The Man wore black leather. He was as black as the night. As black as a nightmare stealing through your open window and worming its way into your ear.

Ethan’s eye flew open, straining wide, his mouth stretched into a silent ‘O’. He couldn’t breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead, his hands clenched at his sheets as he writhed; as he twisted wildly to free himself of the fear that had overtaken him. Slowly the nightmare faded, shattering into small and fading fragments as the reality of his room became solid around him – the tick of the ceiling fan, the soft breathing of his wife beside him, the snore of his dog, curled up in the corner. But the air felt heavy. Stagnant. His mind grasping against his will, trying to hold onto what he had just experienced. What had it been? What had scared him so much? Something about a dark hallway, a hidden stair, an old woman at the top, rocking slowly as she stared at him and willed him upwards. What had that been about?

The Man was frustrated. His work couldn’t complete if the subject woke up, the nightmare could never finish. Another hour wasted. He huffed silently, trying to calm down, trying to regain the creative energy that had evaporated as soon as Ethan had opened his eyes. Had he pushed too hard? He felt that Ethan should have been able to handle what he’d thrown at him, should have been able to make it to the end of the dream. He sank into thought... perhaps the old woman had looked a bit too much like Ethan’s grandmother? He would have to re-double his efforts.

Ethan sat up in bed. He was fully awake now, no helping it. He looked at his bedside clock. 3am. Sigh. Another night without enough sleep. The day would be wasted. He would be like a zombie. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to keep him awake. He was pacing now. He didn’t know how he’d gotten into the hallway, but here he was. It was nearly pitch dark, just a small amount of light glinting from around the corner toward the kitchen. Had someone left the fridge open? He walked slowly toward the light, placing his feet carefully, he didn’t want to wake anyone else up, it was bad enough that he was awake at this ungodly hour.

The Man was humming softly. If you could have heard him you would have thought it was a sad tune. A dirge perhaps. All minor keys and odd timing, something suitable for a funeral procession or playing over the ashes of forgotten battlefield. He was humming because he was enthralled with creation. Focused. Totally committed. This time it was going to work.

Ethan felt the hallway was longer than it should have been. Longer than he remembered it anyway. Perhaps the dark was playing tricks on him. He was more tired that he thought. He kept walking and the light grew steadily brighter. This couldn’t be the fridge, it was far too bright now. Bright enough that he was having trouble seeing anything else. It was surrounding him, moving towards him as he move towards it. He was compelled. He couldn’t stop. And then he stepped through it and he was in a small attic, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, brushing against his hair and his face. He had to stoop, couldn’t stand up straight in this small, musty, wooden space, a slow rhythmic creaking coming from close behind him. He turned slowly, knowing what he was going to see, dreading it, hating it, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned and saw the old woman in her chair, white wispy hair, papery skin showing through, her skull barely covered. Her eyes were on the floor as she rocked, head bowed, her small shoulders hunched up around her ears. Ethan couldn’t look away, he had to look away. And then her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his, a strange fire in those eyes, energy arcing across the small distance, stunning him, freezing him in place. He tried to scream but his breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and straining.

The Man plucked at the strings of the dream, carefully now, trying to extract what he needed from it, trying to teach Ethan what he needed to know but…

Ethan found himself in bed once again, his mouth open, a silent scream stuck in his throat, his hands like claws on the blanket. He stopped moving, focused on breathing, the fragments of the dream evaporating like a morning mist. Morning. What time was it? He looked at the clock by his bed. 3am. He was wide awake. No chance of getting back to sleep now. What had the dream been about? An old woman? An attic? What had been so scary? Something about her eyes…

The Man was breathing heavily. He had been so close... but it had fallen apart during the most critical time. All his effort wasted once again. He settled himself into a lotus position, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. He would get it this time.

Ethan stood up and walked into the bathroom. He needed to use the toilet and get some water. He took a couple of paces and swayed dizzily. He was so tired. The floor felt strange under him, too hard against his feet, painful almost. The bathroom felt too empty, like all the life and energy of his house had been drained away, replaced by these bare walls and empty corners. He tottered toward the sink and turned on the faucet, needing to splash some water on his face, but nothing came out. He turned the handle backward and forward, staring dumbly at the fixture, hearing it squeak and grate under his hand. What was that smell? Rotting leaves and musty mold. The smell emerged from the drain, dust and grime covered the sink, dirty and evil looking. Ethan stepped sharply backwards. This wasn’t his bathroom, something was wrong. The floor was warped and broken wood, the ceiling too close and claustrophobic, the toilet broken, cracked and leaning against a wall. From over his head he could hear a rocking noise, the wood squeaking, dust sifting down to settle in his hair. He knew what it was. His feet led him slowly out of the room and up the hallway toward the stairs. One by one, footstep by unsteady footstep, he moved upward toward the sound of wood groaning under the weight of the steady rocking. He tried to close his eyes, he tried to look away, but he was glued to his course. Compelled to open the door, to step inside, to see once again that ghastly face and shrunken body. With an incredible act of will he forced his eyes closed, squeezed them shut, stopped walking and willed himself awake. Willed himself to open his eyes into reality and out of this awful dream.

The Man smiled. He was close now.

