Straight from me

This is a short 500-word story I wrote last year and submitted to Quick Fiction. They didn't accept it. Here it is anyway.

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Mona spent three nights sitting on the couch, crocheting a few hours each night. A skein of yarn the color of earth, specked with sandstone browns and sea greens--colors she knew Marshall would like--ran in a steady stream to her hands, and she turned it round and tucked it up until it formed the scarf, colored like the dirty desert sand, long and soft with straggly fringes. She finished by four on the third night, tucked the scarf gently under her pillow and slipped into bed, lifting the covers softly and sliding her legs next to his. He didn't stir; his back was to her and he was breathing, heavy into the sheets, muffled and slow.

When she awoke he was already gone. There was a cold snap, and today's forecast was a high of fifteen degrees. Marshall was always cold on the site, out there in the open, hands chapped and plum-colored even inside his gloves, ratty brown scarf slipping to his shoulders because it was too short and he wouldn't keep it tight. Mona draped the new scarf she'd made on the coatrack behind the door, where Marshall hung his things.

At 5:15 the front door flew open wide and Marshall came stomping in, dirty snow flying from his boots. Mona greeted him, hugged him as cold as he stood there. He hugged her back, then pulled off his gloves and unwrapped the old scarf from his neck. It was maple-brown, thick and still soft despite its age, but Mona knew it was wearing. She smiled to notice the little holes in it.

"What's this?" Marshall asked, picking up the new scarf. "Is it for me?"

Mona smiled. "I crocheted it myself."

He held it and let it hang to the floor, compared it up against his old one. "It's very nice. Thank you, Mona." He rubbed the long fringes between his fingers. "It's really so beautiful and all--but do I need a new scarf? I mean--don't take this wrong now--but this old brown one does me fine."

"But it's starting to wear," she said, and poked a finger into one of the small holes.

He yanked it away. "Careful--you'll make it worse." He looked down at it mournfully. "You can just patch it up, can't you? Make it good as gold again?"

"I could. But I wanted to give you something new. Something straight from me."

"I appreciate that. Really I do. But--for now I think I'll put this one up in the closet with my spare gloves, and I'll wear it as soon as this nice old one gets beyond repair. How's that?"

She stood straight and he took her by the shoulders, smiled and squinted into her eyes then kissed her forehead. He went in the bedroom and rustled around in the closet, then came back out again, emptyhanded.

A scene [3: with Grace and Harold]

The building was two stories high, entrance on the top floor--you walk right in and there's a rotating wire display holding vertical rows of postcards. Each one showed a different bleak desert photograph, with Dinosaurs Lived! printed in the lower right. There was a bin with some plastic figurines, and on top there were pamphlets describing the displays. The ground was covered in thin red carpeting, and the ceiling went high up overhead where lights hung suspended from little wires. The whole floor was small, and clung to the south wall. A brown, three-section railing went around the edge of the floor, and the rest of the building was open so you could see the rock wall with the fossils jutting out.

Except for Harold and his father, there didn't seem to be anyone else around. No scientists or other tourists, just displays set in a little maze around the floor, with color-coded graphs and pieces of Allosaur fossils. On the left, the wall was one big window, streaked with fingerprints and glass-cleaner residue. The desert outside was peppered with little grey shrubs. It must have been at least 100 out, stifling and choking because of the heat and the sand that swirled all over.

This place used to be a river--that's what the first graph showed, at least. The earth shifted over millions of years, and ended up a hot, barren wasteland, thrust upward at a sixty-degree angle.

"What a waste of time," Harold said.

"History is never a waste of time." His father had a receding hairline and wore wire-rimmed glasses that sat on the tip of his nose. He was studying one of the pamphlets. "Read everything. I know you'll love it." He gestured out the window. "Can you believe it used to be a river around here?"

"No." Harold strode down past the displays, hands outstretched, lightly tapping each Plexiglas enclosure. He looked at the bones, the reconstructed skulls. "I'm going downstairs to see the wall."

His father nodded. The stairs were at the back end of the floor, corrugated metal covered in black rubber. They led to more displays, underneath the top level, and another windowed wall where you could supposedly watch paleontologists work. But no one was there. And everything in this place looked rickety, like it was just clapped together.

There was a girl downstairs. Harold stopped and leaned up against an open-air Brachiosaur femur, the first object past the bottom of the stairway. It was taller than him and he had his arm way up on it, same level as his head.

The girl looked at him and smiled. She had on a white skirt, and a white cardigan over a pink shirt. She was a redhead, with maroon-lipsticked lips that made her freckles stand out on her nose. She was older than him, by a couple years at least.

She pointed at a sign above his head: Please do not touch. Harold pulled his arm away and stood straight.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" she said. "That they didn't discover this place until 1909. 1909! What was someone even doing out here anyway? Why did anyone ever discover it?" She was watching a video that showed mules pulling crates of whitewashed bones toward a train.

"Yeah--fascinating," Harold said. "I love this kind of thing."

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Harold."

"Nice to meet you, Harold."

"You too--"

"Grace. My name's Grace."

A scene [2]

The sunlight is slowly disappearing, day by day. Sarah and I are driving down the emptiest stretch of Nevada highway to be found. It's somewhere around the middle of September--I'm getting worse at remembering specific dates anymore--and I suddenly take notice of the greying sky. Why is it getting dark? It's only seven--much too soon for this.

Sarah hands me one of my bottles of pills. They're all so identical--that same medicinal-orange, stuffy white typewritten label and stupid meaningless words strewn all over them--it was if I were taking the same thing over and over again. Well maybe I should.

"It's time," Sarah says. I nod and dump three of the half-yellow, half-white pills into my palm, studying them there for a second.

"Maybe I should be done with all this." I look over at her.

She looks back at me, unsurprised. "No. We've come way too far for this now. Cut that out and just take them." She looks back to the road. "What do you expect me to say?" She lifts her hands a little, frustrated, then slaps them back on the steering wheel.

"That you agree with me. That this is worthless and not getting us anywhere. Isn't that why we're going back to California anyway? So we're just conveniently visiting family, right? I'm not stupid." In the distance I can still see the uppermost peak of the sun, rounding its way behind those hills.

I start rolling down my window.

She sighs and looks at me as if I'm already dead. "Don't throw them out the window."
I slip my hand out and open it wide; they stick there for an instant until they're wrenched off by the wind. I picture them bouncing, breaking across the Nevada blacktop, crumbling into whitish dust under the tires of the next semi.

"You idiot. Why'd you do that? We're going to have to get more now, first thing when we arrive. You know your supply's running low. Now take three more. And don't even think about getting rid of these." Steering with one hand, she takes her eyes of the road and pours three more into her own hand. I open wide for her, and she shoves them into my mouth. I swallow them dry.

She sighs again. "Sorry George. It's just that this is so hard, you know, for all of us. You don't think this is easy for me do you? You remember Beth, after all those complications? I barely made it in to see her. I made it right before they locked the door--a split-second later would've been too much. See, some things just happen that way, even though we wish they wouldn't." She smiles uneasily. "Nothing like waiting until the last minute, huh?"

I don't care what she's saying. I'm watching the billboards as they stream pass. There are some great ones.

"Sure, Sarah. Sure."

I can't see the color of the pill bottles anymore. The sun is completely gone now, having just sunk behind those brown hills with little flourish.

That time again

Have you ever tried writing 55-fiction? It's interesting. Check it out, where it originated: New Times magazine in San Luis Obispo (that's got me remembering Santa Barbara). Anyway, what follows is my first attempt, all 47 words of it. It's called That time again.

"Last year, I brought you a dozen roses, fresh from the florist. This year, it's a bouquet of pansies, picked straight from the Joneses' yard." He laughed a little. "Sorry about that. I guess times change. Happy birthday anyway," he said, laying the flowers on the gravestone.

A scene [1]

I had just picked up two blocks of cheese--both of them cheddar: one mild, one sharp--when I felt a tap at my shoulder and turned around.

"Hey," she said. It was Sarah. We made brief eye contact second until I looked down at my shoes.

"Hi Sarah. Hey, this is unexpected. It's been a while, huh? How funny."

She smiled. "What's so funny?"

"Well, just that there you are, and here I am; both here shopping at the same Safeway. I guess I just never thought I'd see you."

"I guess that's funny." She was holding one of those blue supermarket baskets by its handle; it swung down by her knees. In it was a single loaf of bread, a half-drunk 20 oz. bottle of diet cola and a bag of chocolate chips.

"That's some serious shopping."

"Yeah, you know how it is--there really isn't that much you need, but you end up here anyway."

"Yeah." I was still holding the blocks of cheese. "So I take it you moved?"

"Yeah, I'm about three blocks down now, the Grandview. Third floor."

I knew the Grandview--a little old hole of a hotel that they fixed up nice and new with a slick white facade.

"That's a nice place. So why'd you move, are you still working for--"

"I'm doing real estate," she said. "Connelly Brothers Realtors, it's called. I manage the office, things like that."

"You've moved up--good for you." I didn't believe her when she said office manager; she was probably just their secretary, having to wash out garbage bins, bring them lunch and coffee, all the fun stuff. My cheeses were starting to get warm.

"So what about you?"

"Working? Yeah--can't seem to escape it."

"Have you finished writing your book yet, that one about--"

"Oh no, no. I dropped that--it wasn't really getting me anywhere." (As if I needed to tell her that.) "I've been doing this stuff with computers, you know, designing logos and things, marketing, I don't know. It's fun I guess. I like it."

"That's good. I'm glad for you." Her mouth perked slightly at each end, creating a sort of false smile, with v-shaped smile lines that framed her lips--those lips that were barely familiar to me but still so easy to recall.

I let my eyes wander randomly around the store, as if looking for something I still needed, and I latched them onto an aisle endcap filled with cereal boxes.

"Hey, well, I better get going," I said.

