anxiety and force me to take action. I must leave even if he is on his way to help. I reach to grab at the seat belt that is holding up my entire weight, and pressing into my neck. It is locked and doesn't loosen. I cannot lift myself back into my seat. I stick my hand out onto the steering wheel, gain a tight grip, and push myself up enough to reduce the tension. With the other arm, I reach behind me, pressing the seat belt button. It unlatches but instantly causes me to fall onto my head. My breathing is even shallower now that I am folded over. I must move now. I elongate my body downward starting to twist myself toward the passenger door. I am weaker. I hear the man shouting again at another person.

"Julie, call for help. Keep the kids away, and wait for them to get here!"

As I get closer to the contorted metal exit, the smell of gas becomes prominent, and the heat from the flames becomes almost unbearable. I notice that the back end of the car is ignited, and reaching its flamed fingers toward the gas tank. I don't have much time. With every pull, I feel more sluggish. With every breath, I am fainter. Tears fill my eyes not from my emotional state, but instead from the stinging smoke that is flooding into my eyes.

"Hel..."

What's the point in trying? My voice is too quiet and certainly won't be heard over the constant buzz from the rain. It's a waste of energy and of hope. My heartbeat is attempting to gallop its way out of my chest. I pull myself forward again assisting with a kick from my legs off the seat cushion. I am slowly scraping myself through an onslaught of broken glass, shards of metal, and unknown chemicals that are stinging my open wounds. The hole in the door is large enough to get through if I slip each shoulder out separately. I shift my body to laying on my backside instead. I slide again navigating one shoulder followed by my head out of the car. There is rustling in the woods nearby me. I make an effort to raise my neck to see. A man scaling down a thickly forested hillside appears to be attempting to make his way towards me. He is holding onto trees, and roots on his way down.

"I'm almost there. Can you hear me? Are you awake?"

I lay here with my mouth yawning. My words are not able to escape me, yet I find myself quivering my lips in the shape of the words I want to say. My sight grows feeble and the sharpness fades more. I fold my remaining shoulder out of the door, then squeeze my body through by pushing myself off the side of the car. With no more energy to spare I land on the edge of the puddled mixture of water and chemicals, while I lay there facing the sky. I am fading here in the mud, rocks, and debris half in and half out of the car door. The fire is fully gleaming, and its smoke leaves behind a thick film over everything it touches including my skin, face, and the interior lining of my throat. My skin retracts as the heat sucks all the moisture from my body that is not touching the puddle. I gasp as if I am a fish out of water.

"Sir. Sir! Are you okay?"

The man slides into the puddle with me and shoves his arms underneath my shoulders. He begins to pull me away from the car stopping to what seems ten feet away. Temporary relief from my burning body. I look up at his face to see his lips moving, but the words are coming in and out muffled only to change to hear him clearly, until they eventually go back to muffled.

"SSssssir. Isss there anyone elssssee?"

He begins tapping my face, but I cannot feel it. My head absorbs his thumps, but I cannot feel it. Am I dying?

"You drove off the road, just missing us, My wife is calling for help. Your gonna be ok."

I slowly shift my focus from him to turn my head to my side, while I take my surroundings in. I follow the shallow ruts that my legs left behind when he dragged me away from the blazing car. They lead me back to the puddle. Plunging peacefully into the pool are dozens of perfectly round droplets. Each one separately exploded into the liquid at their terminal speed and crashed to a halt instantly ending their short lives and merging with more fluid. How wonderful. How amazing to be born in the highest place on earth, and to see the entire world as you crash towards inevitability, but you remain fearless and waste no time with imperfections, and insecurities, and experience no pain or suffering because you only have minutes to live. I envy the raindrops. I lay here mindfully aware of each one of their existences. I appreciate what they mean. The storm above is cleansing me or perhaps preparing me for the next journey.

"Yyyyour gonna make ittt. Just hold onnnnn!"

The man's voice is echoing in my head. It sounds like it is miles away, but I know he is holding my body cradling me. I somehow am feeling young again.

Colored strobe lights are bouncing off the trees and the water. The car is fully engulfed. The man starts dragging me a little further away to what I assume is a safer distance. I begin to smile at the simplicity and the beauty of nature existing without the hindrance from the chaos I have caused; From the hell that society causes. Nature moves on with or without our involvement. It continues without me in it and doesn't waver from its perfect form. Just like the droplets, I have sped through my life, and now it seems I have reached its unavoidable end. Nature changes for no one remaining resilient in the face of everything, yet it is soft and subtle, harnessing perfect beauty and grace; Similar to my mother. I look around me. I notice more drops begin splashing off my forehead and face. I feel nothing as they are running down my cheeks. For once, it is not me who is sad and crying out of anger or fear, but instead, mother earth is doing it for me. The beads of rain bounce off my face, and I smile. I smile because I know that my time has come to seek my revenge. My time has come to fulfill my promise. My time has come, and I smile once more. The rain splashes against my skin.