Ethan found himself in his bed, snuggled deeply into his covers. His room was warm around him, welcoming. He could hear the steady breathing of his wife, her solidity and warmth comforting to him after those horrible, awful dreams. He didn’t want to wake her, but he needed some comfort, needed someone he could share these racing thoughts with and terrible fears. He’d woken up so many times, was he really awake now? He slowly moved his arms and legs. Everything seemed normal, his body felt like his own. He turned slowly over onto his side, still unsure if he’d wake her, but needing to see her at least, to take comfort in her presence. As he was thinking these thoughts he noticed that her breathing didn’t sound right. Too raspy. Like there was something in her throat. Like her lungs weren’t working, her breathing labored and forced, and so he started to worry. And then he startled backwards in horror. The woman in his bed, laying at his side, was not his wife. The old woman stared back at him, a crooked smile on her face, her hair wild and floating about her head like a ghostly halo.

“Hello Ethan,” she said in her croaking, crones voice. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh my God,” he screamed, unable to form any other more coherent words.

“Now now, my sweet, no need for profanity. I’ve been waiting for you for such a very long time. It’s OK to enjoy this moment.” She reclined her head backward and closed her eyes in contentment.

Ethan’s chest ached, his heart beating so hard he felt as if it was trying to escape through his ribs. “Who. Are. You?” he managed to pant out.

“I’m your Aunt Edna. You don’t remember me? Oh well.”

“Why are you here? In my room? Where’s my wife?”

“Oh? This looks like your room to you? I guess that would make sense. Don’t worry about your wife, she’s fine. It’s you I would worry about. You aren’t so fine. Not so fine at all.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Welcome to the afterlife Ethan.”

Edna started laughing and it wouldn’t stop. Cackling laughter poured out of her as the room around Ethan spun and changed, the walls fading to grey, the floor becoming insubstantial. The only thing left in Ethan’s universe was the cackling crone, bent over coughing and wheezing in merriment.

The Man stood up and brushed off his hands. His job was done. Another human delivered from his Earthly existence into the Astral Plane. Ethan had died peacefully in his sleep earlier in the night. A heart attack. Sometimes it took people a while to come to terms with their new reality, but Ethan would be fine now. He had Edna. He would be just fine.

Blood sparkles in water

a permanent reflection

of death (life) opening within

my obsidian eyes.

Can’t see life (death) blinking

as sun chaperones darkness

silent serenity of death (life).

Tangled life (death) strings soak

in the awakening light

but all I can see

is life (death) flickering

and going out in the night.

Shadows crawl over my soul

searching for new offering

illuminated by crying crows –

mournful memories of

sad serenades of

short harmonies

of death (life).

Sunlit afternoon foretells

echoes of death (life) song

fog of life (death) walks down

congealed road.

There were so many differences between him and I. I was darkness, he was light; I was the storm and he was the peace; I was cruel, he was loving, but more importantly, he was life and I was death.

The universe had gone out of its way to keep us apart but it hadn't tried hard enough.

I was burning a building down. Dousing the bricks of the building in gasoline, I struck a match and dropped it into the wet grass. It was magnificent, the whole world lighting up in a split second. Burning heat scorching the air around me. Screams erupted inside the building -- screams of terror -- and I smiled.

Taking a few steps back from the raging fire, I watched as it ate away at the base of the building, moving its way up. A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned around to see a boy around my age, his face grim.

"Did you do this?" he asked, nodding at the gasoline can in my hand.

For a split second, I felt like throwing him into the flames but restrained myself. "And so what if I did?"

"It's a crime," he said. His grip on my shoulder tightened. "You're coming with me."

"Don't try to be the hero, kiddo," I said, removing his hand from my shoulder. "They get nowhere in life."

"I'm not trying to be the hero, I'm doing what's right," he answered. He was tense, ready to pounce at any moment if I made a break for it.

"I'm not going anywhere," I shook the gasoline can casually. "There's nothing left to burn down. Every building in this town has my mark on it."

"I know," he said flatly. "Every building you've burned down to the ground and yet you continue to do it."

I nodded. Sirens wailed in the distance. "But now that I'm caught, I guess my streak will come to an end."

"You disgust me," he said. His hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me towards the cop cars that had pulled up. Fire trucks pulled in seconds later and the scene began to swarm with firefighters.

The boy wove his way the mass of people and hoses and handed me off to an older cop. He slapped handcuffs onto my wrists and led me towards the cop car.

"Thanks, Matthew," he called over his shoulder. "We've been trying to catch her for years."

A grin slipped across my face. "It's a shame, really."

"How so?" the cop asked. His pushed my head down as I sat down in the cop car.

"I've been doing this for years and some teen boy catches me? Too bad one of your professionals couldn't have had the honor," I smirked.

"It takes a thief to catch a thief," Matthew said, leaning up against the car.

The cop went to shut the door but Matthew stopped him.

"Can I talk to her for a second, Cap?" he asked.

"Sure, just close the door when you're done," Cap gave him permission.

"Yes, sir," Matt nodded as the older man walked away.

I looked at him and he looked back. For a minute, we listened to the crackle of the

fire, the screams of people inside and outside of the building, everything. I reeked of gasoline but the smell didn't bother me since I had been smelling it for what seemed like my entire life.

"You were smooth," he whispered, leaning in so only I could hear him.

I nodded. "Thanks."

He smiled. "So... why did you allow yourself to get caught? You could have made a break for it any time."

Thinking, I looked away. "I could have escaped but... opposites attract."

He smiled and stepped back, shut the door, and sealed me to my impending doom.

----

I was sitting in my cell, picking at my fingernails. Today was the day. The day I escape these bars. Hearing footsteps approaching, I looked up.

