It should be said that to be a loner is not a circumstance - it's  a decision. To dwell in solitary quiet, to go the road alone, to find home in one's self  Those are the healthy loners - the ones who chose and with simple abandon because it is no big deal, just a way of life.

Now, the lonely, ah. To be lonely is not a decision or a choice. It is very much a dark circumstance. A harrowing experience that knows little about being healthy. No unhealthy loner - only a lonely soul. Because flowers dont remain healthy without light and love. People are no different.

But what about the lonely loner? The one who chooses the quiet, and the stillness and the independence, yet craves the love and attention needed to thrive. A truly dark circumstance, and often the saddest. Because the loner prefers solitude, they contemplate it alone. Because the lonely craves something more, they might weep. And the tears are their friends, each one representing greater loss than the last.

For the lonely loner, there's nothing quite like a good cry - those long lingering wails and hard sobbing- the kind that shakes the shoulders and collapses the mind until breathing is the greatest effort . But when it's all done, it feels so much better, having finally let go of that darkest part of the soul that was trapped between being alone yet surviving lonliness. 

With each tear, a part of the pain is set free, temporarily sent back to whatever black hole it had come from. And afterward, every breath suddenly feels like heaven, a sweet molasses-slow release that takes you down to that quiet little place where all is calm and finally still and back to the start, struggling to grow. 

Because afterall, it should also be said that to thrive, people need light and love.

PROLOGUE.

Robert Tillman hurried through the house, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He didn’t know why it was happening; he didn’t even know what was happening. All he knew was that his wife Tricia had completely lost her mind. Brandishing an 8-inch butcher blade, Tricia rounded the corner fast after Robert who’d just darted behind the couch. Her eyes were wide, a feral red that looked as though they hadn’t seen sleep in days. She gripped the blade, holding it high over her head, her fist shaking as she took a slow step into the living room. Her lips peeled back from her teeth, oddly elongated and yellowed, still stained with blood—Robert’s blood.

Robert raised up on his knees, peering around the edge of the couch, just enough so that he could see Tricia coming into the room. Her blonde hair was thick with sweat, matted to the sides of her sallow face that took on an inhuman and sickly yellowed tint. The skin at her face and neck and arms looked like it had begun to rot, and the smell that rolled off of her was putrid. Perhaps it was his blood he smelled. She’d taken a good bite out of his arm. Robert glanced down at the blood pooling around the torn bite wound, already purpling at the edges and hoped he hadn’t left a trail, leading behind the couch.

He breathed in a shuddering breath, trying to keep quiet as he lowered back down to the floor. She’d caught him completely off guard as he’d walked in the door after work. He’d no sooner passed through the destroyed dining room with broken wine glasses strewn along the floor, when she came at him out of nowhere. As a teacher at South Ridge High School, he was only able to swat at her with what was in his hands before she bit into him. He looked down at the textbook he held in his hands. Obviously, it was no match for her or her knife.

What the hell was going on? What had happened to his wife? Tricia growled as she stalked forward and the sound that came from her lips didn’t even sound human. He had to get out of there or she was going to kill him. He had to call for help. Fingers shaking, he slipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his cell phone. As he swiped left and then tried to pull up the dialer, the textbook fell from his hands and landed on the hardwood floor with a dull thud. Robert froze. An instant later, Tricia was screaming, lunging for the couch. Robert stumbled to his feet and dove for the hallway but not before Tricia sliced into his lower leg. He howled in pain, feeling the warm blood coat his calf.

Tricia lunged forward, with another garbled and inhuman scream, this time stabbing at Robert’s head. She was unbelievably fast he realized as he moved just in time. The end of the knife was buried into the drywall beside him.

“Tricia!” he called reaching to stop her as she tried to put her hands around his neck. 

“Stop it! What is wrong with you?” Tricia continued to thrash and scream, now biting at Robert like a rabid animal.

“Tricia!” he shouted again but there was no reasoning with her. She leaned in and bit into Robert’s neck, tearing away another hunk of skin. Once again, he wailed in pain. “Damn it Tricia!” he called and reached over to pull the knife free from the wall.