Part 8: The Confirmation

Rain Splashed against my skin, and streamed down my face as I stood there hovering the empty hole in the ground. There was a consistent hum in the air, which was only interrupted by the frequent snaps of the raindrops smacking against the well-manicured lawn and headstones around me. The air lacked motivation. A similar dullness filled my heart. My mother stood brazenly beside silent and motionless, holding her head high and unyielding. The only weakness she exhibited went unseen, yet I felt it when she leaned her shoulder into mine for support. Her arms squeezed around mine like a tourniquet, and while it was uncomfortable, I allowed the lack of blood flow as a pained reminder that it was a difficult day for the both of us. I too had remained still, while I maintained a deadpan stare, entertained by the freshly dug hole that had been slowly filling with water and muck. As the edges of the grave became more wet and unstable, chunks of crumbled earth started to fall into the darkness, each with its own dejected plunk.

We were soaked from our head to our toes, and though were sharing a fairly large umbrella, our prolonged exposure to the storm ensured we were drowning in water come burial time. I guess our anticipation overcame us, and we should have arrived later. The rain had dampened everything, except our tears, because on this day we did not produce any. We were present at this funeral not for sadness, and certainly not for love, but instead for confirmation. Ironically, this muddy mayhem of burial was exactly what was deserved, and if it wasn't for us having been there, the only attendee would have been the gravediggers. What a pleasantry to know that my father, the late husband of my mother, and the murderer of my brother and unborn sister four years prior, would have such a pathetically gloomy exit from this life into hell.

My mother clenched my arm even harder which gained my attention. I glanced down to find her fixated on something far in front of us and followed her gaze to see what she was staring at. Driving toward us on an old path lined with oak trees was a black hearse inching towards us trailed by a dust cloud close behind. I felt both of our muscles constrict with anxiety, as the car and its passengers maneuvered the path originally built for farmers and their horses in the early 1900s. Every tree that they passed was another drunken beating. Each hill they disappeared below was a day that I existed without my siblings. Every heart-beaten second that I waited for their arrival was a memory of that day four summers earlier.

Flashbacks of Dylan's purplish-pale skin flashed into my mind. I remembered watching his strained expression not waiver, as three policemen followed my father out of the room to their cars; A welcomed interference that was later revealed occurred only because our neighbor, Mr. Jefferies, who had overheard the horrors going on inside, called for help, and subsequently saved both our lives. When the ambulance arrived, they worked on him right away. Dylan's bloodshot eyes were staring open into the floorboards without a blink or twitch left in them. They pounded his chest cavity into the floor and blew lungfuls of air into his mouth, yet nothing produced my brother's life back into him. The entire time, I remained in the corner as my mother reached out for me. I was as cold and lifeless as my brother inside, yet I still had a heartbeat and watched everything unfold in shock. I regret denying her an embrace that day, but I refused to move from my corner fearfully frozen in place. After they exhausted all efforts to revive him, the lead paramedic declared him dead on the scene. He began to write down various scribbles on a too-regularly-used spiral-bound notepad. His words followed by my mother's primal outcries of pain and sorrow, pierced a hole in me again, while I waited for the hearse to pull up and park.

"Time of Death, Ten Thirteen P.M."

Even with the enormous physical suffering she had endured, my mom rolled off the floor pushing through everyone helping her to get to him. She gripped him again close to her body. Dylan's head rested against her chest, and she rocked him to sleep one last time. A dry bitter sorrow filled the air, while she combed through his hair with her fingers and whimpered under her breath.

My mother had never told anyone that she was pregnant before that night for she feared my father would have punished her for it, or worse, forced her to get an abortion. They had already been stretched thin on money for a while, and she was trying to find a way to justify having the baby or to solve the problem before she told him. She was probably right waiting to share the news, but ironically with how violently he beat her that night, my future sister became a miscarriage anyways, and to compound the horror, he internally damaged her enough to ensure her likelihood of having any more children would be considered a miracle. At least that is what the doctor explained when we had gotten to the hospital, and were forced to deliver an underdeveloped four-month-old baby. Her name would have been Samantha, my mother told me.

The hearse's doors slammed shut, snapping that horrific moment out of my mind. Three men then stepped to the back of the car in an almost choreographed fashion. One man was Father Henry from our local church. He carefully snapped open his umbrella and placed it in his left hand while gripped his bible tightly in his right. For almost twenty years he had been considered an honorable and trusted man among everyone in the town, and even though he knew the history of my family, and certainly didn't agree with the reputation my father had held in our household, the pastor's pact with god superseded his own judgment against the now deceased, Wendell Harper. He was here to bless this funeral regardless of where the soul's final destination would end up because that was what a pastor did. For me, I was certain it would be hell, therefore I prayed it that way each night until I fell asleep leading up to the day of this funeral. The other two men attending were the gravediggers, Larry and Steve Sullivan, who were both brothers, each retired firemen, and had been the dedicated groundskeepers of the Rural Vale Baptist Church for longer than my father had been alive. They drew the casket from the back of the car onto a large wheeled metal cart, shut the folding doors closed, and shuffled Wendell's remains towards the hole traversing around the muddy patches of exposed earth. It only took three careful minutes before they had the casket aligned and placed over the grave, which cued Father Henry to step before the small assembly of people to begin the short and speedy memorial service.