"Hey," Matthew came into view. He held onto the bars and leaned his face forward as far as he could. "You ready?"

Matt had come many times to 'visit' me and every time we furthered the plans for my escape.

I nodded and stood up. "Why are you helping me?"

The question had been gnawing away at me for some time and I needed to get it off my chest.

He smiled, his eyes shining. "Opposites attract. Now let's get going."

Inserting his borrowed key into the lock, he opened the door and let me out. Fire would rage the city that night but I wouldn't be alone.

I want to smack her. Literally. She certainly deserves it--her words strike harder than my hands ever could. But physical assault will get you arrested while hateful words seldom do. My father is proof of that.

When I was seven, after my parents divorced, I had to go see my father. It was his way of getting out of child support. My visits were a nuisance more than anything.

About a year after the divorce I rode the school bus to his house on one of many miserable Fridays.

“Home, Dad.” I said after I fumbled through the screen door and dealt with his dogs, Thumper and Max. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table in his rumpled underwear and t-shirt. He leaned over his bowl of cereal like a bear. A dark shadow of stubble matched the smudges under his eyes. In the back, I could hear Nolene, his girlfriend doing some kind of housework.

He didn’t respond, so I headed toward my room.

“Don’t bring a bunch of shit in here,” he said to my back.

“I won’t, Dad.”

He was talking about my insect collections. Mostly moths and butterflies. A few beetles but those icked me out when the pins went through the plasticy shells.

“I’m serious, girl. Nolene don’t have the time or patience to be picking up after you.”

“Yes, Dad.”

I didn’t hate anyone then. When I was a kid. Now, I’m pretty full of it. I wonder if it’s contagious?

My father worked the second shift at the air conditioner plant. Looking back now I can see that drugs probably influenced his behavior. Nolene never did anything about it except fight. The result was usually him getting on to me.

I’m married now with two kids of my own. They are out of the house. Doug is in graduate school and Nancy married a nice accountant and does nothing with her own accounting degree. I guess counting is useful for keeping up with three kids. I’d like to see them more, but they live an hour and twenty minutes away. I’m still living in my hometown. I guess it’s good the kids moved on. Nobody beat them for their hobbies. Maybe that’s the reason.

At first, Nolene tried to befriend me. She’d been “rode hard and put up wet” as my dad’s brother told me one time and was emotionally detached and unpredictable. I think she wanted me to be her kid, a nice little family. When that didn’t work out she gave all her attention to getting what she could from my father in terms of attention, affection and fidelity. There wasn’t much of that to go around.

Maybe that’s why I married Bruce. He’s got the good looks of a Greek god sculpted from mashed potatoes, but he’s dependable. His non-verbal way of interacting doesn’t even bother me much anymore. Silence at my father’s house was dangerous.

One time, when I was about ten, my fourth grade teacher had encouraged me to do something with my insect collection for a science project. She figured that out when she saw me pick up a dead spider from the backpack room floor.

“What are you doing, Ellen?”

“What?” I tried to stall.

“Why did you pick up that dead bug?”

“What bug?” Why do we think we can lie and get away with it? Besides it technically wasn’t a bug.

“The dead bug I saw you pick up from the floor and that you are now holding loosely in your hand so that you don’t crush it.”

Ms. Thatcher had a way with details.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you collect them?”

“Sometimes,” I said. I could feel the crinkly little legs lightly touching my palm.

“That might make a good display for the science fair.”

It’s all I needed. I spent the next three nights at mom’s picking out my best specimens. My mom even got me a new piece of foam board. Friday morning is when I realized I had a problem.

I talked it out with Professor Peter my Praying Mantis. He was pinned to the bottom right of my poster. I had drawn a talk bubble like he was naming each of my bugs. I’d even made him a little mortar board hat. His spiny arm made a good pointer.

“I’ve got to turn this in Monday,” I said when I realized I would be at my father’s house all weekend.

You can’t take it to your dad’s. Nolene hates bugs.

“I know. But it’s not ready.”

Tell your mom.

“I can’t tell Mom because she won’t let me take it.”

Maybe she can say something to your dad. It’s a school project.

“She never says anything to him. And he won’t listen anyway.”

She’s gonna see it.

“I’ll just have to tell her it’s ready, and I’m taking it today to turn in early.”

I covered the panel up carefully with a plastic bag. Dried insects are fragile. At school and on the bus to Dad’s I guarded it from bumps and jolts. When I got off the bus I tucked it beside the door and made a trial run inside first. Dad had already gone to work. Nolene was on the phone. With as much stealth as I could muster, I snuck it into my room. After I closed the door, I listened to see if she would follow me. When my heart settled down I couldn’t help but unwrap and admire my work.

Eight of my favorite bugs I had arranged in a ring and from the bottom corner Professor Peter called out their names. At the top was a sweet green Actias luna “Luna Moth.” Then a fuzzy black Xylocopa “Carpenter Bee” and a Periplaneta americana “American Cockroach” to creep people out. Most of my bugs I had found dead, window sills catch and dry them out perfectly, but the three little Fireflies Lampyridae had met their fate in a jar on my dresser.

A large space in the center I had intentionally left open in hopes of finding something spectacular before Monday. Gently, I placed the foam board between my bed and the wall and headed out to the yard to hunt.

“Be safe, Professor!” I said.

Good luck!

There was lots of luck that day.