It happened so fast, he didn’t know what he was doing until it was over. The knife came down and the sick crunch of bone and cartilage could be heard as the blade went into the side of Tricia’s temple. In that moment, she stopped and all movement ceased as she slumped forward onto Robert’s chest. Her dead weight pushed him back and together they fell to the floor in the center of the narrow hallway.

“Oh, my God!” Robert said over and over again as he looked down at his dead wife, the blade of the knife still driven deep into her skull. “What have I done?” He cried, holding her still body in his arms and wept. On the dining room table sat a perfectly prepared dinner, complete with two empty glasses, beside a chilled bottle of wine.

ONE.

One Week Later

There was a buzz among the halls of South Ridge High and everyone was getting in on the action. The news flitted through the classrooms and bathrooms, between opened locker doors and across the open-air courtyards like winged insects. Within three minutes of stepping foot on campus, I too was caught up in the mayhem.

“Did you hear?” My best friend Bria asked in a heightened whisper. “The entire school it talking about it!” She leaned in so close I could smell the distinct fresh petals scent of her rose deodorant combined with countless layers of Vidal hairspray.

“What!” I chimed back, instantly annoyed by her excitement this early in the morning.

“Mr. Tillman!” Bria said, dragging out the word like it was painful to say. “He’s been arrested…for killing his wife.” At this, I stopped mid-stride. That had gotten my attention.

“What?” I repeated loudly but with a totally different inflection than the first time. A couple kids passing by raised their eyebrows at me and shook their head with the air of now another one knows, written across their face. “Are you kidding me?”

Bria hiked up her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Wish I was but I’m not. That’s why he hadn’t been at school.”

I bit my lip. Mr. Tillman was hands down my favorite teacher at South Ridge. He taught Chemistry—by far not my favorite subject—but he somehow made it fun. When you were in Mr. Tillman’s class, he had a way of making you forget it was work. It was never dry science with him but rather a fun look at creation and cause and effect. Soft-spoken, quirky, but nice Mr. Tillman killed his wife? No freaking way.

“I can’t believe that,” I blurted out and Bria held up her hands.

“I know right! It’s crazy! But it’s true.” She leaned in a little closer if that was even possible. “I heard he did it with a butcher blade. The police found him cradling her body in the hallway. He’d been crying over her like that for nearly two hours! The neighbor had heard screams and after sitting on it for a while, decided to call the police. His arrest was announced last night.”

I felt the chill work its way down my spine and arms. I wanted to ask Bria how she knew all of this but her father did work for the local PD so I’m sure she figured out how to eavesdrop and get the additional dirty details.

“Wow,” I simply said after another minute.

“Sometimes people just snap,” Bria said with another dramatic shrug.”

By lunchtime, the story had ballooned into Mr. Tillman killing his wife as part of a joint suicide attempt gone wrong. People were throwing him under the bus left and right saying things like they knew he was crazy and time bomb tickers never show their true traits until it’s too late. As for me, I still couldn’t believe it. The man they described didn’t sound like the man I knew. Then again, did you really know people in the end? In math class, our teacher screamed at us to put our phones away with the threat of expulsion because everyone kept checking their newsfeeds and YouTube for more info on the arrest and charges.

Along the halls, there were already notices put up about contacting the school counselor during this “hard” time. By the time school let out, I was thanking God for a chance to get away from all the madness. Mom drove me to school in the mornings but I took the bus home in the afternoons.

Bria slipped into the empty seat beside me.

“Did you talk to the counselor?” she asked as she swung her bag onto her lap and began riffling through it for something.

I shook my head. “Nope. Trying to avoid the craziness.”

“I did,” Bria said and finally yanked out a hair tie that had several strands of her brown hair coiled around it in knots. She yanked the hair free from the elastic band and dropped it on the bus floor. “I may talk to them for a couple of days. This whole thing has me freaked out. Plus, I get to miss PE when I do.” She winked and gathered her long hair up in a high ponytail, securing it in the tie, then pulled the tail apart to tighten it at the root.

I scoffed. “It isn’t an opportunity to get out of class, Bria. Someone’s dead now.”

