The bed sits in the corner, unmade and empty. 

That's where you used to lay.

Shadows draw long and every tap on this keyboard echoes into the night. 

But you're no longer right beside me.

Seconds spin, minutes and hours all blur.

All is silence where once there was laughter.

And the worst part of it was?

I chose to get on that plane and leave.

“Find her,” the Stranger said, throwing a dossier on my desk.

I took a long, slow drag off my cigarette and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why should I?”

“You’re a detective, a gumshoe,” he replied flatly, begrudgingly tossing a roll of hundreds on my desk. “That should get you started.”

I leaned forward, eyeing the money. It smelled faintly of blood. I’d be concerned, but I had debts to pay, mostly at Harry’s Pub.

I grabbed the folio and thumbed through the files. “There’s no pictures, boss.”

“There’s enough.”

“Find her and tail her, that it? You want pictures? See who she’s been with?”

“Just find her for me.” The Stranger snapped, stepping back into the shadows of my office, quietly letting me peruse the documents.

“You’re the client,” I shrugged noncommittally and returned to the dossier. The more I read, the more familiar she seemed. “I think I know this broad.”

“I’m sure you do,” the Stranger leered through the darkness. “In fact, I think you, of all people, know her better than anyone.”

“She got a name, this golden girl of yours?”

“Indeed she does, Lauren,” he whispered, the click of a gun echoing through the silence of my office.

I looked up with revulsion. He found me.

“After baths, children!” Deanna exclaimed, frustration growing higher.

“I’m….justa kid!” loudly moaned Nigel.

“Oh, please,” quipped Rachel, “She told us very quietly.”

“XXXX you!”

Zero.

I baked a pie today.

It took me the better part of the day, but I wanted to get it right.

The crust had to be flaky, but not too dry. Do I use shortening or butter? I decided on sweet cream butter, I think it enhances the flavor better.

As I pressed it into the pan, I thought to myself, “You know what would be great? A streusel topping!” But, of course, I was out of brown sugar and had just used up all the butter! So it was off to the store.

There and back again and in no time at all, I had a small bowl filled with delicious streusel crumble. Ok, three-quarters of a bowl . . . it just looked so tasty!

And last, but definitely not least, the filling. So many options to choose from!

I chopped and boiled and stirred and stewed. Plus corn syrup and sugar so it was thick and sweet and tasted like the holidays!

Bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes.

Let cool.

Then serve warm, with your choice of ice cream. Me? I like classic vanilla.

And there you have it! My perfect recipe for disposing of the noisy kids upstairs.

“What is that?!” The army was troubled.

He heard the rumblings, the discontent, the disbelief, and shook his head.  These warriors had forgotten their heroic lineage. 

Hannibal stood and addressed his war council, many of whom still pointed heatedly at the great grey beast at the center of the room.

“Obviously gentlemen,” he spoke softly, never raising his voice. “That, is an elephant.”

A lieutenant stood abruptly and demanded, “General Hannibal, we can see that it is one of the Iberian beasts. But what is it doing in Carthage?” Murmurs of assent echoed around the long table, fueling the vocal malcontent.

“It appears to be eating,” Hannibal said drily.

Too fearful to take the bait, the lieutenant blurted out, “then what are we doing in Carthage, General Hannibal?”

Hannibal chose not to answer immediately.  He remained standing, powerful arms crossed over a barrel chest, piercing eyes looking out over his gathered war leaders.  He searched each soldier’s soul for the warrior within.

As Hannibal’s gaze passed over the assembled masses, many wavered and looked down. The lieutenant quailed without his comrades' backing him, and exposed, sat down, humbled and silenced.

Hannibal's lip curled.  He disliked what he saw.  Where he should have seen strength, determination, and fire in the eyes of his war council, he saw only uncertainty and fear.

At long last, Hannibal spoke.

“When fair Queen Elissa fled Troy from the ransacking of the Greek invaders, she had a vision.  Freedom.”  He looked around the great hall. Every eye was upon him and every ear bent to his commanding word.  It was a start.

He continued, "I, too, have a vision.”  His voice rose, “For too long, the Roman Empire has extended itself, preying upon our waters, upon our people.  The Macedonians may take it in stride. But not us.”  Heads nodded in assent.  Perhaps they did remember they were once warriors.