Today has had its own bit of luck. When I arrived at the nursing home, the shift nurse Cindy said, “Miss Nolene had a pretty good evening. Not much in the way of trouble last night, and she’s up and cheerful this morning. The CNAs said morning cleanup was no trouble. She’ll be glad to see you.”

She’s never glad to see me.

The TV was on when I entered, but she wasn’t watching it. Dementia has eroded much of her attention span. She didn’t even look at me when I said hello. It’s her unintended kindness to me to be so out of it that she doesn’t recognize or interact with me. Her roommate is a pitiful stroke victim slowly contracting into a ball and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Good morning, Nolene.” I say.

“What is it?” she says to the corner of the ceiling. I smell body fluids and disinfectant.

“Just thought I would drop by to check on you.”

This brings a glance, “And who are you?”

“I’m your step-daughter, Ellen.”

It’s hard to tell where the long pause is going. In my mind, I’m racing out of my dad’s house again, with my glass Ball jar. His house was situated on the edge of a field and there was stand of trees nearby. It was hard to find bugs in the forest, but the lawn and field usually proved fruitful. And there it was. Without even looking—a big, mean, red and black ant making its way across the lawn. It was really not an ant but a wingless wasp with a wicked black stinger. “Cow Killer,” I said under my breath. I couldn’t remember the scientific name, but I could look it up after I captured it.

It was such an awesome little creature and proud--like it didn’t know it was tiny. I had played with one before, penning it down with a stick to hear it hiss and aggressively fight with its stinger. This one was huge. We battled like a bull and matador, me trying to get it in the jar and it avoiding the glass death chamber. Finally, I was successful and tromped to the house triumphantly with the centerpiece for my exhibit.

Unaware of what had happened, I entered my room thinking of where I could hide my prize until it died, Nolene was standing opposite of me at the end of my bed. Her huffs and angry scowl revealed my fate before I even noticed my poster at her feet.

A few frizzy strands of hair clung to her sweating face and the rest shot from her head in all directions, “I told you not to bring bugs into this house!”

Dreadfully, my eyes took in what she had done. The foam board was mashed and creased with shoe prints, bits of dust and scattered legs were the only things left of my insects. Heartache and sorrow pull my heart down, then from some unknown place a spark of anger raced forward. I didn’t know what to do with it. Nolene continued to rant at me and justify her act of destruction, “You’re a stupid weird little girl! Why are you so weird? What’s wrong with you to bring shit like this into the house?” Like an exterior elevator I watched my own fury rise and threw the jar at her.

In my hot anger I hoped that the Cow Killer to spring out and sting her to death. Instead the jar smashed into the wall behind her. Momentarily, she was stunned into silence. We stood there glaring at each other. In the moment she backed down. When my dad came home that night she filled his ear full of her side of the story. He got me out of bed sometime after midnight to spank me. I never let him see me cry.

He died about fifteen years ago. I’m kind of glad my grandkids never met him. Even though he had mellowed, he never could say, “I’m sorry,” or “I love you.” It fell to me to look after Nolene. She has no children of her own. The dementia makes it both worse and better. Worse in terms of complications and meanness, but better in that at least I can blame it on the disease.

Perhaps it was the disease moments ago that made her respond to my greeting with, “You ain’t my daughter. I never had any children. At least none that survived.”

“I’m not your biological daughter, I’m Ellen. You married my dad, Carl. Remember?”

“What I remember is that you are a stupid and weird little girl.”

I’m holding a glass vase with three white daisies in it. I want to throw it at her. She wouldn’t be able to dodge it this time.

It occurs to me that there are bugs over on the window sill: the ubiquitous “Pill Bugs” known around here as Roly Pollies, Armadillidium. She hated those things. I could go around the building and gather a few more, certainly I can also find some Silverfish and spiders for a nice necklace to place on her when she dozes off. The image of her waking up in a panic, screaming and thrashing around trying to knock a few not quite dead bugs off on the floor is surprisingly appealing.

Instead, I place the flower vase on her nightstand and leave. I don’t tell her Roly Pollies aren’t even insects, they’re terrestrial crustaceans. She doesn’t care and couldn’t learn it anyway.

END

[12-3-18 Thanks for the challenge! It has become an exercise against perfectionism as this is a very rough draft. I wrote it today and forced myself to share without any more edits or polishing. Any feedback is welcome and will be appreciated.]

www.htroygreen.com

I am loved.

They despise me.

I am wanted.

They think I'm a waste of space.

These are my friends.

I have no one.

I am beautiful.

I'm disgusting.

They value my opinion.

I'm so stupid.

I am good at my job.

I should be fired.

I am a caring person.

I'm selfish.

I am dedicated.

I'm lazy.

I deserve to be loved.

I deserve nothing.

“And that was the last we ever heard of him.” With greedy anticipation Jeremy raised the cup to his mouth, already certain of the bittersweet taste on his tongue, the surety of the fluff of froth on his lips, and the expected but unexpected bite of cinnamon spice, when he caught sight of Sarah’s horrified look. “What?” His hand wavered and wobbled, the coffee only a moment from his lips, so near but yet so far… He sighed heavily as her increasingly aghast expression forced his decision. He reluctantly sat the virginal and unsullied cappuccino back down on the tabletop, swallowing back the anticipatory saliva gathering in his mouth to return her glare with equal force. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You can’t leave the story there.” Sarah leaned across the sticky, smeary surface of the table, all bright eyes and fervour, as if he held the clue to …

“What?” Jeremy realized he had already moved on in his head from his story. He scrambled to remember exactly where he had left it. Hanging from the edge of a cliff, if Sarah’s expression was anything to go on. The alluring scent of coffee curled up his nostrils and seductively whispered come hither, scrambling his thoughts and diverting his attention once more.