Bria looked at me, her hazel eyes looking slightly injured. “I wasn’t! It’s been hard on the students too, Carrie,” she protested in a snarky tone. We’d been best friends since the second grade and she knew my moral ethics were way more centered than hers. Other than that, we were kind of two peas in a pod.

As we rode home, I looked out the window at my hometown and thought how fragile life was. Mr. Tillman’s wife was dead. I’d remember meeting her like twice, when she’d come to have lunch with him once and another when she accompanied him at last year’s science fair. It was just enough to remind me that you can be here one moment and then gone the next. Then just like that, everything changed. That was the precise day when the world ended.

My name is Carrie Montgomery and I’m 16 years old. Up to that point, I’d been your normal high school girl. I was a junior, went to school every day, did my homework, didn’t have a boyfriend yet— but that was okay because I actually liked school. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking forward to a couple of things. The first was my 17th birthday, which was in two weeks. The second was the end of school, which was in two months. And neither could get here soon enough, especially after just learning our science teacher had gone off the deep end and would likely face death row.

After waving to Bria and telling her I’d see her tomorrow, I began walking down my street toward home just like normal when I got my first clue that something was wrong. There was absolutely no one else on the streets. No cars, no dog walkers, no joggers, not even Ms. Mulberry who loved to garden at just about all hours of the day.

I mean I lived in the perfect pocket of upper middle class suburbia, in South Tampa, FL—a semi-ritzy neighborhood called Fairchild so I pretty much expected to see the same things I saw every other day. I’d no sooner turned the corner onto the road where my house sat at the opposite end, when I heard it. The crash was nearly deafening. It had been about fifty yards away but it was close enough that I nearly lost my footing along the sidewalk. The bus I’d just stepped off of had jumped the curb and crashed into a house toward the end of my street and was currently engulfed in flames.

TWO.

I remember just standing there frozen for what felt like forever. Then my next thought was Bria. The next thing I remember was running back the way I’d just come. The flames were getting worse by the second and I began trying to help kids get off the burning bus. I heard screaming as people burned, or were trapped or injured on the bus. I kept screaming for Bria, praying she wasn’t in there, burning alive. By then, the fire poured out the windows that were open, licking the yellow side of the bus and turning the parts it touched to a smoldering black. I don’t know how long I had been trying to open the back door but finally I was able to pry the emergency lever free as some kids pushed from the other side to get out. Once we got the door open, three boys fell out on top of me.

“Carrie!” one of them screamed to me and I knew it was Todd Milner’s voice. I hadn’t recognized him right away. The left half of his face was badly burned and his eye was swollen shut. I reached out and helped Todd sit upright.

“Oh, my God!” I shouted back at him, trying to make sense of what I was looking at. I still couldn’t process what was happening. The second boy who’d tumbled out had already took off running and screaming down the road. The third boy lay still on the ground, most of him so badly burned I was surprised he’d made it as long as he did. He was gone now, smoke still rising up from his charred clothing. The smell was like nothing I had experienced before.

“Carrie,” Todd repeated and I could tell he was in tremendous pain.”

“It’ll be alright,” I told him. “Help will be here soon. Have you seen Bria?” He only shook his head. My heart sank. I looked up at the burning bus helplessly. Was she still in there?

“What the hell is going on?” Another voice said and I glanced over to see Sophie Jenson stumbling around in the grass, her skirt torn all the way up to her waist. Her legs were badly scraped but aside from the gash on her cheek and messy hair, she looked like she’d made it out fine. The confused and distant look in her eyes was more from mental shock than physical injury, I figured.

“Sophie,” I called. She looked in my direction and then right past me like she saw more than one of me. “Have you seen Bria?” She and I had never spoken much before but we shared English class together. She always made fun of the teacher’s lisp when he spoke. Sophie shook her head like Todd had. Oh, my God, I thought. She was in there.

