When I was young, my grandfather owned a farm. I only remember it vaguely. I don’t know if he kept livestock or grew crops, or if he just wanted all that land so he didn’t have to be around people. Most of my memory has been whittled down with age, and what little I recall is of sweltering summer days in the fields, mowed down to dirt and stubble, and running around in a sunlit kitchen as deer wander up to the deck outside. We didn't go up to see my grandfather very often, a necessity if we wanted to maintain our tentative peace, but I look back at the few times we did very fondly (I personally place the blame for my restlessness on those summers that I spent out there. Acres and acres of land for a grubby little five, six, seven year old to explore, my first experience of the kind-- of course I would be exhilarated by the freedom I found).

 

This would be easier to write if I had photos, but despite searching for a few days I came up empty-handed. I wasn’t really surprised. I have photos from dozens of different places, but not many from childhood. Sometimes the farm doesn’t even feel real, like it was maybe something I’d read about instead of a memory that was mine. As such, you’ll have to take my word for it as I describe the place. I have little hope of it being incredibly accurate.

 

What I can tell you is that there was a farmhouse, and in that farmhouse lived my grandmother, grandfather, and my grandfather’s big dog. The lawn was unkempt, dead in patches, wild in the way that is usually only found in the country. To the side of the house, about twenty paces away, was the barn. When I’d first wandered inside, I hadn’t found horses or cows, but instead a herd of tractors and machines. I’d run my fingers across the metal, poking into crevices, opening hatches. I earned myself dozens of small scratches on my arms and tears in my cargo shorts from all the sharp, rusted edges. A few times I’d even driven some of the tractors around the fields. The weather was always nice when we went there. Sometimes it became cold, the wind biting through your clothes, but the air remained clear and fresh in my lungs. Guarding the back of the farm was the forest, a long line of trees that stood straight and tall like soldiers. Most of my ventures ended where those woods began.  

 

Back towards that treeline, where the fields turned into taller grass, there was a handmade fire pit.

 

“Don’t go back there, now,” my grandfather warned us, waving one of his few remaining fingers at us. “There’s snakes back there.”

 

Which, of course, my sister and I totally disregarded every time we came. We loved the fire pit, for some strange reason that I can’t quite figure out anymore. It made sense to the mind of a child. It was dug shallowly into the ground and filled with sand and pebbles. Along the edge it was ringed with heavy stones. I would jump from one to the other, attempting to balance on top of them. The stones were layered thick, all different shapes and sizes, but each one grayed and weathered and worn. It was like a fairy circle for fire.

 

My sister and I were out there one day, screwing around at the fire pit and making up fantastical stories about witches in the woods and pixies in the cupboards when the wind kicked up suddenly and I started to feel raindrops on my face.

 

“Huh,” I said, wiping at the wetness with my sleeve. It hardly ever rained at the farm. At home, my dad and I would sit out on the porch with popcorn to watch the rain, just for the love of watching nature at work.

 

Over at the house, the doorwall leading to the kitchen slid open. “Come on in, kids. It’s about to storm,” my grandmother called out.

 

My sister looked at me and shrugged. We had no problem playing in the rain, but our grandmother had been making cake before we’d gone outside. There were worse fates. We took off running at the kind of breakneck speed only kids seem to manage. I can’t remember who won. Probably my sister.

 

The rain had truly started by the time we’d made it to the safety of the kitchen. Within minutes it’d become a downpour, the storm as abrupt as a missed step on the stairs. The rain lashed against the glass, angry that we’d escaped inside.

 

“These summer storms can happen just like that. No warning at all.” My grandmother bustled my sister further into the kitchen, casting a glance over her shoulder as the wind roared, audible even through the walls of the house.

 

I didn’t follow her. I should’ve, since my teeth were chattering and my clothes were drenched and there was a towel somewhere in the closet with my name on it, but I didn’t. The storm was getting worse with each second I stood there. I wanted to watch.

 

“You should get away from the window, hon,” my grandmother called.

 

“Sure,” I said, not nearly loud enough for her to hear. Can’t be lying if no one’s listening. A crack of thunder, louder than a gunshot, made me startle. I stumbled back, running into the dinner table.

 

My sister was talking, asking about our parents and when they’d be back from town, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I lowered myself to the floor, the tiles wet from where I’d been dripping all over them. The rain turned to hail and back again, as though the storm couldn’t make up its mind.   