Sarah’s lips were moving but Jeremy did not hear what she was saying. His focus was on the red gummy bear sitting nonchantly on the saucer next to the coffee cup. Who was it that decided a gummy bear was a worthy accompaniment to a cup of coffee? Sacrilege! He threw an outraged frown at the counter where the ginger-haired barista, his hair fashionably long, his face fashionably smug, and his black eyebrows a fashionably startling contrast to his strawberry blonde curls, leaned on the counter attempting to chat up the bored waitress. The waitress ignored him, her dull eyes travelling across the half-full café without interest (half-empty? Jeremy wondered who decided this, too. Did a person remark that the café was half-full, in anticipation of further patrons arriving? Or half-empty, in the knowledge that the remaining customers would shortly leave?) and she raised a tattooed hand to hide her yawn. Jeremy’s gaze lingered on the tattoos. When had these young girls decided that tattooing their hands was a good idea? The watercolour tattoos were works of art, but these girls weren’t art gallery walls from which to display the whimsies of artists who created such permanency through the enforced intimacy of a needle prick. This was their own tender skin they had … defaced? Could he say that? He grinned to himself, imagining the indignation on the waitress’s face if he walked over and asked her why she had defaced her skin with her tattoos.

“Jeremy.”

Jeremy blinked. Sarah was sitting back in her chair again, leaving the wide expanse of the carelessly wiped tabletop between them, a yawning chasm, a barrier, a mute testament to the fact that they weren’t communicating. She had set her mouth into a thin line, somehow folded her lips in to make them bloodless and narrow. Her annoyed look, and she did it so well. She reached for her handbag now, bending down to pick it up from the crumb-scattered floor near her feet, her long, brown hair falling across her face and obscuring her aggravation. She set the bag on the table in front of her, effectively blocking him and building her wall of irritation higher. She narrowed her eyes into a fierce scowl. “Why do you always do this?” Her voice was a curious mix of displeasure, exasperation, affection, and hopelessness. The voice of a long-time partner reluctantly aware that opposites might attract but attraction did not guarantee a blissful relationship.

“Do what?” Her question genuinely surprised him. What had he done now? He cast his mind back over the past few minutes, attempting to find the point when he had unknowingly committed his crime and received his sentence. He knew that Sarah had been happy enough when he suggested a coffee after their Saturday afternoon movie, thrilled even, almost girlishly pleased. She swung from his arm as he pushed open the door to the café, chattering animatedly about the movie, and she spent a few minutes carefully deciding what she wanted from the blackboard menu. She chose a chai latte, if he remembered rightly, then she led the way to this table by the window. He allowed her to make the decisions, feeling warmly connected to her after ninety contented minutes spent in the darkened movie theatre. Even the movie had been her choice, a romance that he had not expected to like from the outset but it had been surprisingly gripping. A real story. A drama, they used to call it. Did they still call movies dramas these days? Other, more exciting names had fallen into common use of late: thrillers, suspense, cliffhangers, blockbusters, rom-coms, situation comedies, action, adventure – names that told the audience exactly what to expect. What did drama mean, anyway?

“Jeremy! The story?” Sarah’s eyes flashed and glittered dangerously. She zipped up her bag with an impatient tug, her angry gaze never leaving his face. He could see she had almost reached the point of no return and he still had no idea what had set her off down this treacherous path.

“Yes?” He added a smile in an attempt to sweeten her, much like the sachet of sugar he’d added to his cappuccino earlier. He curled his fingers around the handle of his coffee cup, preparing himself once again for the potent and power-laden first sip.

“Finish it.” Her voice was too precise, too measured. An alert that meant he was about to cross a line he had not known was there. He sat the unsupped cup down again, slopping a small amount of froth onto the table in the process. Warning, warning.

"Finish what? I haven't even started it yet."

“You were telling me a story about Mike, the guy from your office and you left it hanging, half finished. You said he went to Peru and that was the last anyone ever heard of him. What happened? Did he die? Did drug smugglers kidnap him? Why did no one ever hear of him again?” She spoke the last sentence through gritted teeth.

“What?” Jeremy stared at her, unsure how her mind could have possibly taken such a fathomless leap. What went on inside the woman’s head? “I don’t think so. Why ever would you think that? I meant that he never bothered to keep in touch with any of us. He left the office and got on with his life and that was it. No one ever heard from him again.” Jeremy shrugged, unconcerned. Office friendships often ended at the termination of contracts. The only reason he remembered Mike was that one of the actors in the film bore a very vague resemblance to the man. Mike himself was a bland, colourless person, and the fact he’d gone to Peru in the first place was a surprise to those who knew him. Evan, the man who’d taken his job, was a different story entirely. Evan was one of those sociable, friendly types, the kind of man to organize office raffles and race day sweepstakes. A gregarious workmate. Jeremy nodded to himself, pleased with this description.

“Good grief. Sometimes you are utterly infuriating.” Sarah snatched her handbag up from the table and cradled it in her lap. Like a security blanket, Jeremy mused. She tightened her hold on the bag and stared past him, out the window at the street, her lips now so thin they were practically non-existent and he still had no clue as to what it was she thought he’d done.