"A moment of silence please."

At first, my mother, and I remained silent, but my mother could not stop fidgeting with pent-up anger until she eventually lifted her head up in excitement and burst out loud with fury.

"No. No, we will not give him silence! He doesn't deserve it. Just bury the bastard!"

Caught off guard, Father Henry looked around nervously, and fearing confrontation, continued the service by granting her lack of peace for the burial, no questions asked. He spoke a little louder as the rain intensified. The words he said that day were a meaningless formality of his faith under the guise of god, which held no importance or reason for me to regard them to be true, especially when I could see that even Father Henry didn't believe what he was saying. There would be no forgiveness. There would be no repentance, and Wendell Harper was going straight to hell. When it was my time to approach the casket, I did without hesitation unlike my mother who decided to keep a distance. I did so not because I wanted to wish him a safe and peaceful journey, but instead to vow a promise that I would meet him in the inferno one unforeseen day to seek my revenge, and to invoke my wraith upon him for eternity. I whispered my words to him softly so that only he would hear my vows of revenge. As the casket was lowered into the ground I stood over it to ensure it was fully buried. I remained there until the dirt heaped over the top. The gravediggers each placed their final scoops of muddy earth onto the heaping pile which caused a small avalanche of soil to cascade over the top of my shoes. Dirt crumbles covered my shoes.

Part 9: The Awakening

The Awakening of Heather Lewis

I wake. I wasn't supposed to wake up, yet I did. My hospital gown is freshly tucked under my legs, and a blanket is wrapped neatly around me while I lay here. I am confused as I am not struggling to breathe anymore, and I am alive. At least I think I am. I'm in pain which is to be expected after many hours of surgery, but I was so sure that I would not live to see my twenty-third birthday that I made peace with my death. Of course, my family and boyfriend supported me through this entire lengthy process which is expected. It's what a family is supposed to do when they find out their daughter has a rare form of terminal lung cancer, but here I lay alive and drowsy, and breathing normally. I take in the room around me. An empty cup of coffee sits next to me, and I instantly know it is my fathers or was I suppose. He's the only one that drinks coffee that I know. My mother's favorite ten-year-old grey knit sweater lays over the arm of the chair next to my bed. Flowers fill the window sill adding a splash of color to what is rather a dreary day outside. Beads of rain race each other down the panes of industrial-grade glass overlooking a series of roofs, which stretch towards a tree-lined forest off in the distance. On a clipboard to my left are what appear to be patient notes that the nurse must have left when I was sleeping. My mystery-loving crime novel self picks it up and begins reading them. The patient is stable after a successful surgery. Will require post-op checkups for six months. The donor's family has permitted notification upon request of which patient's family wants to send flowers, and a thank you card. Lung donor: James Harper, 47, Male from Marysville, TN.

The Awakening of Jacob Peters

I can barely open my eyes for I am too weak. The sounds from the heartbeat monitor are the weakest I have heard all night. My wife's hand is resting on mine, and though I don't have the energy to see her, I feel the weight of her love on each finger. My time left on this earth seems inevitably to end sooner than later, but I am still hopeful. Being told you have just had a major heart attack is more than an eye-opener it's a life changer. I never thought at fifty-eight years old that I would be so young in this situation, yet here I am dying with my wife at my side. I regret every bad decision I have made with my health. It was not worth the tiniest moments of joy a slice of cake brings when all that really matters now is another second with the love of my life. This year would have been Sarah and I's the thirtieth Anniversary. It is hard for someone used to having all the answers and being in total control of his life, to now sit here at the mercy of everyone else. I squeeze her hand, and my wife returns it. My nurse walks in abruptly, ultimately shaking up the wonderful and mindful moment I am having. I find the energy to turn my head toward her direction in the room and keep my eyes open just enough to remain undetected.

"Sarah?"

My wife alerts straight up and into a standing position.

"Yes!"

"Because you are Jacobs's power of attorney you can speak on his behalf."

She began getting a concerned look on her face as she always expects the worse of things first, even though I always tell her to stop assuming.

"What. What's wron...?"

The nurse, seeing her getting animated fear decides to interrupt her before she could get any further into her series of questions.