"Me too," she said.

"Good luck with your real estate business."

"It's not really my business--"

"I know, I know. I just meant, good luck with everything."

"You too, with your computers and stuff. And I think you should start writing again. You had potential there."

"Thanks. I'll think about it."

"Alright. See you later."

"See you. Take care of yourself."

I slid the two cheeses into my blue basket.

Blackest of all halos

The vultures circled, a crown of impending doom. There were four of them, startlingly distinct as they flew closer and closer with every revolution. The left half of my face was open to the warm desert air, though the rest was flush against its floor. I was immobile.

The stinging sand around me opened its mouth, and in song emitted some sort of hymn, an ancient lullaby that coerced me to just shut my eyes and listen to its age-old elegy, sung to many a fallen traveler:

'Tis on a fated bed we lie
to wrench a wretched birth
In thirst we parch a body dry
to drink it through the earth
Once shadows crawl and shroud the dusk
we shall be one and same
Our prisoner now, indeed we must
return you whence you came

That was its song—and it may have just been my imagination—but it continued regardless, and I joined in, rhythmically muttering into the ground.

Something staggered towards me in the distance, looming like dark drapery to cover me, to hide me where I'd fallen. It crept in silence while the monotone hiss of the desert replaced all sound with its empty tones of melancholy. I swear I could feel the coming desolation that could never waver, could never fail to obey its calling.

In that glorified silence the very light of day was transformed, the sun blotted out and the vultures all that remained heavenward while the rest of the landscape dissipated into a newly created haze, and I was stolen—returned—my life rising skyward in a dwindling sliver until not even a fragment remained, and like a new moon I was reclaimed, sinking slowly into that singing white sand with the winds wailing and the desert savoring everything I had ever become.

... ...

Not two days prior I was riding in the back of an old pickup truck down Highway 5 towards San Felipe. I'd previously convinced a bus driver with a load of tourists to let me tag along while they were on their way into Mexicali. From there, I had asked around until I found that truck and its two shy Mexican ranchers who were willing to lift me the rest of the way—they were already headed down for some type of seasonal developmental work. At least that's what I understood.

They knew English enough, and through the open cab window they asked why I was going to San Felipe, said it wasn't much to look at. I simply said I was meeting some friends who were there already, that was all. I was in no mood for storytelling.

After a hundred or so miles on the highway—arid in the heat of August but not terribly uncomfortable—we drifted slowly into town. In the west I could see a circling halo of buzzards, those red-faced turkey vultures of Baja California, as they searched for precious carrion that was lost and abandoned to the mercy of the desert.

It wasn't much of a town. A few mid-sized resorts bordered the ocean on its eastern horizon, and to the west laid flatland and sand dune interspersed with bleak hills. Small shops lined the small streets, and along the walkways the outdoor merchants had already begun packing up their things for the day.

I bid farewell to my gracious rancheros by the shoreline, tipping them a few of my American dollars—'No, no gracias'—'Yes, por favor, yo insisto'—and then walked the beach in the dwindling late-afternoon sunlight, weaving between the fishing boats that sat banked on the low tide's sand.

A dry breeze threw my hair about, and I smiled. Was there anything to be worried about? This was Mexico! The land without rules, with endless promise found in its stretches of ocean and sand—the dunes, of course the dunes!—unpaved bounty for my exploration.

Across the street, two coffee-skinned men laughed riotously and gestured in my direction, the brims of their white sombreros jostling. I must have been so blatantly American. But I didn't care, and I smiled and laughed right along with them.

"Hey!" I shouted to them. They laughed again.

"¿Conocen la mina olvidada? La busco," I said. Do you know the forgotten mine? A pause in their jolliness, and they exchanged a glance and looked back at me, shaking their heads to indicate no. I walked on.

I knew little Spanish, but had taken a two-week crash course before leaving. That way, I figured I could ramble about in desperate but hopeful attempts to create meaning. Because of this, and for the whole excursion in general, my brother had deemed me irrational and a fool.

"You have no knowledge of the area. You haven't done any research," he had said. "Besides, you're going alone. Just wait until one your friends' schedules changes—it'll be much safer, and it'll probably be a lot more enjoyable."

He was so perfect, so logical, always perfecting and lecturing, tossing out his actuallys or did-you-knows or to-tell-you-the-truths. But what did he know? This was living; this was life. He could stagnate in his cesspool of business and education for all I cared; meanwhile I would live and travel and sense the excitement that comes with change or something unexpected and spontaneous.

So I walked westward, into the neighborhood blocks where the homes shared walls and clung to each other like within a beehive, those fragile little humble huts. The point where the town met desert came quickly, and I just stood and stared out at the sand, rolling and endless, looking so barren and empty before those hills—a wasteland even—but I knew better. I knew what lay beyond, somewhere, perhaps too far to see from here but I knew. So I smiled at everything I passed; at the shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe—the little church atop the hill, and at the cab driver who happened my way a few moments later.

"Sí. Gracias." I responded when he asked if I needed a ride, and I hopped into the run-down station wagon, painted in swaths of mild yellow and off-white. "I need to go southwest, to the older part of town. You know, with the dirt roads—los calles viejos."

"No, no señor," he said, opening up a grin with his eyes set on me in the rearview mirror. "I take you to La Pinta, el hotel, el centro. They like tourists. They like you. Big pool, big breakfast. Music. Bailan todas las noches!"

"No, no thank you. No gracias. I told you. Just take me to the old town, where it's smaller. The southwest, por favor. There should be an inn there, right?"

"¿Qué?"

"An inn. A hotel. You know, a place to stay, a place to sleep."

"Oh, sí, but you no want that. Is dirty, old. No fun. Resort for you."

"Just take me will you? Or no dinero. Come on, please. I don't care about your resort."

"Okay, okay," he flapped his right hand back at me in disgust, without taking his eyes off the road. "You say it. I take you. You say it."

The older part of town was on the outskirts, chalk brown and with a dust that permeated the air and churned up in billowing gusts. Fewer cars, fewer tourists, fewer people like me. But the dunes seemed closer now—that much closer.

I stepped out in front of a sickly-looking building, shallow and flat, with brown roofing that matched the roads. The Costa Castaño: my inn for the night. Inside, a man stood with his back facing the entrance, lighting small white candles on a ledge behind the wooden front counter. As I entered, he turned.

"¡Hola!" he shouted. So enthusiastic.

I nodded in return. "Hola."

"You need a room?"

"Yes, please. And just one night, for now."

"It is only you?"

"Yes."

I had brought almost five hundred dollars in cash, because I really had no concrete idea of what I'd need while traveling, and needed to be well prepared. While paying for the room, I noticed the innkeeper eyeing me intently.

"So what are you doing in San Felipe my friend?"

I debated as to whether or not he was trustworthy enough. Did it matter? I figured it didn't, and let it come spilling out.

"Well, you see, señor..." I descended into a whisper and hovered ever-closer to his inquisitive face. "Have you heard of la mina olvidada? The forgotten mine?" I looked deep into his brown eyes. This was the secret to end all secrets—a release of fantastic proportion or something withheld for generations.

He backed away with a sigh. "Ah, you are a Nuñez-chaser. My friend, that is an old tale, and a false one. Do not believe such madness. Lives have been wasted chasing lost treasures that were never truly lost." He held his hand outstretched, dangling my key. "Enjoy your stay."

My room was simple—tiled floor, no television, a shared washroom outside; in truth it was not much more than a pillow and a bed. Once inside I emptied my backpack of the research I had accumulated and looked it over, making plans for the following day.

I had first heard of la mina olvidada through a small publication, Buried Treasure magazine, which I occasionally flipped through at the library back home. The story had intrigued me and so I sought more information, and in doing so stumbled across various old references in Mexican lore books, often lumped together with other similar stories of lost mines.

The story followed typical convention: a lowly miner had unearthed an immense silver mine in the nearby mountains of the Sierra San Pedro Martír, a mine that he claimed rivaled even that of the massive Comstock Lode in Nevada. But there was something about this story in particular that made it seem more authentic than the others. The way the mine had collapsed, the subsequent illness its founder, Manuel Nuñez, was stricken with after narrowly escaping death, how he had recovered bedridden in San Felipe while spreading his story to a select few. The rumors spread following his death, and many had attempted to find the lost treasure over the years. They followed the verbal map that Señor Nuñez had laid out, stretching through the San Felipe desert to the base of the mountain range, two days' travel at the time—but all had returned emptyhanded.

Tomorrow I would find a guide, I determined, and I would not return emptyhanded.

... ...

Early the following morning, I awoke to a quiet but firm knocking at my door. In a sleep-ridden daze I came to the door to find two men. One was grinning wide.

I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

"Hola señor. My name is Jorge"—the smiling one—"and this is my brother Pedro. We hear you are seeking the Nuñez mine. We are also interested in this treasure. We would like to work together."


The innkeeper—he with his stern words of warning regarding the desiring of treasure—must have led them to me. I had intended to find a tour guide, and the notion of having two guides seemed to fit just as well.

"Well," I paused a moment for effect. "It's true, what you've heard; I do seek la mina olvidada. But first why don't you tell me what you know about it. Please, come in." I knew I was taking a risk by letting two unfamiliar men into my room, but really they seemed harmless. Jorge had a gentle appearance and a soft voice, and his apparently mute brother Pedro just followed along behind. I beckoned them inside.

"Pedro speaks no English. Forgive him," Jorge said, and Pedro nodded in affirmation, as though he'd been through this routine before.

"That's fine, I know a little bit of Spanish."

Jorge pointed to the stack of research on the tile next to the bed. "It looks like you know the mine well. You see, we always wanted to search for it, but never had the money or information to find it." I handed him the stack and he and Pedro glanced through it. They must have been impressed, flipping through it all like that. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked me.