 

The thunder rolled and this time I felt it in my bones, rattling me from the inside while it shook the foundation of the world beneath me. It sounded like a war cry, like the shouting of gods, louder than anything I’d heard before. It filled me up, striking a chord somewhere deep inside me, resounding like I’d banged it against a tuning fork. I was bigger than my body, part of something I had no way to describe. The world got darker and darker as the clouds fully blotted out the sun. I pressed up against the glass, wanting to be out there, craving the feel of wind in my hair and rain on my skin. I looked up beyond the violent clash of the trees to the sky, a muddy green, like it was itching for a twister. Hell, maybe I was, too. I hadn’t felt that kind of wild emptiness before, and I have yet to again.

 

The lightning flashed bright enough that my vision spun with white and purple and blue. We were collateral damage in a battle of the elements, electrocuted and then washed away in the aftermath.

 

It was brutal. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I wanted to throw open the door and embrace it, scream with the same reckless abandon that it did, let it sweep me away.

 

My grandmother tossed a towel over my head.

“Dry off, kiddo, and then come help me frost the cake,” she instructed. I blinked up at her.

 

 

“Okay.”

 

After that summer, we never went up to the farm again. My grandfather sold it. It took too much time to take care of it, he said. He didn’t want to be spending that kind of money. He lives down in the suburbs again with his wife and his dog (a different one this time), and I hardly ever see him.

 

Sometimes I think I got cursed with something while I was up there. Maybe it was that summer storm that did it, instilling me with a sense of longing for something I can never find. I can feel it, this slot in my chest, empty and waiting to be filled again. I’ve searched for it in the Redwood Forests, where the trees stretch towards the sun. I’ve searched for it, nameless, faceless, in Mumbai, Rio, and Sicily. I haven’t found it yet in the oceans, wide and open and deep enough to drown me, nor in the mountains, be it the Appalachians, the Alps, or the Andes. I haven’t found it yet in the hundreds of summer storms I’ve run through, with the wind at my back and the thunder above me and the rain coursing down my sun-browned skin.

I wonder if I ever will.  

 

I write this letter to you on my friend’s old and rusty 1926 typewriter sitting here in his private study on yet another rainy afternoon, hoping you won’t get bored of the complexity of my tale. I still recall the footsteps of a old man that used to shutter me with wonder on rainy afternoons like these. Every now and then I could hear him typing a few words in his typewriter for about an hour. He would type all throughout the day when there was nothing to do but sit inside and keep yourself dry from the sheets of rain. I still can recall the good old days when I was just a little kid who sat in this very room listening to the old man pressing his fingers against the keys of this typewriter and writing something for hours. It wasn’t until one April afternoon when I had discovered a deep and mysterious secret about this typewriter…

 

**35 Years Ago

 

On a cold and dark April afternoon, I sat in my grandfather’s study reading a book. This book was so intriguing that I read it all throughout the storm. My mom was sitting in our living room putting her finishing touches on a scarf she was crafting. My dad was out of town on an important business meeting in Texas where the weather was warm and delightful. Oh, how I wish I was there right now! To my surprise, the sun had rose up quicker than I had expected. I saw a rainbow emerge on the side of my front window and I immediately dropped my book and raced outside to witness the naturally compelling beauty. I sat on my porch and took out my camera to take pictures of the rainbow. As I was about to take a second click at the rainbow a shadowy figure crossed my camera and walked quickly to his house. I dropped my camera and yelled loudly to him:

 

“Mister! How would you like to join our family for dinner tonight?” 

 

The man simply gave a groan and opened the door to his house. I saw him carry in a brand new typewriter which looked as spotless and clean which was as bright as the rainbow in front of me. I yelled out something else:

“Do you need a hand on that typewriter?” I asked him.

 

The old man nodded his head and walked into his house. I sat on my porch for a bit involved in the quiet ambience of nature when it was disrupted by clicking noises that came from my neighbor’s house. I heard even more click noises and I wondered what the old man was up to in his house. I decided to walk there and peek through his window to get a sight at what he was doing so loudly and disturbingly. 

 

I stood up from my porch and walked over to his house. I peeked through the old man’s window and saw him at his study desk typing something on his new typewriter. His old hands slid the paper across the typewriter. I saw him write his words very slowly finding each key one at a time. Each time the old man had written a few words he would put his hands on his head like he was imagining something. I decided to leave the old man alone to his crazy passions and walked down the sidewalk and into my house. My mom was in the kitchen and called me over for some dinner. The picture of the old man placing his hands on his head couldn’t leave my mind. 

 

It was stuck there like super glue and I was so curious to know what he was doing that right after dinner I raced to his house and knocked on the door. The old man opened the door and saw me at the door and gave a groan. He rubbed his forehead in confusion and finally opened the door wider indicating that he wanted me to come in.