Hannibal gestured to the obvious elephant in the room. "I would march these war elephants to the very heart of Rome!  I would crest the Alps, attack the Empire, and bring it crashing to its knees!” he roared, “And upon its fallen pillars, I would build a new empire!  A Carthaginian Empire!”

His words stoked a dormant fire in his commanders’ hearts.  Jawlines were set, eyes were as steel.  Perhaps it would only be for a moment, but that was all Hannibal needed, for them to believe in their own power once again.

He took a step forward and threw his hands in the air, as if to welcome all the gathered soldiers to his cause.  “Queen Elissa’s vision founded our might city, Carthage.  My vision shall extend our power and found a new empire!”

“Rome will tremble!”

“Rome Will Fall!”

A roar of approval thundered through the hall.  Swords and spears were thrust into the air with bravado and fierceness.  Hannibal stepped back and smiled.  They did remember. Perhaps these soldiers could be heroes.

One voice rose timidly above the others.  It was the lieutenant again, who slowly got to his feet, meeker than before, and spoke. "But General Hannibal, no one has ever invaded the Empire before,” he whined. "And no one has ever conquered mighty Rome,” he trailed off.

Hannibal frowned in distaste at this show of cowardice.

“Then, on the backs of these noble beasts, we shall be the first!” Hannibal declared.

There is a house, not far from the county road, but far from everywhere else.

An old, blind man sits, staring sightlessly over parched fields. His loyal hound lays at his feet, tongue lolling out, trying to stay under the radiating, sweltering heat of late August in Georgia.

Gently, the old man rocks in his chair. Occasionally, he will hum to himself, take a long sip of sweet iced tea, or pet his dog. But mostly, Johnny sits silently with his memories. And smiles.

Off in the distance, a dust cloud begins to whirl. Aggressively, it assaults the fence-line of Johnny’s farm, finally settling into the shape of a man. He is tall and lean, hard as hickory, dressed sharply in a bespoke red suit, and where he goes, only shadow follows.

He saunters up the path toward Johnny.

The hound perks up as the stranger approaches, ears alert and wary. Johnny pats his dog gently on the head and smiles. “Never you mind. It’s just Ol’ Scratch, come back a third time, I reckon,” the old, blind man grins. Satisfied, the dog settles back down on the porch, but his hunting eyes never leave the stranger.

The stranger approaches the porch railing, stopping just short of coming up the steps, and leers up at Johnny, “Boy.”

“Devil,” Johnny nods vaguely at the stranger. “Can smell the brimstone on yeh. Get you some tea?  Sit a spell?”

Confused by this welcome, the Devil brushes off his jacket and replies, with a magnanimous gesture, “No, no. I’ve come back to play you, you see. You knew I would.”

“I don’t see, actually,” Johnny chuckles. "All the same, been forty long years and I ain’t heard from you. Figured you gave up, once and for good.”

“I don’t do anything for good,” the Devil snarls. “I want one last chance.”

Johnny quirks an eyebrow, "So, you bid your time, waited 'til I was too old to fiddle?"

A smile creeps across the Devil's face.  "I'll get your soul however I can."

Johnny laughs a rich, deep guffaw, “I thought we had this settled, hoss? I’m the best that’s ever been!"  The old man pauses, and, with a conspiratorial wink, reminds the Devil, “Got me a golden fiddle to prove it, too.”

The Devil squirms.  “So prove it again,” he taunts.

Johnny sighs in lament. “I ain’t got nothin’ worth bettin’, Ol’ Son.”

The Devil flashes a toothy grin, “I’ll be the judge of that, boy.”

Johnny smirks and shakes his head. “I cain’t see. I don't hardly fiddle no more.  My kids all growed up and left. My beautiful wife, the love of m' life, she done passed on some fifteen years ago.”

“I heard,” the Devil replies, softly and sincerely.

“So, you ain’t seen her then?”

“No . . . but I can get her back for you," the Devil whispers.  "Would you like that, boy?  To see her again?"

Johnny takes a long drink from his iced tea and considers the offer.  He sighs.  "She's in a better place, then."  Johnny smiles to himself, with just a twinge of sadness.