"I think this will lead me there." I held out a photocopy of my map, limp and worn now, with faded markings and what I'd assumed were landmarks. "And I'm going to get some sort of transportation and a tour guide to join me. It should be easy enough."

They passed a few words in Spanish too quickly for me to understand, which seems to be the nature of the language—so incomprehensible as it flies by at hundreds of miles an hour right under your nose. But he returned to me. "If you want our help, we are familiar with the area, and would like to search with you."

I was easily convinced, because they would make the perfect crew—and how they had just fallen into my lap! So I agreed, and we discussed what plans we could make.

"We need a vehicle," Jorge said. "I know a man named Rico with a small truck. And Pedro and I have enough equipment for each of us."

So we set about making a plan. And although I had reservations about bringing on this Rico, an additional member, Jorge was correct; we needed a vehicle. As we sat there and talked, my mind spun, agitated. I could taste all of it: the recovered mine, the notoriety, the riches.

... ...

So 10:00 AM. Jorge and Pedro had gone to find Rico and his truck, and our rendezvous point was set to the tourist office—a small white building with barred windows. I waited outside while the heat began slowly growing in intensity as it does in the summer months. My presence called the attention of no one—save the lone receptionist in the office whom I saw glance my way more than once through the bars—because with my American clothes and backpack and sandals, and with pale skin and a patched jigsaw of facial hair, I was the perfect candidate to be sitting right there where I was.

They arrived late by fifteen minutes. Up they drove to meet me in a rusted, ugly beast of a pickup, white with gray patches of raw metal, a worn Toyota logo on the tailgate.

"We have brought plenty of equipment, señor."

"Perfect Jorge. Perfect." There were four shovels and two pickaxes in the bed of the truck. Pedro talked with who was obviously Rico, short and thin, with a strip of a black mustache below his nose (but his most significant detail being a golden front tooth, revealed whenever his lips parted in pseudo-smile). I made out the word comida from their conversation. Food.

"Okay everyone!" I interrupted, trying to show some authority. "Let's go pick up our supplies. We have got to get going! I'll buy food for all of us that will last our two or three day trip."

"Bien, amigo." said Jorge. The other two just looked on, evidently not as interested in the details.

"I'm not quite sure what we'll need though," I said in a semi-whisper.
"We'll go to the marketplace. I'll show you."

We stormed the bustling mercado down the central street, the only street really, and set about gathering fruits and dried meat, tortillas and beans, some cornmeal, coffee, flour, and some wood for a fire, should we need it. I purchased four large leather canteens which we filled with water. We also filled two 15-gallon containers of gasoline at the station in town, and threw them in the back with the tools. They watched as I paid for everything, because this was my journey, and I was its master. I tried to hide my money, but inevitably one of them would spy me as I detangled some cash from the stack and paid a merchant.

And so it began. We left the rising dust of the town behind and chased the forgotten mine of Manuel Nuñez across the crawling sands of the San Felipe desert, on a road that seemed in all appearances to lead nowhere—and no less, into the very center of it.

... ...

Jorge and I sat together in the back, with Pedro and Rico up front. We just rested, tired already from the heat.

"Jorge?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at me, head bumping along with the ruts in the road.

"Are you really so trusting? Were you really interested in this mine, or were you just looking for something to do and I came along at the right time?"

"Well my friend, let me tell you this. I had always heard tales of this treasure, and Pedro and I used to pretend we would be the finders. Of course, young boys, that is all. And my family is very poor. We have the fishing boats in town for many years, and my father always planned for his sons to do the same. So those stories were just dreams for us. But we liked those dreams.

"When I was younger, I took jobs working for a company. We worked construction and traveled to different cities. I became friends with the owner. During the summers he helped to educate me and taught me other things. Because of him, I now I wish to move north, to be a businessman that man who has helped me so much."

"Well that's great," I said.

"But it is not. My family does not like my ideas. They think my good fortune is not earned. They curse me. So I do not see them much—only Pedro. He is a good brother and a friend.

"So you see, there is reason why I hope we find this mine; it can help us all."

We'd driven for nearly three hours when a grinding, saw-like sound shook the truck, and Jorge and I were thrown into the air. Rico stopped and came out swearing at no one in particular. He ducked under the hood and retrieved a bottle of fluid which he poured into some tank hidden in the bowels of the vehicle.

"Transmission," Jorge explained. "Has only a leak." A leak?—that was more than likely—but the jolt alone felt like something far worse, though I was no mechanic. "But don't worry he says, there is plenty of fluid left to keep it running properly."

"Okay." I nodded my head, still unsure but not overly so. Things seemed to be going so well. Jorge has assured me that he and Rico had both told their families that they were going out for a desert run, and they'd know immediately where to look for us if there were any problems.

"See those birds?" Jorge pointed toward a small grove of cardon cactus. Each cactus was vertical, with massive stalks growing out together, and the vultures sat perched, watching. "We call them las bocas de la sangre—the blood mouths. They will eat anything, if it is almost dead!" He laughed and stood partially hunched, a scarecrow, trying to frighten them away. There were three, and they opened their beaks and wings and took to the sky with a screech. I had one of those feelings that welled up inside of me, but I quelled it and pushed it back down for fear of it overtaking my attitude.

Nightfall came quicker than expected—we probably drove for six hours or so—and we set up camp in a rocky outcropping.

"The base of the Sierra San Pedro Martír should come soon tomorrow morning," I said. "We have a lot of digging to do, so let's get as much sleep as we can."

"Espero que venga pronto," said Rico.

"¿Qué?" I asked. He hadn't spoken very loudly.

"Soon," he said, smiling the golden tooth-smile and raising a mug of the coffee he and Pedro had been brewing in my direction. "Soon."

I hadn't spoken at all with Rico. He supposedly knew little to no English and so Jorge would do all the communicating. But the guy had me somewhat disconcerted, and I couldn't really explain why.

Jorge and I heated some beans and tortillas and made a small meal. Rico and Pedro sat smoking in the distance; I could see the rise of their cigarette puffs making trails to the dying sky, while their cackles of laughter echoed across the emptiness. I was so pleased. ¡Qué suerte! We unrolled the tarps and blankets we'd brought and laid out four beds.

... ...

I awoke to the blunt sound of foot against metal and saw Rico kicking the passenger door of his truck. Jorge was under the hood this time.

"What's going on? What's the matter?" I asked hurrying over to the truck.

"Rico tried to start it this morning, but it would not start," Jorge said. Rico was then inside the cab, turning the key to reveal a tired, subtle cranking, as if the truck's iron lungs had given way and were taking their final drunken gasps of air burbling with gasoline.

"Oh, no." I said. Indeed.

There was no denying it, the truck was dead, and most likely not due to the transmission. I began second-guessing the lack of apprehension that had led me here, and the words of my brother resonated in my head: ...you're going alone..., ...it'll be much safer...

"¡Carro estúpido! ¿Porqué estamos aquí?" Pedro had broken from character and was shouting at his brother. They spoke rapidly with heightened voices, ignoring me.

"Hey hey hey!" I joined in, hoping to calm things down. "This isn't helping"—still ignored—"just stop!" I tried to push the two apart. Pedro looked as if he hated me; Jorge looked apologetic.

"What else can we do here, besides fight?"

We all paused, silent for a moment, and then Jorge spoke. "I think two of us should go back to town, and two of us should stay here. That way, we are not alone, and the two who stay can go on to the mine site. From the map, it can't be very far."

"I don't know..." I started thinking. Walking one hundred miles back to town in the desert heat with few supplies was insanity. But so was staying.

It only seemed right that I see this through to the end, because this was mine. Not theirs. So I volunteered to stay.

"I stay too." Rico piped up where he stood, still alongside the truck. That was unexpected. I'd hoped Jorge would volunteer to stay, or even Pedro, but not Rico! He went on to admit (to Jorge) that he had not told his family or acquaintances where he was, and that he thought it best if Pedro and Jorge headed back together; they would be the first ones missed and may even run into a search party. They could then return in a different vehicle to collect us and continue on to the mine sit, that we'd have hopefully located by then.

Jorge looked at me. "Is this okay?"

"Sure. Fine. We'll find it. Just don't forget to come back for us okay?"

Rico and I kept two-thirds of the remaining food and water would stay, while one-third was taken by Pedro and Jorge. They needed to keep as light as possible.

Around 11:00 AM our two groups departed in opposite directions.

I kept looking back until Jorge and Pedro were just flecks of dust on the horizon. Then I attempted to communicate with Rico. "Hey, ¿Qué podemos hacer?" What are we able to do?

He pointed ahead at the blurred outlines of the hills. "Follow," he said. He gestured towards my pack and made motions as if he were reading a newspaper.

"Oh, the map—here," I handed it to him.

Holding it up against the sun, he traced a slight outline on its upper right, then traced the same outline in the air as it corresponded with the peaks of the barely-visible mountains to our right.

I clapped him on the back. "That's it! We're there! We're going to be rich! Let's go let's go let's go."

He sneered his golden sneer, still holding my map and hardly even looking at me. I gave a little shiver but kept walking. Things still didn't seem quite right with him—but he'd just discovered the first landmark, and it seemed that even with our problems, our luck hadn't run out yet.

In silence we headed northwest three hours towards the closest looming foothill. The ground started exchanging fine sand in favor of chunkier gravel; shrubbery become more abundant and the smell of the air was tinged with a freshness foreign to the open desert. At the base of the foothill were two giant rocky outcroppings that led upward like a cliff, and without warning Rico pocketed the map and leapt at one, scaling it. I figured I better follow him. Who was I to argue with the local?

So I too leapt at the rock wall, found handholds, and began climbing—I was ready to do anything, to perform mid-desert stunts of arrogance, to ascend mountains and forge rivers, to endure the heat and survive regardless of circumstance.