“Wait,” Sophie said considering. I think she might have crawled out the window. A few girls at the back made it out just after the crash. Me and Bria sat towards the back so a tiny sliver of hope filled me again. Bria was very petite and I could totally see that happening. I turned away from the bus, hoping that was the case. I had always thought of Sophie as a snooty bitch, but I was glad she was alive. And I held on to what she’d just told me, grateful for her words, hoping they were true.

Todd reached up and gripped a shaking hand around my upper arm and I remembered I was still holding onto him in the grass.

“Mr. Walsh…he lost it,” Todd said, his good eye rolling back in pain.

“Todd!” I called out shaking him gently. I glanced over at the bus’s front end, lodged at least three seats deep into the front of the house it had crashed into. I was pretty sure our driver Mr. Walsh hadn’t survived the impact, along with whoever was sitting in those first few seats. “What do you mean he lost it?” I asked as Todd opened his eye again.

“He started yelling at everyone. Started saying…we were all going to kill him.” He paused as if talking was the most impossible thing he’d ever had to do. “He… said he’d kill us instead. Kept hitting at the air like something was attacking him. He was crazy. Then he crashed us.”

“What?” I heard myself say even though I’d just heard every word Todd said clear as day. 

“He crashed the bus on purpose? Why would he do that?”

“Crazy,” Todd repeated and closed his eye. I tried to shake him again but when his head lolled to one side, my blood ran cold. And he just died right there in my arms on a stranger’s front lawn not even ten houses down from my own.

The screaming on the bus had stopped. I could see that most of the students had made it off but there were still a few figures in there who hadn’t been able to get out in time. Flames burst from the top of the bus and I stumbled back, landing right on my butt in the grass again. I looked down at Todd’s lifeless body, next to the other boy who’d died when he fell from the bus.

People were dying all around me. The flames were out of control, now catching onto the structure of the house and soon the roof ignited as well. Another burst had me scooting back along the grass and managing to get back to my feet. It wouldn’t be long before the bus tank exploded from the fire at this point. I turned from the flames, my cheeks still burning from the heat. I ran towards my house, leaving the bus and the blood and the burned bodies behind me. I had to get home and see if my little brother Jeremy had made it back safe. He was in middle school. 

As I ran, I saw my bag and yanked it up without stopping. Quickly, I pulled my phone out and tried to call Bria. She didn’t answer. Maybe she left her phone on the bus. Who’d think to grab it after a crash anyway? I'd call her parents next. As I reached the front lawn to my house, I tossed the bag to the ground in front of the shrubs and started up the walkway, and my heart sank yet again. All thoughts I had slipped away. The front door was already unlocked, and stood slightly ajar.

Carefully, I pushed the front door in. “Jeremy!” I called out, and was met with nothing but silence. In the foyer, I saw his backpack and shoes, dropped there in a lazy heap. Slowly, I walked further into the house. I grabbed the nearest thing I could—an umbrella of all things—and held it out in front of me. “Jeremy!” I repeated. Still nothing. I was about to round the corner, umbrella over my head when Jeremy all but ran into me. He wore his headphones, oblivious to everything around him.

“Woah,” he said holding up his arms in a gesture of peace. “What are you doing?” I yanked his headphones off. “Hey—” he protested but I interrupted.

“Did you hear?” I asked him quickly.

“Hear what?”

“The bus crash.”

“What crash?” he stepped back and looked at me, noticing me for the first time. I must have looked a mess because a sincerely concerned look came across my little brother’s face. 

“Carrie, what happened to you?”

THREE.

I had to practically hold Jeremy down to keep him from running toward the burning bus. 

“I’m calling the police,” I said as I picked up the house phone. It was surprising to me that I didn’t hear sirens or see anyone else running from their houses to help yet. Where was everybody? When I called 911, I got a busy signal. Never before had that happened. I tried again and still, it was busy. Next I tried my mother’s cell phone number. Straight to voicemail. “I can’t get anyone,” I said with frustration.

“Try Dad,” Jeremy suggested.

“Why would I try him?” I asked thinking about our father. He hadn’t been home in over three years. Ever since Mom found out about the affair, she hadn’t spoken to Dad for longer than five minutes. We had watched our mom nearly fall apart and then hold herself together at the seams by overworking herself just to take her mind off the divorce every chance she got. Mom hated us seeing her like that, but it was her way of dealing, we knew. We also knew she was ashamed that we saw her like that so we never talked about it. Over time, I learned to hate Dad as much as she did.