He looked doubtfully down at the ridiculous gummy bear on his saucer. Was it perhaps meant for someone else’s saucer? A child? Had he unknowingly denied a five-year-old her tiny piece of candy? He glanced uncomfortably around the café but there were no children seated at any of the other tables. Had they left already, the child heartbroken and pointing at the bad man at the table in the corner whilst her mother comforted her?

“Are you going to drink your coffee or not?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke and he decided it might be best to leave her alone until she got over her odd little mood.

Jeremy pushed his now cold cappuccino away, all desire for the silly blend gone. He wasn’t sure why he had ordered it in the first place. He was more of a no-frills kind of guy, the kind of man who called a spade a spade and kept things black and white. No grey areas. He waved to grab the bored, tattooed waitress’s attention. “A cup of black coffee, please.”

The End

When I was about seven years old, my mother said, “Don’t get too close to the neighbors.” I looked at her like she was swiss cheese, because she was the one who dropped me off at Sunday school where I heard the exact opposite. It was the pasty white bald dude with the white tight starched collar that said to us with persuasive passion, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Was I to believe the woman who birthed me or this guy who seemed like he pretty much knew what he was talking about?

Actually, there are not too many words of wisdom I remember my mother teaching me, but “Don’t get too close to the neighbors” hung around in my brain bank, as money I didn’t want to spend, and I had a nagging feeling at some point I would wish I had made a withdrawal.

***

A fish should not be out of water, and people should need people. Barbara Streisand sang about it so it must be true. When I moved three states away from my roots, I thought, “So what that I don’t know a soul. If I want some friends, I’ll go pick some up at Wal-Mart.” It’s that easy, right? Maybe some people find what they need in isle nine, I found a lot of disinterested, “too busy to make new friends” personages and not just at Wal-Mart. Walking my dog around the neighborhood I was beginning to think he and I were the last life left on the planet. Newly retired, I refused to feel like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, except for the fact that most of what I had planned to do with my time began and ended with the word BEACH. What I neglect to mention is, I am married, and he’s retired too, so I am not alone, but I’m married to a guy that is more into the rectangular box that answers to a remote control then the woman that calls him for dinner. We are not the grey haired couple you see in the AARP commercial walking on the beach holding hands if you catch my drift.

My dog, not my alarm clock kept me on schedule. Before coffee I do not approve of long walks, much to my dog’s chagrin. On a Saturday morning, early June, the weather was a Farmer’s Almanac 10, causing my dog to get his frisky on, and I in my pajama pants, made an exception, venturing off my block caffeine free. And then I saw them coming towards me, the aurora borealis, with a cute little Bichon that spotted us first. Our dogs were initially responsible for the meet and greet, doing their leg lifts and sniffs like we humans say how do you do. Not embarrassed at all that I was meeting this couple in my pajama pants, we started talking and I did believe I couldn’t have selected better had I clicked all the boxes on FRIENDMATCH. They dropped down from somewhere, and landed one block over, mine for the taking.

We said our goodbyes, but not before I decided to invite them over for happy hour. Walking back to the house, I was so excited to share the news with my husband, when I entered the kitchen, I forgot to pop in my pod. “Do we have to, he said? It’s Survivor night.”

“Yeah. We have to,” I said. “I already invited them. And don’t worry, they already said they like to go to bed early, like us, so they’ll be long gone before somebody gets voted off at tribal council. Our similarities are uncanny. Don’t forget their names. Sal and Marie. It will be fun. I promise.”

And it was. After a couple of happy hours, our place and theirs, a dinner out and a foursie trip to the beach, I felt happy as a clam, especially since this budding friendship had taken my potato off the couch. What could go wrong? Even the pups were in love.

They had invited us over to their house for dinner. Turns out Sal’s father was an extra virgin imported Italiano, that had perfected tomatoe sauce and NY pizza, teaching none other than his first born son, our new bestie, to cook. Better yet, he made his own wine, from concentrated grapes imported from Italy. The gift just kept on giving.

Over appetizers, we chatted, and just like in my house 24/7, not by my design, the TV was on in the background. It would not have alarmed me if the food channel was on, but it wasn’t. FOX News. It suddenly occured to me I had forgotten to ask them if they were on the Blue or the Red team. Truly I am not a hard core leftists, I’m a moderate and I have relatives that are conservatives and independents. We all get along. But there is one thing I’m really turned off by. The lock her up chanters sporting the make America great again hats. Brother please. As a born and raised New Yorker, I know a con when I see one. A FOX News watcher doesn’t necessarily fall into that category, so I was curious about the politics of the man who was serving up New York Pizza with anchovies, paired with his homemade vintage. And then the bomb was dropped. A half a slice in, Sal glances up at the TV and vomits, “Hillary should be in prison and Obama is a thief.” I’m crushed. “Don’t tell me this honeymoon is over,” I’m thinking. Nah! His pizza reminds me of home and the wine is divine, so I reply, “You’re kidding me right?” He says, “NO”! “I am deadly serious.” And he repeats his drivel with pizza hanging off his fangs, and I could visualize him sitting in his car at a red light pumping a fist to Rush Limbaugh.