Above me, maybe forty feet up, Rico had already retrieved the map again and was comparing it to our new view of the hill. He wore that sick smile like a badge. I panted and pulled myself up, crouching for a moment to regain breath.

"Come see. I think I like what I have found," he said with all-too-perfect English that I'd temporarily forgotten shouldn't have existed.

"Really?! Let's see!" I stood.

He pulled the map to his side. "You want?"

Yes. I nodded. Of course I did.

"I let you see—but first—where is all the money you are keeping?"

"My money..." My voice trailed off as I instinctively covered the bulge in my right front pocket where I kept it all.

And his motives became clear—here, without anyone else's company, without gentle Jorge to protect me from the fake language barrier that this criminal used for a crutch. Here, in the rising hills of the Sierra San Pedro Martír, where the buzzards and the sun kept watch, and brothers and boats and rancheros and inns and even mines were forgotten. Here I would reap what I had sown.

He threw the map and lunged for me. "No!" I shouted and danced to the side to avoid him, but he was smaller and more agile than me and caught me by the wrist. Our little rocky clearing was miniscule, and it took all my strength to prevent him from throwing me off.

"Let... go...!" I wriggled from his grip before he was able to get his second hand on me, and I kicked at his shins. I had never been in a fight before, and Rico appeared far more experienced.

He slapped me hard, and my eyes stung and immediately watered, blinding me. "Hey! Leave me alone!" I shouted. "What are you doing? They're going to be back soon!"

I threw my hands out as fists, and actually made contact, a weak little punch at one of his cheeks.

I was pushed. "You are not scared, amigo?"

My vision returned, and I turned around to try to find my way back down the cliffside, away from the madman. But a sharp pain from of a chunk of rock that was thrown at my back stopped my attempt short, and with a groan I stumbled off the slanting edge to fall seven feet or so to another outcropping below.

... ...

One of my eyes managed to open—the other must have been injured from the fall when my face scraped jagged rock—and I saw Rico smiling over me. That golden tooth. One of my legs had caught unnaturally and was skewed, surely broken.

"Don't... Please..." I said, moaning, as Rico pilfered my pockets and unstrapped my backpack.

"Thank you my friend. Thank you well." Holding my things, he looked down at me. A hard kick from one of his boots caught me in the midsection, and I clutched my stomach with what strength I could manage. And then he hooked his hands under my upward-facing arm and leg and rolled me, rolled me right off of where I had landed, and I was free, free to sail downward and fall another twenty or thirty or forty feet into the bed of desert sand below.

... ...

It wasn't until late afternoon that my eye opened again and looked east into the barren world beyond. I had fallen far, and was tucked up against the hill, everything still coated in that inescapable sand. I couldn't feel my arms. My broken leg throbbed angrily. My breaths were partially obstructed by the ground and I could feel the forced heaving of my chest and lungs—forcing up, forcing down, creaking, splintering. I couldn't tell how long I had been there. The same day, maybe two, maybe three days later. And as I looked up into the sky I did see something:

I saw a trail of death blowing in the wind, an unmistakable breath, breathing the cyclic nature of life into the inevitabilities of fortune and greed and love and anger alike as it grew larger and larger. It was a circle of birds—those birds, those simple creatures of instinct and survival and misfortune, of pain and happiness and yet still, somehow, nature and beauty—and it took to the air gracefully and effortlessly. They were filled with hope, desire, and they scoured the desert floor for something lost, something gone and forgotten, something perishing—something for which they longed desperately—as they, the blackest of all halos, adorned what was left of my view of the sky. I exhaled. The vultures circled.

Lucky Cherry Seven

There once was a time
when I implored the bastions of earth,
those stalwarts of the heavens,
those watchers in the sky,
to look after me and those of my descent.
And each night with clenched eyes
and regret for those things I had done
which may have warranted their neglect,
I sought their protection with diligence.

I was a trusting man then, of faith and superstition.

For they had granted to me
safe passage earlier that year,
on my voyage eastward to west.
While caught in the fiercest of squalls,
I was thrown about on a deck full of deviates--
praying men, passionate men of God who knew none before.
But we were destined to wash into port alive,
fear-stricken and hungry, with contrition in our hearts.

And to my daughter, who in naïve longing
had found herself married to a madman--
a sickly man of sweat, of words and vile ways--
they showed compassion.
In a fit of rage one evening he assailed her,
and as she fled amid shards of porcelain,
he stumbled, inebriated, and took to the stairs,
flinging as a carnival wheel.
Rough at first,
and then empty and lifeless as a rolling barrel,
singing her freedom with his flesh against the floor.

And to my son, away at war, they granted pity
in atrocity's stead. He emerged unscathed
from the scalding remnants of strewn soil and bodies,
guarded by branches and rotting roots
in a small pit--dug of his own design
by cupped hands, small shovels of skin
rubbed raw by the coarseness of the earth.
He was Daniel in the den of lions,
recovered gracefully and sent home to me seven days later,
more a man than a lad.

But the story goes,
and I am now but a mere wisp of myself--
haunted, driven to madness by the ephemeral sound
of hoof against hardened soil.
For I had trusted in them,
they to whom I had given
that unwavering devotion of my soul
for proof against the cowardice of fate.

It was at the raceway that year, the first
Monday in July. My honored son had
returned to that passion of his--the horses--
and on lucky Cherry Seven he rode.
Such a wild spectacle to behold,
with he on the track and I in the thick of the crowd,
looking upon the event with glee and great cheer.

Until I watched in silence
as the second turn on four
became entangled with flank and body,
a mass of moving limbs.
In the clear of the track that ensued lay
one solitary soul: one broken, smiling body,
now again more a lad than a man,
crushed under the hateful premises of luck,
with the fortunes acquired in the midst of war
peeled back by the casual insistence of death.

I gave persistent devotion and they forsook me.
I gave of all of my nights and they offered spurious promises.
I found it within to believe and I was abandoned.

And so now--
Now I will abandon them.

Strip-mined

before

With your head in your hands,
and your heart halved and hoping
for something unplanned and almost unexpected,
you're mapping it out
while you wander about
and your small playground circles the sun.

All your dreams are undone,
and the hopes that you crafted
are gift-wrapped in smoke, wafting high from the fire
you trail behind,
burning threads that unwind,
spreading ash on the streets as you walk.

Your name written in chalk
on the sidewalk in front of
the house on the block, with the strands of white lights,
and the children ignored
as they ride back and forth,
bicycles made of metal and mud.

Steeped in soil and blood
from the battles you'd won,
and the afterparties in the homes on the hill--
now your notice is sent,
you're done paying your rent,
done with fastening flowered lapels.

So you climbed from the shell
that you shed in the alleyway
blinded by years spent in vain in the valley.
That city they built
racketeered you with guilt
and supported its walls with your shame.

But you left all the same
and the bloodhounds laid claim to your things
at the auction that sang your defeat.
Now your fate lies ahead,
but the shining sun spreads
over litter and still scatters the sand.

after

In your hands,
the dreams of a century,
generations holding on to your arms to be led.

But you fled
and cast them away,
crossed the white ocean plains in search of an immortal lie.

Now your eyes
have clouded with sick sincere
longing for days that are better off left in the dust.

Still you trust
that strange recognizable
surge of conceit in the tide that captures in its wake.

But your memories thrive--
you're not sure you'll survive--

for that fate lies awake,
lies and baits us and waits for us all.

When I lived near the lake

In my haste I left that morning,
my coat on a hook, hat on its top,
and shoes beneath the mantle, still warmed
by the fire's dying coals.

In long johns, with my glasses on,
I trod across the icy dirt in my woolen socks.
Crossed the sparsely laid grass
into the cattails at the edge of the lake.

Until the red at my toes met the lakeshore
where it lapped at them hungrily
and the thicket around me studied me
while it bridged the cloven world.

I waded into the silver waters,
braving the barren and the emptiness,
and I was waist-deep and alone
save for some involuntary shivers.

Out twenty paces, up to the nape,
and steadied by the swaying of my arms
that created fluid motions of white,
back-and-forth, formed of cotton and skin.

The calls of the swallows sang
in the waxing twilight of early dawn.
Light broke over the green-shaded fronds
and those dripping hands of willow.

Still further beyond, and I drank of the lake,
heard the muted sounds underneath.
And the scent of its soil persuaded me
just to see how far I could go.

Malt Shoppe 3:00 AM

So I wait for you,
accordion straw in a cold shake,
with granules of ice and thick with cream,
watching them from across the counter.
And how she laughs,
keeps one hand on his knee,
and he in turn reaches to slip his arm
over one soft shoulder.
You must have forgotten,
been distracted, unaware of time.
("He has patience, it doesn't matter much,"
the contents of your thoughts.)
They sip together with dual straws
in one towering fountain glass.
Hands clasped I'm sure, under the tabletop,
thumbs locked in gentle caress.
The clock refuses to pause,
to wait, though I've willed it
to forget to advance, to ignore the silent
ticking of its own hands.
I watch as her eyes remain,
never wavering, a subtle stare
of devotion into his ochre eyes, his sickly eyes,
those eyes that I hate.

For there is no hope in mine,
not with you there across the counter,
your head unturned, never looking back, not once.
You have forgotten,
in memories I never inhabited. Idly I stir the
frothy contents of my deliquescence.
Like myself, dissolved,
marked by the invisible assailants of morosity,
divining loss for all.
For him.
For you.