“Fine,” I finally said, picking up the phone again. Just like with Mom, Dad’s phone went to voicemail. At the very least, I’d have gotten a text back from one of them saying they were busy but this time, there was no reply.

“What do we do?” Jeremy asked, a perpetual look of concern on his face now. I shrugged and moved back into the living room.

“We should wait here until Mom gets home.” I walked over to the front door and pushed it shut. “Stay inside. And don’t do stupid things like this again.”

“What stupid things?”

“Like leave the front door open, Jeremy. It was open when I got home. Anyone could have just walked in without you even knowing it.”

Jeremy creased his brow. “But I didn’t leave the door open, I shut it when I came in.” he said. We stared at one another for several seconds as the realization came to us at the same time. I picked the umbrella back up and signaled for Jeremy to grab one of his baseball bats from the laundry room.

“Hurry!” I said in a whisper as he slipped around the corner. When he returned, we stood back to back, moving slowly through the first floor of the house, clearing one room at a time. When we were sure no one was downstairs, we both turned to the staircase, cringing in unison.

“Do you really think someone’s up there?”

“Right now, I don’t know what to think,” I said in all honesty. We padded quietly up the stairs, taking one at a time, our weapons at the ready. In the distance, I heard the distinct sound of sirens. I breathed a quick sigh of relief, glad that someone else on earth was finally coming to help. As we reached the top of the steps, we watched each other’s backs, slowly edging along the banister. Both of our rooms, two closets and the bathroom were clear. Now all that was left was Mom’s room and shower.

“Stay low,” I instructed and thanked God in that moment that I had a little brother who was too chicken to play hero and actually listened to me on this. Mom’s door was shut at the end of the hall. She always kept the door shut, kind of like her little warning sign to keep out. Sometimes I could hear mom crying at night behind that closed door. It was about Dad I was sure. God, I really hated that man for what he did to us. Jeremy was far more forgiving, still calling to see if he could watch his baseball games and “hang” out sometimes. I guess I understood that. It’s different for boys and boys needed their fathers—even if they are lying, cheating bastards that think it’s okay to screw their financial assistants, right? I shook my head as we came within three feet of the door.

“I’m counting to three and then we’re going in fast,” I said surprising myself at how confident I sounded, despite the fact that I was terrified out of my mind. “One…two…three—” I turned the knob and kicked the door open, jabbing the umbrella out in front of me. The room was still, not a single thing out of place, exactly how Mom had left it that morning. Great, I’d successfully murdered thin air. With another sigh, I lowered the umbrella.

I heard the scream before I saw where it was coming from. Then I was knocked forward, meeting the floor head on. I skidded forward about a foot, my cheek scrubbing along the carpet in what would later be a brutal rug burn. Behind me, I heard a scuffle, more screaming and Jeremy’s bat crash into one of Mom’s bed side lamps. The screams were definitely that of a female, although it could have been Jeremy at some points. As if in slow motion, I rolled over to my side and managed to get back to my feet.

Surprisingly, Jeremy was fighting off the young woman who kept lunging at him, clawing and snapping her jaw like a crocodile trying to snag its next meal. Was she trying to bite him? I’d never seen anything like that before.

“I won’t let you kill me! I’ll kill you first!” the woman screamed, her voice shrill and nearly incomprehensible. Kill us? It reminded me of what Todd had said about Mr. Walsh. He had thought the kids on the bus were trying to kill him, just like this woman did; except we weren’t trying to kill her at all. Jeremy shoved the woman back and crossed over the bed, putting a good five feet between them.

I took the chance to go at the woman with my umbrella. God, that was such a stupid weapon and I cursed myself for not grabbing something better downstairs when I’d had the chance. I hit her across the back with the umbrella but that only seemed to make her angrier than anything else. Now she turned to me, eyes wide, hair crazy and teeth bared like some dog with rabies. I saw the quick register of mortal fear and then the rage washed over her again.