What do I do? I simply reply, “You know what Sal? Let’s make a deal. We are to never again mention anything about politics.” He looked at me sideways and I was wondering if he had falsely assumed that my husband and I were squarely on the Red team. I got over my disappointment and shock quickly and resumed eating the best pizza I had eaten since I left NY. Sometimes me myself and I can skip over principle for substinance without blink. And it was then that the subject matter took a darker turn, when he began talking about a salt spa place that they frequent in West Virginia. We listened intently as it sounded alluring when Sal blurted, “We bang in there.” “Come again,” I said, almost choking on the mozzerella, and I swear there was no pun intended. I’m polite, and perhaps I heard wrong. I did not. He took my “come again” out of context and used it as a ticket to ride, graphically describing their sexual escapades within the salt bath. I was so shocked the only thing I could think of to say was, “Do they clean it well after you leave?” And he says, “oh yeah,” all jizzie like in ohhhh yeah baby. I believe he assumed by my comment that I was interested and ready to jump in the pool with him. I most definitely was not. And then he says it. “We swing. Do you?” And I knew instantly he did not mean as in gymboree. My husband heard him, and did a big ole fake yawn, bless his heart. He was done eating pizza and we were both done with the conversation and with our soon to be former new besties. Good night Ron Jeremy.

So the words of my mother were resurrected long after her passing, ergo I couldn’t tell her that she in fact was right and that scripture can be flawed. Or perhaps she and the pastor were both right. Wasn’t she in her own way just trying to warn me about the pitfalls of knowing too much about what goes on behind the blinds next door or at the very least, to proceed with caution? Perhaps she had dealt with her own Ron Jeremy in the neighborhood. Going forward, can I bare (no pun intended) to walk past Sal and Marie, even while dressed in non nighty attire? Had I heeded my mother’s words, on that first meet and greet, I would have said how do you do and then kept on walking, but definitely not before letting my dog investigate their dog’s junk.

As far as my neighbors, I’ve decided to love them all. From afar. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve accepted, just like making NY pizza and friends, nothing good in life comes easy.

A beam of golden light shot through her eyes and charged straight through her opponent’s chest. She watched her foe fall to the ground. The light around her seemed to fade to black. Had she done the right thing? After all this had been one of of the leaders who had trained her during her pre-legion full~time service.

Her wings folded back and moved into their usual normal fold. She gasped and watched the now enemy lying still without any sign of life. It wasn’t easy, but she found a way to bring him down.

The rest of the Angels surrounded her and a light ray fell on the demon. His whole body started to light up like a golden light. Then he rose still dead & burst into many radiant golden light particles. Some of the burst light pieces fell around her like confetti. This was not how she imagined the scene to happen.

Her role model and greatest friend had been turned to the dark side. She believed that something/someone must have pulled him toward it. By the time she found him ready to advance to his next phase of action, she was there ready to stop his nefarious plans.

He asked her to join him. But that was not what her goal was. When she denied the request, he turned into his new demonic form. She watched in horror, as pairs of horns had sprouted from his forehead ‘n’ the sides of his cheeks, too. She had drawn her silver blade, ready to defend herself.

A few of the Angels drew nearer to Estelle. They knew how dear their leader had been to her. It was a sad day for them all. Estelle sighed, and wiped the tears from her eyes. She clutched on to her blade tighter. There was no way she’d want to join the forces of evil. That she was certain of. She still couldn’t believe that her own legendary master had fallen to the dark side. He had paid the price of becoming a part of a different force.

She had fulfilled her task. If she had to face him, fight once more, she would do it-

Estelle would do it again— for the Glory!

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=i3ucSSVJTL4

The Score~ Glory

#GLORY!

By early morning, his hands no longer shake.

The world smooths out, a canvas painted over with a base-coat of white; all the cracks filled in, waiting for the first splash of color. Right now he feels a little unsteady, but the sun hasn’t quite risen. He has time. He pours himself some coffee and makes it extra Irish, presses both hands against the warm mug as if it could spread its heat all the way to the ends of his toes before he even takes a sip.

By the time Josie and the kids stumble, bleary-eyed and yawning into the kitchen, he’s on his second cup and has enough eggs and sausage links for all four of them simmering on the stovetop. Maya, their youngest, smiles wide when she sees breakfast is almost ready.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she says, the last dregs of dreariness leaving her as the smell of toast reaches her nose. “You made breakfast!”

He grins and reaches down to pick her up, hands steady enough now to hold her tightly. He kisses her cheek, blowing raspberries until he elicits that perfect little giggle he loves. “I did, honey. Tell Willy what you want to drink and then you can grab us some napkins. How’s that sound?”

“Okay!” Maya agrees easily, allowing herself to be lowered back down. She runs to the pantry where she knows the napkins will be, grabs entirely too many and begins compiling little stacks of them around the dining table in the next room. Willy, with his wild hair and vivid freckles, pours the drinks without needing to be asked twice, and Josie watches the scene with a wistful look. Her husband leans in for a quick kiss, and she tastes more than coffee on his lips. The wistfulness remains, now laced with something else.

She waits until Will and Maya are gone, waves to them as they clamber onto the big, yellow school bus. Then she faces him in the cool, gray kitchen, watches him try to maintain the smile that doesn’t quite stretch as wide as it used to, doesn’t curl in all the same ways she remembers from back when she loved him most.

“Baby…” she starts, then stops. She’s said all of these things before. She doesn’t know any more words. The English language hasn’t invented the right ones for this: the conversation after the conversation.

“I know,” he says, the same way he’s said it so many times before. Like things will change. Like they’ll bypassed the ending, rewrite the story to say something different. But they won’t. They can’t. Josie knows that by now.