Never make war with / The warrior

We raise the walls to the wind, standing tall
Striving still to survive in the hills with our wives
And the children are spent in the dens of our tents
While we take to the battlements, take to the battlements

Dust-swallowed air, hallowed earth, ruddy glare
Bearing down on their gowns fallen fast to the ground
And the trampled and few stampede slow to their pews
Spewing prayer to the blasphemy, prayer to the blasphemy

Scream, scatter quick! past the scorched, burning wicks
Fighting tears near the haze where the bodies lie splayed
And the earth in disguise, giving birth to the fires
Eyelids close, silent chest, eyelids close, silent chest

The circus: Threshold [VII]

Often in the following weeks I occupied my time idly, walking, reading and full of thought, waging one-sided wars with Fas, working and finding my mind becoming further removed from Parsons as it shriveled into an indistinct speck of black hole memory, an automaton with no regard for the present. Fas, Abe and Kat had all started school again, and I opted to work longer hours. With each paycheck I contributed my portion to Mother for assistance in family necessity, the rest squandered endearingly in a round clay pot I'd fired in the 8th grade that bore the inscribed phrase "whistletoe feet" on it - obviously meaning something to me once, the nature of which evaded me now.

My family, preoccupied with usual routine and typically inane banter, was currently high-ridden and giddily awaiting the annual Erid Carnival and Bazaar, held in that town 35 miles to the northeast. Not to be confused with the Erid County Fair which was occurred in June, the carnival was highly anticipated and attracted more spectators and retail booths and attractions for a wild week of small county celebration that I figured must have rivaled that of Mardi gras. By day there was bartering and flea market stands with popcorn and Styrofoam lemonade cups freckling the grounds, while the nighttime aroused the lighted Ferris wheel and the shotgun bursts of game attendants shouting enticement at every smiling, wandering soul. Each year it seemed that all grotesque beings rose from their graven, forgotten dwellings just to visit. An unprecedented swarm of detestable proportion.

It always came the final full week of September - welcomed openly - and in my recollection we'd never missed a year, not after Father died, not when Abel was white with deathbed pneumonia, not once.

It was Thursday night when I found Kat monopolizing the bathroom. Only thirteen and already determined to fancy herself up for prepubescent pseudoromance. It was an age that defied much of my memory, and somehow its importance to her was beyond my ordinary comprehension.

"So, who is it tonight? Jordan, Nate? Who are you trying to impress? I bet it's that new kid who moved in on the other side of the park..." I braced myself in the doorframe, trying to look as intimidating as possible, one hand slung up by the hinges, feet crossed.

"Get out Clay!" Kat shouted, slamming the door as she kicked at my shins and nearly severing two of my fingers.

"I'll be watching you!" I yelled back, laughing and leaping around the corner.

At seven we all piled into the family station wagon, each of us into our respective space - it was fascinating that the thing still ran after all these years - and with a growl it started and we drifted off and up the highway like blood cells through an artery, trailing our grey translucent exhaust in the haze of waning daylight. I was to inherit the car once Mother had saved enough to purchase something else, but that had been the promise since I turned sixteen. Occasionally I drove it on an errand, but only when utterly necessary, as we'd sold Father's truck three years ago and only had this to rely upon.

The hills sauntered by in dull blurry streaks of sagebrush and forestry and earth; Fas was telling Kat about his run-in the week prior with a sheriff whose idea of recreation differed drastically from Fas' own. I chose to adhere to familiar silence, envisioning the boredom that would envelop my evening, and the carnival that marked the occasion of another year's passing, another steady lapse of significance in my simple young life, another frivolous event to occupy the recurring leisure of the unoccupied.

Ah, the fancy town of Erid - visualize Parsons, only add a few thousand more people, fairgrounds, and some additional shopping attractions. Centered in the fencing of the fairgrounds, steel gates protruded skyward and its two thick dark doors were flung open, catapulted in opposite directions.

We left the car seemingly miles away and approached on foot, Near those dark wooden doors, Mother took me by the shoulders and stared the matriarchal stare that attempts to anchor the soul.

"Clay," she whispered over the dawning sounds audible past the entranceway, her green eyes warming me as they always did but equally nurturing a sensation of impending catastrophe, a feeling that made me jerk myself backward from her grip - a movement that provoked a sigh and downward look.

"Just enjoy yourself," she concluded, once more sighing, obviously withholding most of any intended discussion.

"We're all going to be back here at eleven o'clock!" she hollered at the batch of us. "Keep track of the fairgrounds clock's chime - it's loud enough for you all to hear, so be sure to be on time!"

Oh, Mother. What a laugh. She treated us as if we were still small, incapable children. Luckily it seemed that the pressures of single parenthood hadn't exacted much on her, its toll mainly apparent through extreme watchfulness and careful paranoia.

We muttered goodbyes in near unison, with Abe's "See you then!" perceptible as we broke group and went our separate ways.

Hidden deep in my left pocket was a weathered leather pouch I'd found by the haystacks some time ago while scavenging the farm fields. In it I'd placed ten dollars and some change for the night's activities. A silly maneuver, as I wasn't much of a spender, especially at this sort of gathering. There were, however, a few things that could intrude upon my fickle desires.

Rows of booths stretched past the entrance as the far as wandering eyes could perceive, looping about and circling the grounds until almost connecting again. Hours could be spent just observing their varying peculiarities and contents.

A confectionery stand offered varieties of licorice, and I purchased an exquisitely packaged bundle, touted as Australian and authentic. I didn't know any better, but I fancied it all the same.

Enrapturing as this entire event might have been, the night was both suffocating and saccharine, drawing out slowly, a snake encompassing its prey. Acquaintances both recent and historic sought me out, with each minute of our revealing, phony appreciation for each other as awkward as it would sound.

Sure, fine; I laughed, I smiled. But persuasive and convincing this attraction would never be.

Fair little fair in the breadth of nothingwhere, your wiles and tomfoolery cannot sow complacency in me! No, oh no no. No, because I've been reading. I've been dreaming. I've been biding my bides and timing my times, and eventually you will not remember me, little fair, little town, my footprints and I will have vanished and we'll be beyond you and your inconsequential mockery. Mark these words. You'll not see me again.

Cold is a state of mine

The train rushed over the tracks while the sun broke rhythmically through sparse clouds, paralyzed like cottonweed in the frigid hours of a mid-December afternoon. On my table sat a cup of hot tea and some warmed bread, serving to relax me as I sat upright with the back of my head pressed against leather. My favored coach, #49, appeared virtually empty. My compartment was built to accommodate four; I was a solitary traveler in an empty booth.

The fluid countryside streamed by the window and a coat of snow, freshly fallen from the midmorning storm, still covered those stretches of field that remained in shadow. The bare treetops glittered and the sun exposed the colors of caramel and wheat where it touched down upon the earth. My window was warm; I pressed my left cheek against it and closed my eyes.

The two-hour journey by train was familiar to me, as I traveled often between my villa in the farmlands of Sheridan and the low-lying office building in Canterville. My intentions were to take a week off for relaxation, to keep my feet elevated and candles lit, to bask in the glory of a new winter landscape away from the paperwork and calendar precision that defined my daily life.

I smiled at the conductor as he approached and clipped the end of my ticket. He wore a shortly groomed beard and had warm black eyes that drank me in like cocoa.

"Thank you," he said with a slow brush of his fingers against the brim of his hat, saluting. "I'll ring for some more tea for you."

"That'd be nice, thanks."

My eyes darted back and forth, surveying the coach, and then I fixed my gaze again out the window to consider intently the varying speeds at which the landscape passed. I dabbed a drip of spilt tea from my sweater with a fine maroon napkin—embroidered with a golden "49"—and was startled to hear a commotion coming from the rear of the coach. The muffled growls of an obviously dissatisfied man were unmistakable, as were the timid and more hushed tones of a woman's voice in return. Straining my neck in an unnatural contortion I attempted to see whence this fuss had originated, but was obstructed by the partial dividing walls that protruded from either side of the coach's center, leaving its posterior a curtained enigma.

Moments later the disturbance had subsided. I sat myself upright, picked up the book I'd been avoiding and resumed an apathetic daze studying its pages, until something altogether different drew my attention. A hustling form stormed daintily down the center walkway in a whirlwind of swirling skirt and a look of apparent frustration. Her form demanded the swift removal of my eyes from their bookside position and I stared her down wondrously as she passed. She had blonde unraveled curls that swept just over her neck and shoulders into petite, tufted ends of upturned exactitude. Her white skirt—envy of winter!—was slightly, elegantly puffed at the waist, and she strode so stormily in shoes fragile enough to disintegrate with a step. Her face was positioned away from me, obscured. I was immediately intrigued to know more of her, and I shut my book hastily so that I might observe her hurried destination.

She sought the end of the cabin that faced me, where she took seat with an older woman who'd been sitting alone; a conversation immediately began between them. Both women spoke and gestured about frantically, not quite audible over the clockwork clacking of the train. After several minutes of discussion the two women embraced briefly, and the girl who'd caught my attention sat back looking defeated.

With this, my passage had become momentously more entertaining, for I now had a subject with which to pursue the fancies of my supplanted boredom. Smiling, I leaned crooked against the window and folded my arms, keeping watch over the cabin. A female attendant arrived with a fresh cup of tea. I thanked her and she moved on without unpursing her inexpressive lips.

It was about this time that my girl stood again and began walking back, retracing the steps of her original flight. As her gait increased and the space between us closed, I was able to make out her face.

I was smitten the moment I saw her: the glow that clouded her movements, the way her lips pouted in ostensible disdain, chin tipped barely upward, an air of disregard billowing about her like fine ash from a chimney, neat blonde hair still flowing in those delicately curled piles as I had seen them only moments before.

In a rather brash, and rare, display of confidence, I put my leg partially into the aisle, as a blockade—looking as if I meant a schoolboy trick and planned to knock her down—but it was merely a gesture to necessitate her attention. This maneuver was impossible for me to prevent, as the faculties of my mind had ceased to function properly and were then operating solely upon the instinctual forces of impulse and the hope of creating a fate that barred premeditation.

And work it did. At least, it garnered her attention, as well it should have. She stopped, turning her notice toward me with silent acknowledgement. The look upon her face alone told me that, although intended innocently, this behavior would most likely not be tolerated.