“Carrie!” Jeremy screamed and threw the bat to me. I held it out in front of me and was instantly reminded of how terrible I had been at softball when I was Jeremy’s age. I may have struck out all the time but I could still swing hard. The woman lunged at me and I swung, hitting the side of her face just a little bit harder than I’d planned and she went down like a sack of potatoes.

FOUR.

“I’ve killed her!” I wailed, rushing to the woman’s side. When I realized she had a pulse and I’d just knocked her out cold, I was relieved but still horrified I’d done that to another human being.

“She came out of the closet!” Jeremy said rounding the bed. “Is she dead?”

I shook my head. “Just knocked out. Let’s bring her downstairs.”

“Why was she trying to kill us? And why did she keep saying we were trying to kill her?” I remembered the way she looked at me for that instant. She was truly scared in that second.

“I think she really believed it,” I said simply as we laid her out on the couch.

“Um, what are we going to do when she wakes up?” Jeremy asked.

We found some rope and decided to tie the woman up so that it would be difficult for her to just up and run or try to grab us again. We also made sure that no one else was in the house with us. I had so many questions in my mind as I glanced out the front window. It was getting dark outside. I couldn’t see the bus from where I stood, the smoke had made its way down the street, giving everything a gray haze. Off the smoke, I caught the flicker of emergency lights from the ambulance and police cars lining the street. Blue and red ricocheted off the pavement and bushes and danced along the outside of the window.

I wondered how many people died in the crash. How many more were injured? And I wondered if I should tell Jeremy about what I saw. I decided it would scare him too much. I decided to turn on the news. Maybe they had more information about what was going on. But what we saw was even more bizarre.

BREAKING NEWS: BLOODTHIRSTY ZOMBIES HAVE ARRIVED!

I stared at the screen in shock, at a complete and total loss for words. This was actually the headline across the top of the screen. This was actually what the news station was telling the public. I didn’t know why but in that moment, I called bullshit. 

----------------------------

Title: The Serials

Genre: YA Fantasy/Horror

Age Range: 13 - 17+

Word Count: 62K

Author: Carolyn M. Walker

Why a Good Fit: It is a provoking and unique spin on a genre that still fascinates. This YA horror explores psychological themes, societal issues, and the root of what humanity is and is not.

Hook: 16-year old Carrie remembers the day people started killing each other. An epidemic is on the loose but nothing is as it seems, literally.

Synopsis: In an overpopulated world, comes the sudden “outbreak” of horrific zombies rapidly feeding on the flesh of victims by the hundreds. As it spreads, those who aren’t yet afflicted, rise up to kill them—convinced that this is the only way to save the world… or is it? 16-year old Carrie Montgomery, her younger brother, and mother join a small group of uninfected survivors. But soon Carrie begins to question everything she thought she knew about the disease, its sudden appearance, and her survival. And what she discovers reveals a more sinister plan than she ever could have imagined.

Target Audience: Mature YA readers. Adult readers who enjoy psychological thrillers and dark fiction.

Bio: I have been writing for over 20 years and I am most active on Facebook, Twitter, and my blog. I hold a B.A. in English Literature from Florida State University, and have been a copywriter and editor for over ten years. My personality is quirky, inquisitive, and I love exploring new things. My writing style is a blend of dry humor, fluid detail, and pointed dialogue. My hobbies are a mixed bag of reading, writing, singing, beach combing, contemplating, and cooking semi-fantastic Italian meals. I'm from San Diego California, but now I live in Central Florida. I am 35. 

Gepetto watched the sun scorch the earth, bleaching out the crops in record time. The harvest had come late that year but he was hoping for a turn of tides. The unforgiving sun gave him no quarter and he’d be forced to starve another winter. This time it’d gone too far. He pushed back from the wooden fence, sagging into the ground and rotting at the lowest rung. Five years on this dusty old farm and he’d not made one return on his investment. He’d given up his love of wood carving to become a farmer and he nearly regretted the decision every day.