“I don’t think you do,” she says anyway. She holds her own mug of coffee now. Just coffee. Sighs long and deep and hollow, the way the air sounds as it whistles in the space between a forming wave and the rest of the ocean. “He’s different, you know.”

“Who, Willy?” her husband asks, his left eye shifting just a little off-center from her face. It’s how she knows he’s past his third drink. That and the steadiness of his hands. “Baby, Willy doesn’t understand…” he tries.

“Not Willy,” she interrupts. “You. Him. It’s two different people. It’s not…” she has to stop again, has to run a hand down her face and remind herself that this is what she has now, even if she used to have something else. “I miss him. I miss you.”

He sighs like he has the right to be impatient. “I’m right here.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t answer. He just moves himself a little closer so that he’s leaning across the counter from her, and then he looks her in the eye, trying to say something the way they always used to be able to. If she doesn’t stare back too closely, she thinks it might almost be the way it used to be. She tries. She searches, thinks maybe she can see a little of that glint he used to have in his gaze. But then that left eye twitches again and there’s nothing behind it and she blinks and turns toward the sink and the window where the school bus isn’t anymore, where the small breeze is rustling the newly-green leaves.

“You don’t want him back,” he says, finally. There is something past sadness in his voice, and Josie can’t look at him and his twitching left eye, because then she really might lose it. “You think you do, but you don’t,” he insists. “He’s different than he used to be. He’s….his hands shake and he can’t pick up his children and the air around him is too full of static. He’s afraid of everything. He’s angry at everything. He yells. Don’t you remember how he yells?”

She’s close to crying now. Just a few tears welling up behind her eyes, though they haven’t fallen yet. She turns back around to face him because it doesn’t matter if he sees. He’s seen it all before and he’s still in the same place he was a five months ago. “And you think this is better?” she asks, gesturing to the man who stands in front of her, his fingers steady and his face flexing and pulling like wax-paper, expression warped beneath a layer of something else, something that doesn’t belong on him.

“Yes,” he says, lowering his eyes to the countertop. He drums his fingers along it, a dull thumping.

“Prove it.”

He looks up at her, a question in his uneven gaze.

“Give me tomorrow,” she clarifies. Her eyes are steady, even with the tears still resting against her lashes. “Give me tomorrow, and then we’ll see which one you are. Which one you want to be.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His hands are shaking.

The world is all rough edges, a canvas that’s been splattered over with a million different colors and patterns, messy and unfinished and terrifying. He feels more than a little unsteady, and the sun is already up. He doesn’t have time. Josie pours him a coffee and makes it with extra cream, helps him curl both of his shaking hands around it as if she could spread her warmth all the way to the ends of his toes before he even takes a sip.

Breakfast is just cereal today, and Maya smiles the same way she did yesterday, though she doesn’t understand why Daddy doesn’t pick her up and gobble at her cheek until she giggles in the way he loves.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she says, pushing her face against his knees instead. He pats the top of her soft head and smiles, and it seems to stretch further than it did yesterday, seems to curl his lips in all different ways. Josie watches, wistful as she was the day before.

Maya gets too many napkins and Willy gets the drinks, looks up at his Dad with a little bit of milk dribbling down his chin and a piece of cereal stuck to his lip. “You okay, Dad?” he asks, eyebrows scrunched together the same as when he’s trying to do his science homework.

“I’m good, kiddo,” he nods, hands still wrapped around his half-drunk coffee mug and eyes blinking a little more than usual and smile still stretched wide. “Why do you ask?”

Will shrugs, licks his lip so that the Cheerio resting there drops onto the table. “Seem different,” he says.

“Huh,” his dad shrugs back, biting his lip against a small wave of nausea.

He and Josie watch from the kitchen window as Willy helps his sister carry her lunchbox onto the bus, settles into the seat beside her and pushes back a little piece of her hair that’s fallen away from the rest of her ponytail.

As the bus pulls away, he and Josie face each other in the cool, gray kitchen. She takes his hand, feels it tremble in her own.

“Baby…” he starts, then stops. He’s said all of these things before. He doesn’t know any more words. The English language hasn’t invented the right ones for this: the atonement after the atonement.

“I know,” she answers, the same way she’s answered so many times before. Like things will change. Like they’ll manage to turn back the clock, rewire the machine to make something different. But they won’t. They can’t. They both know that by now.

He sighs, long and deep and hollow, the way an echo sounds when it travels the expanse of a gaping forest.

The next morning, his hands are steady.

His left eye twitches, and there is no glint behind it.

He stares up at me with pleading eyes, there are wide and filled with tears. (Am I supposed to care?) It's been so long, I have long forgetten, I suppose. Dad never cared. Mom never cared. So why should I?

His hands are shaking, shivering as he grips on my legs. Then, his head arcs, as he screams, as my nail digs into his neck, squeezing and squeezing-- Snap. The body thumps on the ground, sack beside my feet. I smile but there's no amusement. "Ah, there goes another life." There's no hate either.

(Am I supossed to care?) Mom never cared, neither did dad. And neither did life. So why should I?

I am death.

The breath you exhale and inhale right now, is life. The heart in you that thumps right now, is life. Emotions that you dance with, is also life. Me? I am death. However, once I was life.

Before, the world decided I was no longer needed.

Just as I decided, this man was no longer needed.

Mom never cared, neither did dad. And neither did the world. So why should I?

Life? No, this is death. (Dream? Ha.. No, this is reality. )