"I couldn't help but notice…" I began, stuttering foolishly and pausing to try and regain a sliver of composure, "…that you seemed to be going through some amount of difficulty, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind joining me for a cup of this deliciously complimentary tea to talk it over?"

It ended up coming out more like a statement than a question, and I'm not quite sure she even knew a proper response.

Indeed, she must not have known, for she simply continued on without a reply, in a sort of completely artificial ignorance as to my existence.

What shock! Marked by my own congeniality! Made fool by my own sensitivity! Or perhaps it was the candid and intrusive nature of my inquiry that merited such a terse response. Whichever, she had had quite enough of something, and was glad to be traipsing back once again to the rear of the coach. I sighed. Ah, fate. In so brief a time I had let my imagination run rampant, savoring wildly the face of a beautiful creature, only to then immediately encounter a crushing blow to deflate my puffed heart.

Letting out a long, anxious sigh that blew the rushing adrenaline back into its stores for later use, I again lounged in my seat and checked my watch. It was 2:45 – hour and a half until arrival. I could make use of that excess time by resting, or by dwelling on the fact that I needed a more tactful display of intelligent conversation to use in informal settings. Thoughts wandering, my eyes fluttered shut.

... ...

A gentle nudge against my right hip straightened me from the depths of near-slumber. As I jolted alert, I was surprised to realize I was no longer sitting alone. The young girl had apparently sat exactly beside me while I was drifting off, and was now staring at her clasped hands atop the table.

"I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier. I'm quite flustered to say the least." Her sweet voice came out quickly and entered like a firestorm into my eardrums, bouncing across bone and tissue, unraveling hair-like structures until they stopped prematurely at some indeterminate crossroads in my brain and there remained, synapses stranded, calls unanswered.

I stared vacantly.

"I'm Genevieve." She held out her hand. I took it.

"Hello. Genevieve." I stated, hesitantly. "You can call me Finn." I cleared my throat. My eyes were stuck, unable to look directly at her.

"I can call you Finn?" She smiled casually. I thought I may have caught the glimmer of a wink, but it may well have been a creation all my own. "You see," she began, "it's just that my parents don't get along at all. At all! They bicker and fight like schoolchildren, they won't even sit anywhere near each other whenever we're out. So when I'm along, I end up commuting between them, back and forth, up and down—their personal messenger—while they take their frustration with each other out on me! It's ridiculous!"

Her voice peaked in intensity before she broke off, preventing her emotions from betraying her. She cradled her forehead with one arm, propped on the table.

"I should be quieter; I would rather that neither of them hears me complaining. My father is especially cantankerous today."

I forced my vocal cords to loosen. "I assume that he," I motioned to the rear, "is your father, and she," reversing the direction of my arm, "is your mother?"

"Correct. What incredible intuition!"

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm quite sorry to hear of all this. Sadly, both of my parents have already passed. And they got along rather amicably I'm afraid, so at this moment I'm suffering from a terrible bout of being unable to relate."

"Is that so? Well in that case I'll just be on my way." She made as if to get up into the aisle.

I panicked a bit and shifted myself toward her as she rose. My fingertips touched her upper arm. "I was only joking."

She looked back at me with a grin. "That I knew! I was only curious to see if it made any difference to you." Her smile!

"Well if that's the case, it does. Please, sit back down. "

She did. "Which is your stop?" she asked.

"Sheridan, the 4:15. I'm heading home after a week that's left me about as empty as an overturned bottle on a Saturday evening. Which is yours?"

"Marcus. We're visiting my aunt and uncle who we've not seen in the last decade. On my mother's side—of course, that's partially what's gotten my father into his current mood. They've spoken hardly a word to him in all their years of acquaintance. Due to a number of factors," she began counting them off on her fingers, "the grand distances separating us, my father's stubbornness and gruff demeanor—which he is not afraid to show others, and the fact that this particular aunt and uncle are obnoxiously wealthy and my father believes that it's held over his head anytime he's not around."

I paid little attention to the family relationships. "So Marcus is the 3:30."

"Yes."

"Oh, so soon! And we've barely just met! Well then, tell it all to me, fill me up with your angst and worries, I've plenty of time to spare."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not actually. At least not more than I've already admitted. Sometimes it’s just nice to shift the subject, you know, to free the space in the mind that's been preoccupied with wasted thoughts for far too long. Why don't you tell me about Sheridan, or we can just enjoy the passing scenery, something along those lines? Either way, I'm already glad to have met you, Finn."

This was said with sincere kindness, and the affection that I perceived in her face was more than enough to thaw out the rest of my frozen heart, relating to my toes that sensation of sitting too close to the wood stove after a long day spent slogging through snow in half-eaten boots that leave one waterlogged and frostbitten.

"Alright then, let's have a look," I agreed, and we both turned our faces in unison to watch the beauty blooming beyond the railway.

In this manner we enjoyed each other's company for some time, occasionally contributing a remark of wit or some interesting minor aspect of our lives. I figured that as long as we continued to reside in our affable good nature, there'd be plenty of time to later exchange points of contact, thus ensuring further communication.

After fifteen minutes or so of that casualness, I determined to endear the fair Genevieve with my always-outstanding personality, and entered into doing so with blundering conversation.

"If I remember correctly, the town of Marcus has seen a slight downfall in population over the course of the last few years, if that's any consolation for your problematic aunt and uncle…" I started before sputtering out with the memory of her insistence on leaving the matter alone.

But I picked right back up. "Never mind that then! Say, did we ever ring for tea for the two of us? Wasn't that the grounds for my original invitation?" I purposefully perked my voice.

"Why we haven't!" She said. "Let's make sure to pull the conductor aside at his next passage."

Now, the utter oddity and horror in what followed still affects me to this day and serves as a constant testament to the complete lack of valor that I possess.

"Genevieve! I'd like to see you at once!" The muffled voice of her father rose up and over our heads, swirling about in its black magicked waywardness as it weaved a spell that must have surprised even fate itself. He somehow managed to sound both calming and unnerving at the same time, and Genevieve looked at me haggardly as she stood.

"I'd better see what he needs."

I took her hand in my weak, nervous grip. "Isn't there something you can do? Stand up to him? Ignore him?"

This statement was apparently uncalled for. "He's my father," she retorted. "What else is there to do? But please, don't go anywhere. I'll return shortly," she said as she turned and headed back to appease the old goat.

And those were the last words we ever exchanged.

I watched as her father took her hand in a gentle motion while he opened the center door that led into #50, the adjoining coach, and stole her off into oblivion.

This obviously startled me, and I hastened around to see what had become of Genevieve's mother. Her seat was likewise deserted. What had happened? Had she too switched coaches? Had she somehow drifted past me to accompany her despised husband and lovely daughter, while I was none the wiser? Was this due to Genevieve's social interactions with a complete stranger? My day had quickly decomposed into a heap of confusion.

I resolved to wait it out; after all, she had vowed to return and would live by that pledge! Besides, I had not yet asked her for her address, purposefully intending to do so once we had spent a few more moments together. It seemed there had been plenty of time before she was to leave the train. My watch showed 3:20. Time had proceeded at a lively pace just to spite me, and her stop would arrive in ten minutes.

In that same lonely compartment I remained and observed in misery as Marcus unraveled before me. After the train rolled to a halt, I pushed up against the window and watched as the heart of winter itself, the glorious daughter of a ridiculous, bitter couple of foolish old animals, disembarked from the train and was arm in arm with her red-faced father, while her mother converged upon them from two coaches' distance down, nose held high enough to suffocate the fog.

Genevieve looked back not once, but three times toward my window, while her father kept her arm snugly in his and nudged her slowly forward, and I—fool of fools!—prepared a vacant, soulless stare. All I could manage was to lay my fumbling palm on the window's surface and breathe hot gasps of breath where condensation should have circled. My feet were rooted in the train's underbelly; no avalanche could have moved me. The clanking beneath started up again as the train fired and started. My sallow cheeks halted the movement of my eyelids, leaving me presumably looking as lifeless as I felt.

A faint whistle screeched and cried somewhere off in that luscious countryside. My palm on the window—a place where the fading sun's warmth was welcome not even an hour prior—became pained with the chill of the frozen earth surrounding me, in that same dry ice that wakes the windswept mountain peaks. But this was all routine for me: the cold, the abandonment, the feelings of impotence and self-pity. It's been a state of mine for as long as I can remember. Cold has always been a state of mine.

Southern-bound trickery: I think I'll pass on the elevator, this time

The phone rang, an explosive burst of sound to my tired ears. Drunkenly stupored, I fumbled the receiver and it banged and clanked across the nightstand.

"Oh, phone... come here!" I barked.

"Artie, is that you?" The dead electronic voice in the phone was obviously still attentive.

"No. I am still asleep. I'm distraught, torn, devastated, dead. Leave me be."

"Artie?"

With a guttural growl, I slid out of the sheets - limp and ophidian - and took hold of the cold blue phone with my left hand. Propped that way, head against floor, feet elevated and bedridden, I spoke.

"Yes?"

"Come downstairs right away, there's something you should see."

"No. It's," I glanced at the alarm, "two in the morning. I'm dead. I'm asleep. No."

"Just coooome!" With minimal pleading she'd convinced me. I was half-dressed but didn't care. In my shorts and shirt I drifted emptily down the hall. My feet shuffled like clothes against washboard, only more slowly and with less vigor. My tousled hair was thick with sleep and unwashed. I considered taking the elevator, but a small curiosity inside me told me to take the stairs instead. That'd get my blood racing. Maybe Lara had something important to show me after all. But I had just left her two hours ago - what could have transpired in that time that warranted such urgency?