"No, ma'am. It is not what you think. I came to tell you good news. I just need your approval for Jacob"

"We have a donor heart that just came in. We would need to prep Jacob right now to get him ready for surgery. We have a heart, Mrs. Peters."

My wife was beside herself. She began gasping in excitement while covering her mouth with one hand and leaned to stabilize herself on the edge of the chair with the other. Tears flooded out, and her shoulders noticeably dropped with relief.

"Yes, please, yes. Do it. Please save him."

I don't know how I had the energy, but I had to know how they found a donor that quickly for me. I tried to formulate a sentence in my mind but only came up with one word to say to her.

"Who?"

Both of them looked at me, and after I did not get an answer right away I asked again with a little more grit.

"Who's the heart?"

The nurse was hesitant at first but started to review the paperwork while responding as she flipped through the clipboard.

"It says here, that the family is OK with it. His name was James Harper.

The Awakening of Michael Johnson

My phone rings. It is a ringtone I barely recognize, but the sound that I have been waiting for, for nearly two years. I haven't heard its cheery uplifting beat since I assigned it to the phone number. I look down at my screen. I skip a breath and almost lose my balance. Transplant Biomedical Services is displayed back to me. I set the phone on the counter in front of me in disbelief, and back away. I step back to pick it back up afraid to lose the call and afraid to miss the opportunity, quickly sliding the green button to answer. A woman's voice echoes from the tiny speaker into my ear.

"Mr, Johnson?"

I wait to speak, and cannot respond besides muttering a few incoherent sounds.

"Am I speaking to Mr. Michael Johnson?"

"This."

I clear my throat to speak.

"Yes, This is him."

"Sir We have good news. We have found a match, and you are next on our donation list. Mr. Johnson, we have found your kidneys"

My eyes gloss over, and I am filled with joy, fear, and every other emotion a person can feel at this moment. I am overwhelmed and thrilled.

"Are you available Wednesday at 1:15 pm for surgery?"

I brace myself against the countertop while I stand there barely able to hold myself up in the kitchen. My wife overhears my conversation and walks into the kitchen intently staring at me.

"Um, yes that is soon, OK. Well, I have something that day, but yes I will make it happen. Of course. Yes, Ma'am. Yes. I will be there"

"The donor's mother would like to give you the option to know who the donor is. Would you like to know?"

"Yes. I suppose anyone would want to know the person who is about to save their life"

"Your donor is James Harper he was forty-seven, and his mother would like you to know that he was the most loving, and caring man and son. He was just misunderstood by many. We will send you the details via email with your preparations and restrictions for Wednesday. Please review them and send back the appropriate files signed."

"Thank you so much"

The phone call ended and I placed it on the counter again, looked up at my wife, and nodded to her emotionally.

"They found a donor. His name was James Harper"

Part 10: On Beaver Pond

Crumbles of dirt began spreading across the tops of my shoes as I cautiously approach Dylan's backside. He is digging a rather large hole viciously into the ground near the pond's edge for more worms; His empty baked beans can be laying next to him. I approach closer, enough to hover over him completely, and accidentally block out the sun, casting a shadow over his work area. He stops, then turned towards me. It takes a moment for him to recognize me as I obviously have aged, but within seconds, he knows who I am and can feel my love. Without a beat, without confusion or questions, and without any judgment, he shouts out my name in excitement.

"Jimmy!"

He jumps up to embrace me, and I squeeze him tightly back. I instantly smile. He looks up to me, his grin matching mine, and I know in this instant that the revenge I so angrily envisioned, the suffering I planned on inflicting for eternity on a man's soul, was not worth my thoughts or my time, and the miserable life I tortured myself through, will never compare to the days of joy I instead will be sharing with my brother fishing at our favorite spot, on Beaver Pond.

"Grab a pole, I'm just getting a few more worms for us."

He turns away beginning to dig deeper.

"Today we are catching a big one!"

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

I close my eyes seeking solace.

It's not merely a moment between sight for me.

To close your eyes is to slip away, sink into the lull of the dark, into the still of that quiet

Eyes open, you are in a world of more and more and more

Posts to scroll past, words to type, pictures to glance past

But the world behind my eyes is a world of my design

It doesn't even have to be dark in there.

It takes but a moment to flip the switch

And suddenly, I'm transported

I can go anywhere if I try just hard enough

Meadows, lakes, fictional lands and entire galaxies

I can be a god, a pirate, a ballerina

I don't even have to have a body to get dizzied over, just a whisp in space moving to their tune.

It's beautiful.

I think the best time to close your eyes, though, is when your ears are closed too

No sound about you, just music drifting past.

A familiar friend.

A Hozier or Billie, whoever you desire.

To close your eyes and fade into that perfect rhythm...

There's not many good things to life.

Actually, I suppose there are.

But the fog can get so hazy, so thick, so grey.

So I like to close my eyes.

And remember how many lives I can live in the quiet warmth awaiting me in the dark