“Well Pinoy, it looks like your time here is nearly up,” he said to the scarecrow beside him. The scarecrow was well made and Gepetto’s craft shined through. The clothes were hand woven and double stitched to last the test of time. The hay had been heated and pressed, to fill Pinoy’s belly, arms, and legs so they’d appear as realistic as possible. More hay had been clamped and braided around the crown of the head which was fashioned from sheet metal. From there, Gepetto used a secondhand hole saw to create the eyes, nose and mouth. Pinoy was one of many lifelike renderings of Gepetto’s earlier carved creations that had burned to the ground six years earlier by thrill seeking looters.

Spirals of smoke and ascending amber embers had clotted the night sky.

“Get the money then the goods!” One of the men shouted and burst through the front doors of Gepetto’s shop, glass breaking as the door slammed against the wall. They’d taken everything he held dear—his beloved hand crafted clocks, sweetly singing music boxes, elaborate wreathes, ornate figurines for every occasion…and his favorite puppet Pinocchio. Each piece priceless and precious, was plundered. All the while, the sleek metal barrel of a .45 had been pressed to his nose. Gepetto didn’t fight, didn’t shout, didn’t protest, because it was pointless. He only followed them with his eyes as they pillaged his life’s work and then set fire to that achieved dream with six Molotov Cocktails.

Now, more of his life smoldered, laid to waste under a slower burn that hung overhead and out of reach. In honor of the loss, he’d named his farm Cchio Crops and every scarecrow shared a part of the dearly departed in their name. To his left were nine scarecrows, starting with Penni and ending with Paisley. To his right were nine more, starting with Pinoy and ending with Persa. But Pinoy was Gepetto’s favorite, just like Pinocchio had been.

“You keep your brothers and sisters company now, Pinoy,” Gepetto said to the scarecrow. The townsfolk met every third Wednesday of the week at the main hall to discuss trades and other business. He’d see if he couldn’t trade some of his salvaged wheat for extra funds for at least some winter meat down the road. Once Gepetto was out of sight, Pinoy went to work.

“I hope he gets the money he needs,” Pinoy said. “We need to hurry down and till the crops before he gets back.”

“They’re dead,” Palmer said as he watched Pinoy wiggle off his post.

“You’ve trampled them to pieces and defeated the purpose,” Penni added.

“Standing by does nothing!” Pinoy argued. “You know everything Gepetto makes is magical. Those creations might have saved the shop if they’d done something.”

“Pinoycchio!” Porta said using his full name and the other scarecrow stopped.

“Standing guard is what we do,” she remined Pinoy. “Being there for him is our job. Now get back up here before you get us all caught!” Pinoy stopped and faced his brothers and sisters who all agreed with Portacchio’s statement.

“You’ll see,” Pinoy finally said and turned back.

“No, you’ll see,” Porta countered.

By the time Gepetto reached the house, the sun had started to drop and he realized he’d not given himself enough time to get ready. He wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead with the back of his hand. The stubborn tufts of his salt and pepper cap of hair fell back over his smudged glasses. It was just him on the old farm and he so often lost track of time on his own. But he was alright with that. He had all the new family he needed—all eighteen of his scarecrows watching over his dying crops and keeping him company while he turned the time. All of them had a name and had a history. They were his family now.

At the sink, Gepetto splashed water over his dust covered face and changed his shirt which had grown heavy with sweat stains. He kept on the overalls, seeing he hadn’t a clean pair to replace them with. In front of the mirror, he combed back his damp hair and yanked open one of his dresser drawers. He sprayed cologne over him, the label long worn away with the passage of time. It smelled like lacquer and hardly masked the hours of unpleasant musk that still clung to his skin.

“Wish me well,” he said to his reflection.

As dusk shrank back and night took its place, the scarecrows stood guard over the desolate stretch of crops until the moon snaked out from behind a swatch of clouds. The family looked up at the full moon in awe.

“It’s the Blue Fairy Harvest Moon,” Parlov whispered. Gepetto’s family had proven brave, truthful, and unselfish in the face of loss. Her soft white light revived the crops for another season.

“See Pinoycchio? What did I say?” Porta asked. Around the moon, the stars were particularly bright that night.