I took the stairs carefully, studying them, wishing they were cushioned with down or made from razorwire, anything other than the dull rubber-edged finish that lacked inspiration. Step, shuffle, step, shuffle. It seemed that the sun rose and arced and set again in the time that it took me to ferry down those stairs. I'd left Lara earlier in anger, planning to ignore her voice and phone calls and to erase her image from all the furthest reaches of my memory. She hadn't known I was upset, of course, and I had no plans to tell her. But that's the way it seemed to be in my life. The least bit of information was all that I could expose, while the rest remained clouded in my own self-schizophrenia, stagnant just long enough for me to feed upon it and let it ruin my relationships and personality.

I entered the fifth floor from the stairwell door with about the pomp and circumstance befitting a slug. Some giggling sounds of gaiety bounced around the hallways and broke the silence mandate that usually gripped 2:00 AM. Lara's door was number 515, four ahead and to the left. I approached a bit apprehensively, to be honest, suddenly intimidated by the nature of her request. But my mind began to wander, like I'd shifted into neutral and was coasting down a rounded hillside road that stretched indefinitely into a sea of sunset. In blurry, numbed motion I pictured my knuckles at her door and it immediately opening, she standing there in pink, eyes twinkling with adoration, her arms outstretched to me for an embrace. She'd whisper into my ear and thank me for coming and oh how she missed me, couldn't we do this more often? Oh yes, thank you - what was it you wanted to show me? Oh that was just an excuse to see me? How interesting. Oh and now a kiss, yes I'll reciprocate, why thank you again very much. Would you like something to drink? Please. Stay a while.

I knocked.

Some feet rustled about and miniature earthquaking thumps moved from one end to another across the apartment's interior. "Hold on!"

She creaked the door ajar and stood smiling a giddy grin of restraint.

"What did you want?" I spoke first.

"You have to see this. Come here."

The door swallowed me and her too-lit apartment drew spinning circles on my eyelids even as I closed them.

"See, as I was walking home after you left me, I decided to get the newspaper. And right here on the front page - take a look at this picture!"

I looked. It was a photograph of the four car accident that occurred yesterday morning while we were out at the Calvary Cafe. We'd been innocuously eating bagels and sipping drinks outside, under the shade of a stilted table umbrella, when from nowhere a nondescript sedan ran a stoplight to our right and careened around the corner while making a left hand turn. I could still hear the screech of its tires; their treadmarks remained burnt into the asphalt at the intersection, little devilish trails of fire. This recklessness caused the collision, resulting in one death and various other injuries. It was a quite tragic situation, but not particularly uncommon for our city. Lara, Tim, Richard and I had started immediately from our sidewalk outpost toward the scene with the intention to help, but other witnesses had taken control and beckoned the rest of us to stand aside.

Lara's fingertip motioned to the top right of the photo, where a group of bystanders stood clustered with grim stares and hands in pockets.

"There we are!"

I was infuriated, aghast. "This was what you wanted to show me?" I asked, trying to put up a facade of calm. Come on, Arthur, you can keep it together.

"But Artie, we're in the paper! See, right there, all four of us."

A hesitation on my part. "Lara, this is ridiculous!" Ah, to hell with it, I was wild with anger now. "Who cares! We didn't do anything special! This isn't worthy of scrapbooking, or showing to posterity, or clipping and posting to the corkboard in the lobby! Utter rubbish. Disposable. Morbid to say the least! You called me out of my dire necessity of sleep to show me this?! It couldn't wait until morning, or next year, or next decade?! Are you even serious?"

She looked surprised, even pained. "I just thought you'd like it."

"Well I... I don't, and I'm tired. And thanks but I'm going back to bed."

I opened and shut the door the door in one powerful, graceful motion. The laughter in the hallway had dissipated completely. I felt barbaric. Walking over to the elevator, I disgustedly depressed the up button and held it down until the light lit and the bell chimed. No way would I take the stairs now. As the metallic doors shifted apart, they revealed a solemn old man standing against the wall in the corner of the otherwise-barren elevator cavity. He was eastern-looking, and welcomed me with a slight bow.

"Hi," I said. Entrances are not my forte.

"Another night. Another fight." He winked at me. Such a curiously and bizarrely odd encounter to contribute to my already extenuated day.

I got out at my floor and slogged sluggishly to my door, visions of pillaging Viking furs ready to infuse my dreams. With a sneer I fell back into my unmade bed and left the covers where they were. It was plenty warm out, and I sank to sleep instantly with the dusty impact of mattress and shoulder.

The circus: The logs at the tracks [VI]

We rode up and down a few streets and weaved back and forth around obstacles, as if slalom skis were attached to our tires. After a few blocks, I decided I didn't feel much like the farm fields or forest anymore, and I convinced Kat to follow me to the abandoned train tracks at the back end of town, past the turnoff we used to take to the river, and Barnhouse Row where the empty disintegrating barns slept back to back for miles. My body pulsed with the deep exhilaration of late summer and sweat as I inhaled large chunks of thick air to fuel my legs.

The tracks hadn't seen a train in decades. Brush grew up and over, swallowing them in green and spitting them out in a faded mix of silver and hazy red. A clearing of dirt and dust sat nestled next to the road, a place where I'd spent many hours building bonfires, attacking splintered wooden crates in mock battle, and running through the head-tall foliage engrossed in juvenile games of tag or hide and seek.

Kat and I skidded to a stop in the old clearing. It had been some time since we were last here together. We dismounted and walked to the line of upright log chairs that faced south. Every time winter approached, there were mountainous stacks of chainsaw-hewn wood all around town, waiting to be sold and loaded up onto truck beds. Sometimes a thick circular cut would be stolen by a town youth and brought out here to be used as furniture. I know at least one was placed here by Fas. We sat side by side in two of the large coveted chairs, as king and queen of the August nothingness, and remained silent for a few minutes, absorbing the heat and watching the flutter of dragonflies and grasshoppers. I picked up a smooth flat rock next to my shoe.

"Are you glad to go back to school Kat? Things will be starting up again here soon," I spoke indifferently, eyeing the smooth outline of my rock and the fashionable slope on one of its sides that made it a near-heart in shape.

"Yep," she answered, neck cocked back and face held openly skyward, basking in the sunlight with closed eyes. "I love school."

"I'm glad to be done with it. I'm ready for… something." I jerked alive and looked across at her. She must have sensed my gaze for she slipped her eyes open into cracks and looked back at me. "But Kat, don't you ever think about doing something different? I know you're still pretty young, but don't you ever get sick of Parsons? Me – I'm starting to feel so claustrophobic; I've been here so long and I just want to leave, rid myself of that stupid river and these worthless train tracks and our old fake streets. I don't know. Don't you ever feel like that?"

I threw my rock sidearm towards the tracks, as if I were skipping it across the smooth surface of open lake water. It hit a crosstie and shot off angled into the weeds.

"I've never even seen the ocean," I muttered, fingering a second rock and then throwing it again at the same spot, harder this time. Kat sat looking a little bewildered. She put her finger to her chin in a contemplative pose, pointed her face skyward again for a moment and then faced me and stared me down with her beautiful shining eyes.

"Well I haven't seen the ocean either." She seemed so naive, but oh how I loved that kid. "And I like it here. This place is wonderful. My friends are here and my family's here. You're here, too. What's wrong Clay, what do you mean?"

"Oh, don't bother." It wasn't worth explaining. I just paused there in the sun's shadow, my thoughts dwelling on Sven and Officer Mooney and Mrs. Follick the librarian with her deep-set eyes and crooked nose, Dan Arbuck the yard man who rounded the neighborhoods each Saturday morning offering to mow your grass and tend to your garden, Gabey the redheaded kid who sang the national anthem at baseball games up in Erid - a little small-town celebrity in his own right with his v-necked sweater vests and button-up shirts, Shauna Dawson who was only a few years older than me and had left town for Hollywood three years ago, only to come back after only 18 months to work in the newsstand at the corner of Main and Alley. I started to feel queasy and turned my head to the left so Kat couldn't see my disgust. I breathed in deep.

"Sorry Kat, never mind. Look, I've got to get to work soon, so let's start heading back."

"Aw what're you doing, you don't want to leave us do you Clay? You love it here, I just know it! How couldn't you?"

She wouldn't convince me so easily. I smirked.

"Don't worry Kat, I won't leave you."

"Promise?"

"Yeah sure I promise. Now let's go."

We stood on our pedals and swerved around back towards the road. I winked at the tracks and they winked back with a flicker of sunlight reflection as our tires churned the dust and sent it swarming towards the bushes, speckling them with dirt like glistening morning dew.

After seeing Kat back home, I figured I might as well ride to work, considering I was already soaked in sweat and my heart was still fluttering. I lingered long on the roads, taking unnecessary shortcuts and backroads I'd never ventured on before, absorbing the spilling sun and the hint of a breeze that told of approaching fall. My reluctance at spending the rest of the day laboring with tools was proven in my procrastination.

I ended up arriving late at our current job site, the home of Doris Baker. She was the introverted widow with two kids – one of them a girl, my age – who you'd always overhear in supermarket lines, audibly complaining or otherwise grumbling. The curtains adorning her front window were held aside, a face pressed up against it watching me as I slowly and silently rolled onto the cracked driveway concrete and laid my bike to rest on its side. It was obviously Mrs. Baker studying me, disapproving at my lateness. I glanced again and the face was gone, a slight sway to the curtain the only evidence of that spy. The door opened to greet me and Dean Williams, the handyman and my boss, stood half-tilted in its frame, dressed in dingy coveralls and not particularly pleased.

"Hi Dean," I mumbled, hurriedly making my way through the door to the stash of tools and equipment neatly and orderly arranged in the room's center. "Sorry I'm late."

"That boy's not much like his father now, is he?" Doris Baker's haggish, shrill voice eked from around the corner, her words were nails thumping steadily at my temples one after the other. I pictured her an ancient Irish banshee with mouth agape, four fanged teeth reverberating the cackle of her otherworldly shriek.