The Devil fumes inwardly, "There must be something!" he hisses.

“No, Devil.  I've lived m'life, and happily too.  All that’s left now is me, m'dog . . . and memories. Got plenty of those,” Johnny grins. "One in particular, from 'bout fifty years ago."

The Devil glares at Johnny, his mind whirring and spinning.  Could nothing tempt the old man?  Could there really be a man in this world with no want and nothing left to live for?

“So sit you a spell, hoss. Won’t be long now, afore it’s my time. And then, it’s all yours.”

Slowly, the Devil nods. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “I think I will take that tea then.” He clambers up the porch steps and resigns himself to a seat next to Johnny. “Mercy, sure is hot out here.”

The old man laughs as the Devil sits down. “Winning by default ain’t as sweet, is it?”

The Devil grimaces. “With you, boy, I’ll take your soul however I can get it.”

There is a house, not far from the county road, but far from everywhere else. And there, two old friends and former rivals (three if you count the dog), sit, talking of days gone by, when the Devil came down to Georgia.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” the President asked. I was one of three finalists interviewing to be the newly-elected President of Earth’s private aide.

Ugh, I never know how to answer that question!

I took a deep breath to calm my shaking nerves and, bravely as I could, replied, “That is not dead which can eternal lie / And with strange aeons, even death may die.”

The President’s eyes narrowed. I quailed under the green gaze.

“Who else knows?”

“Only me, Old One.”

“So, where DO you see yourself in five years?”

“At your side, mighty Cthulhu.”

“But it’s right here on the manifest,” Professor Jacob Dorr protested, shaking the document as if it would do some good.

“Don’t care,” the longshoreman’s jowls swayed as he shook his head, scowling at Jake. “T’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor.” And that was the final word. The longshoreman turned his protruding belly and stalked away, deeper into the warehouse.

Jake’s eyes narrowed in the dim light, following the obese man waddling away. “Don’t care,” he mimicked (poorly), “but this crate IS comin’ in to yah harbor,” Jake smirked rebelliously. If he had yet been a child, no doubt he would have waggled his tongue at the longshoreman. But Jake was a scientist and above such petty immaturity.

Jake looked around. No one. Not even the pattering steps of the longshoreman off in the distance. Jake was alone, with naught but his thoughts, the crate, and the crumpled up manifest he still gripped in his fist.

Quickly, before he could change his usually-law-abiding mind, Jake wrenched the crate from its stack, plopped it unceremoniously on an empty grey dolly and began wheeling it through the stacks and toward the warehouse exit. As he hurried along, Jake was consciously aware of the thudding of his racing heart, keenly listening for the heavy steps of the longshoreman. But as the exit loomed large, no one stopped him.

Jake hauled the crate and dolly into the night air and up the hill toward the University’s waiting van. Halfway up the rise, he turned and glanced back triumphantly, the adrenaline and glow of his illicit adventure coursing through his system. Jake smirked and stuck his tongue out at the warehouse. “Ha!” he gloated.

“I told you, t’aint comin’ in t’ mah harbor,” the deep baritone of the longshoreman echoed behind Jake. Jake turned, startled, and gazed into the angry red eyes of the gargantuan longshoreman standing, imposingly, not two feet away, his cannonball hands gripped tightly into fists.

How did he get here?! How did Jake not see or hear him?!

“But, but . . . “ Jake began, stammering and scared.

“It’s on the manifest?” the longshoreman finished. “No matter. Ain’t comin’ in t’ mah harbor, I tol’ you that already. That crate be mine.” He reached out and grabbed Jake, squeezing and crunching into Jake’s shoulderblades.

“Nothin’ comes into mah harbor without mah say-so,” the giant whispered, “And no one leaves mah place without mah permission,” he trailed off . . . .

The graduate students huddled in the idling van, anxiously awaiting the return of Professor Dorr.

A large man trundled up to their van and rapped aggressively on the window. “C’aint park here, s’private property,” he growled.

“We’re waiting for . . . .” one of the grad students began.

“Don’t care, get out of here,” the behemoth scowled at them and turned away, pushing two crates on a battered gray dolly off toward the warehouse in the distance.