 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. I was wondering what were you typing earlier today on your new typewriter.” I asked him.

 

The old man pointed at the typewriter and I smiled nodding my head in approval, wanting to know what he had to say. The old man just stared at me with his dark blue eyes and said nothing. I asked him the question again, but still no response. The old man took my hand with him and brought me to the typewriter. He wrote the words:

“I will tell you a secret.” I cannot speak or see you but certainly I can answer your question.” 

 

I was taken aback. I had no idea that the man was unable to speak or see and I felt very sorry for him.

 

The man sat on his chair and pulled a chair for me to sit on. He wrote a few words on the typewriter. “To learn this secret, type any word you wish to learn more about and hold your hands against your head.” 

 

I reached over to the typewriter and typed the word: “Love.” I held my hands at my head just like he told me to do, although it looked unusual and made me want to laugh. Before I could, I felt something within myself and I saw a vision in front of me. I saw all the things I loved to do from reading to fishing to me and my mom. The visions suddenly disappeared and I fell back in my chair in shock. The old man smiled at me and wrote:

Do you now believe?

I nodded my head and got out of my chair and headed straight for the door struck by the craziness of what I had just seen. The man stopped me and handed me the typewriter writing the words:

 

I am in no need of this typewriter. It only belongs to the person who can actually feel what it has to say. You are that person, neighbor. I may look a little overaged and creepy but this typewriter is to now be passed to the next generation.

 

 I took the typewriter still in shock from its power and went straight out the door back to my house and straight into the study. I invited my friends over to tell them all about the typewriter. They all tried to type words such as: Baseball, Fear, Hatred, Jackie Robinson but they saw nothing but blank visions. I soon realized the secret of this mysterious typewriter. Even if my neighbor couldn’t see what he was typing, he could feel the words come alive and that’s what made this typewriter unique and special different from any other typewriter.

 

 

Since that April afternoon, I have kept this typewriter safe in my study for the last thirty five years. I still remember the old dark blue eyes of the man and the sounds of him clicking on his typewriter every now and then.

 

 It has been years since I have went to his house. I have grown into an old man and in a few days of time the typewriter that once sat in the hands of its creator will be passed on to another generation. I have lost my sight but that doesn’t take away my feelings of happiness and hope. I am unable to stand on my feet but that doesn’t put me down on the ground. A small object that is old and rusty just like the rest of the other ones, holds value more than just price. 

 

I wrap up my letter, as now the sun is out again. 

 

    I am not careless. I try very hard to keep track of my things. In reality, I've been cursed. How is it my fault that everything I own conspires to run away from me? Or that the odds are never in my favor? Is the work of a curse the fault of the cursed? Of course not.

  I place things exactly where they should go. Where they go when I leave the room, or where someone else decided to put them is none of my fault. I'm really just a poor victim.

     Unfortunately, my mother doesn't agree with my sad condition. So you'll understand why I couldn't appeal for her pity the afternoon of January 15.

 

"Alexandra, get downstairs this minute! You're going to be late, and you don't even have lunch!"

"I'm coming mom! I'm leaving my room right now." I lied. My alarm clock hadn't woken me up at 6:00, and I was running thirty minutes late, with twenty to go before school started. I grabbed my phone and shoved it into my pocket, and ran down the stairs.

"Do you have a lunch," my mother interrogated me on my way to the car.

"Yep."

"Homework done?"

"Yep."

"Phone charged?"

"Your house key?"

I closed the car door.

"Sure." I frenetically search my cluttered backpack for my purple polka dot key. I thought I had put it in here yesterday. It must have fallen to the bottom. But it's too late anyway to go back and get it.

 

"The news says it's going to snow later today so I need you to have it in case there's an early dismissal. I have to work late today so I won't be able to pick you up. I called Emily and her parents to give you a ride."

     Story of my life. Both of my parents work, and they usually work late, so driving anywhere is always a lot of trouble. My mom doesn't have time to stress about me, which is why I can't let her worry about everything I do. The last time I lost my key, I was reamed out for an hour with threat of punishment. Which is probably why I said something I would regret later on.

 

" Okay Mom, I'll be fine." I looked out the window to see the first flakes of snow.

...

     English Class. This year we were learning great American literary periods, and today we had begun to discuss naturalism. Well, Ms. Hartford had begun to drone on about naturalism to a crowd of sleepy eyed students at 8:00 a.m.

"These writers didn't believe in free will, but that man was powerless to nature, fate, and the forces of his environment. Against these, he would always fail-"

Interrupted by the even more disturbing static from the intercom, Ms. Hartford stops speaking.