"Hi Clay," Dean managed, ignoring Mrs. Baker's comment. "We're working on the ventilation system today." My tool belt hurtled across the room towards me from his outstretched hand. "Let's get started."

Marvelous.

The circus: Clayton Hughes, mastermind of nothing [V]

My sister's voice woke me from a dream, one in which I hung from the underbellies of dark storm clouds like monkey bars, swinging from one to the next in quick succession. My clothes were soaked in this dream, and the drips that formed and fell off them were one with the clouds' rainfall. Using these clouds as a method of transportation, I traveled and rained upon the world wide, spying on entire countries and continents as the earth turned in space. I had just been swooping above India when Kat's voice snapped me out of my trance.

"Clay. Clay!"

I shifted position slightly in the dirt and leaves beneath the window, a little bit of soil stuck to my chin, my glasses all foggy and my hands tucked between my knees for additional warmth. "What do you want? What time is it?"

"It's past nine. Mother knows you're out here. Come inside." She was speaking in a sort-of whisper, as if our conversation were covert.

"Well who closed the window? I wouldn't be out here on the ground if it were still open," I grumbled, eyes still tightly clenched shut. I'd never been much of a morning person - I guess I figured as long as my eyes were still closed, I was technically still asleep.

"I don't know, Fas probably did it. You know how he always gets cold at night. Now come in! Mother's made eggs."

As she said this my eyelids thought for a second, considering the consequences, then opened fully wide and took in the new sun and its life-giving light. That split second of awakening each morning always gave me the chills. I sat upright and ran my dry tongue across my drier lips, thinking of the food and drink that was waiting for me inside. That was all that it took to rouse me.

Reluctantly climbing to my feet, I stretched tall with gaping arms and felt warming blood rush to those extremities that had been cramped together, asleep in fetal position half the night. I nodded a good-morning hello to the oak tree whose leaves had gently cradled my head, then made my way along the side of the house and up to the front porch. The garbage bins had already been pulled off the street.

Kat stood there at the front door waiting for me, holding it open wide with a huge ridiculous grin on her face. She bid me enter with a bow and a wave of her hand. I gave her a nod just as I had the tree, but more solemnly, and then came inside, trying not to smile.

"Thank you my dear," I said in a satisfied baritone. As I brushed by her, I tickled her ribs right where she hates it most, and she laughed that mixture of pain and happiness as I broke into a quick sprint down the front hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My sister Katarina and I got along pretty well. She was thirteen and practically my best friend. It didn't feel so silly, even though she was my sister and five years apart from me.

We lived in a humble home with hot dogs in the refrigerator and wilted flowers on the front steps. The five in our family shared three bedrooms: I slept on the floor with my brothers Fastidian and Abel, while Kat and my mother each had their own room; Mother said it wasn't right that a girl share a room with three boys, family or not. Each of us boys got our own mattress, so we weren't completely forsaken, except that none of us could agree on the little things: should the window be left open a crack at night, is the ticking of an alarm clock soothing or disconcerting, who gets the top dresser drawer, that sort of thing.

At eighteen, I was the eldest child and the man of the house. Since school ended I had worked as an assistant handyman to help Mother with the bills, though she didn't really need it. She had a job of her own, at Dr. Hime's office. Dr. Hime was the veterinarian, known throughout Parsons for the grey cat he had rigged up on some rolling walker because its hind legs had been crushed by a car. Mother scheduled his appointments and took emergency phone calls at night – she was able to do much of her work from home. I think she just wanted to instill a sense of responsibility in me by forcing me to hold down a proper job. At least that's what she said Father would've wanted. I was able to keep most of the money I made anyway, but oh how I hated that job.

In the bathroom, I studied the mirror's version of my face and smoothed down the cowlick at the back of my head that flared up each morning, extracting some chunks of highway dirt and windowsill gravel along the way. After hastily splashing down my face and wiping it clean, I emerged into the hallway a hygienic wonder.

Everyone else had already eaten apparently. The half-burnt, half-delicious smell of scrambled eggs and toast filled the whole house. A small pile had been scraped onto a plate for me. I made short work of it.

"Why did you sleep outside, Clayton?" my mother asked as she came into the dining room from the back of the house. She had this way of asking abrupt questions with no filler or extraneous conversation involved.

"I didn't mean to – Fas closed the window."

"Next time you should use the front door and just come inside. What were you doing out there anyway?" The front door. Genius.

"I didn't want to wake anybody up. I wasn't tired, so I went for a walk. Absolutely nothing to worry about."

I said that last part like I was the mastermind of some street gang, carefree and protected from the evils of the world because I controlled those evils, and had thugs to cover me as personal bodyguards at all hours of the day.

"You work at one today, did you know that?"

"Yeah. Don't worry." I hadn't remembered the time. My mother always kept track of my schedule – she was good at that sort of thing. I couldn't keep a calendar to save my life.

"Good boy." She had on her gardening gloves and one of those 1920s flowered ladies' hats with a full wide brim. "I'll just be outside for a bit. Abe, when Clay's done could you tidy up the kitchen?"

Abe looked up from the book he was reading and nodded. Half the time Mother didn't even ask me or Fas because she knew the reception she would get. Abe was a good kid, always doing what Mother asked of him without even considering denying her. I think it was because he was her baby. He was eleven, her youngest, and even though she meant well and tried to treat us all the same, the truth was unavoidable - he was the favored son. But it was hard to hold that over his head since he was always such a good nice kid. His name was really Abel, but we always called him Abe even though that was supposed to be short for Abraham. It was just easier than always saying Abel.

Kat was seated on our comfortable old brown-striped couch with her sketchbook. She always had that thing with her, and she was really starting to become a great artist. I just knew that one day she would be known throughout the world, with oil canvas paintings hung in the Louvre or in New York at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or something, I just knew it.

"Hey Kat, what're you doing today?" I asked, "I've got until 12:30. Let's get the bikes and go digging in the old farm fields or ride through the forest or something."

"Sure!" She beamed with the suggestion and clutched her sketchbook to her chest. I shouted to Abe in the kitchen, "Abe! Do you want to go out on the bikes?"

He shouted back above the roar of the faucet, "I'm going with the Thurston twins to the park. Mrs. Thurston's coming to pick me up in an hour. But I'll go next time, okay – don't forget to invite me!" He was always worried about being included.

"Sure," I casually responded while Kat and I made our way to the garage, where we stored our bikes. We hadn't even bothered to ask Fas if he wanted to come along. Most likely he was going out with Mikey or Anthony or Nate, the miniature gang of tough guy sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds that he always bummed around with. That Fas, he was quite the hooligan. He caused my mother more headaches than her intermittent bouts of insomnia.

There were six bikes in the garage: one for each member of our family. We always used to frequent the Saturday and Sunday morning yard sales, scanning inventories of tattered clothing, splintered furniture and worthless toys, looking for something of value to us. At one point we went on a bike-hunting tangent that lasted nearly three summers - as long as it took to acquire a bike for everyone. And now they just stood there, the whole sorry lot of them, cobwebbed and covered in dust, the occasional rust spot peeking through where it ate metal. They hadn't seen much use lately.

"I'm going to use Father's bike today."

"But, Clay, you can't!"

"Why not? It's not like he's using it. Besides, I don't even like mine anyway. His is much better." That wasn't quite the truth. His was old and hoary, an ancient street bike with thinning tires and a weak frame.

"You just can't, that's all."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm sick of my bike, and it's about time someone else sat on this thing before it completely falls to pieces."

"Fine, then. Have it your way." She was defeated.

We separated our two bikes from the sea of handlebars and spokes and pulled them into the sunlight. I brushed them both down, pulling off cobwebs barehanded.

"Ready?" I asked.

Kat smiled, and we mounted our faithful steeds of metal and rubber and rode off in the midmorning sun.

The spectre

One night a ghost came between the door's crack,
brushed eerily against the threads at my back.
In each of her steps black orchids bloomed
as she crept and creaked round the entire room.
That darkened room.

She spoke in a whisper, but not from her mouth,
and a chilling wind rose up from the south.
From beneath the house this voice had slipped
where the shadows had accompanied it.

And my sight pierced into her body whole,
to the transparent air that sang to my soul.
In a manner from which I could not fall
it gripped and held me close to the wall.
The darkened wall.

"Oh never you mind or attend to the way
my feet, they hover, my hips, they sway.
A place in the past, this home once was mine.
I vowed to return, and now is the time."

I froze and my arms and legs became stone,
seized by the power she wielded from her throne.
In a sickly fashion she did float,
trailing the netherworld's undead cloak.
Such a darkened cloak.

I steadied my unblinking eyes to the floor
and wordlessly bid my strength restored.
Hands at the wall, the wood they clutched,
and I drew my gasping breath so hushed.

Then suspended high, she rushed to the roof,
and against its beams she perched aloof.
My skin spat and pricked with icy feeling
while above her black mold overtook the ceiling,
and darkened that ceiling.

Again her shrill voice emanated forth,
cracked the stained glass framed overtop the door.
It hurried about in a spectral gale,
smelled of mortuary, bitter and stale.

From her wailing shriek my ears became pained,
and my lobes trickled an imprisoning stain,
A crimson path of mind-numbing fare,
buried deep within to hold her stare.
Her darkened stare.

"Here here, join me in the underworld,
and the fruits of eternity shall be yours!
And now you must lower your head and agree,
that you shall be banished by a banshee!"

My neck, it deadened, head nodded forward
to face the orchids and rotting floorboards.
A binding sign for a ghastly contract.
The spirits below would never retract
such a darkened contract.

And into a sinkhole hurricane
the ground receded in a murky drain.
We rose in the air and through it we leaped
and I joined the earthen minions to reap,
and harvest that dreadfully dreary and darkened harvest.