 

"Because of the impending snow storm, London High will have an early dismissal at 1:00."

The whole class wakes up and rejoices with shouts. A snow day!

"Settle down, settle down everyone!" Ms. Hartford cries as she tries to regain control of her class. "Now we won't have time to finish our work, so I need you to read To Build a Fire by Friday. I'll postpone the quiz."

         I take a quick look out the window. The snow is only one inch high. It doesn't seem too bad. I open my backpack and start taking books of the my backpack. I place my had and dig around in my backpack. Still no key.

      I check my folders, pencil pouch, and even open my books. No key. When school ends 3 hours later, I run and check my locker, and then my coat pockets. I grab my phone and text my mom, and pray that she was just joking earlier and she can pick me up. Nothing. It's at this terrible realization that sweet, sweet Emily has walked her way to my locker, ready to give me my ride home. I am, in all senses of the word, screwed.

 ...

"How was your day Alexandra? Glad you got out early today?" Emily's mom asks as I get into the back of her car.

 "Oh I'm fine Ms. Jameson. How's your day going?" I have a plan. Emily just lives ten minutes away from me. I can just stay at her house till my mom comes home, and tell my mom the Jamesons begged me to come over. I start to calm down. Sometimes it helps to think on your feet.

 

"Actually I'm having a pretty good day. I was able to get everything packed and ready for our vacation this weekend-"

 

"Vacation?"

" Oh Yes! Emily's dad is taking everyone to a ski lodge this weekend. It's been a long time since Mr. Jameson took a break from work, and he loves skiing. The whole family is going! We were supposed to leave tonight, but it's a long drive, especially with the snow. So we'll be leaving as soon as I drop you at home."

 

      As we drive past a church, I let out a sigh. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I just can't get a break. I can't force them to wait for me. I'd have to tell them why I couldn't get in my house, and then they would think I'm careless, and Mrs. Jameson would tell my mom, who would later proceed to murder me. And I do not feel like dying today or hearing a lecture of my irresponsibility. I'll take my chances with the snow.

     Mrs. Jameson pulls up to my house and stops. " Well this is our stop," she says.  The Jameson's are so nice. So clean cut and simple. If only they knew the trouble I had gotten myself into. That's when I remember. I have a little sister! Marci's coming home on the bus. So I just have to wait for her. In the snow. Which is now over a foot high, and counting. For who knows how long. Simple. If you have a death wish.

 

"Thank you," I replied. I have to think on my feet. "I'm just going to go inside from the back."

 

      And with that, I slush through the snow to the backyard porch. The sliding doors are locked, and they don't seem to be opening. I know I once did this in the summer. It should be working! I wiggle and jiggle door to no avail. Then I hear the sound of an engine, the sound of the Jamesons driving off. It is at this moment that I realize just how much of a mess I am. I look like a burglar. No one's outside, and I can't just wait here. I check my watch. It's 1:20. I call my sister.

 

"Hello?"

"Hey Marci. Are you coming home on the bus?" I bite my lip.

"Yes."

"Do you have the key?" I pray in desperation.

"Yeah." Finally, something's going right. As pitiful as it is for a high school student to be relying on her 12 year old sister, I don't care.

"That's great! Look, I didn't bring mine, and Emily is driving me home. When will you be home?

"We just left school a couple minutes ago," Crap. Her stop is last. "But like no one's on here. So I'll be home soon. Are you almost home?"

 

"No, not yet," I mumble, too embarrassed to share the truth. "Just text me when you get here."

 

      Seven minutes later, she's nowhere in sight, and I'm starting to lose feeling in my toes. I wait five more minutes before I realize that I can't stay out here any longer I need to find shelter fast. And I know where. The Dunkin Donuts down the street.

     I pick up my backpack, tie my scarf, walk down the sidewalk. The snow is two feet high by this point, and it's still coming down.

     As I try to salvage my frozen toes and fingers, I ponder how it all led up to this. If someone told me this had happened to them, I probably would've laughed. I mean, I'm a walking joke, a live action cautionary tale. I'm a travesty. Who would rather risk frostbite then telling the truth? Then I realize the worst thing of all. My mother was right. I am careless, and I should have listened to her.

     Everything has been against me today. Why did the Jameson's chose today of all days to go skiing, why couldn't my sister have come come earlier? Why couldn't I have found my key? Why did it have to snow today?

     I decide to call my sister again to see if she already got home. My phone doesn't turn on. I   forgot to charge it.

     I trudge on against the harsh elements, trying to keep warm. My fluffy pink mittens do little to keep my fingers warm, and my leather boat shoes are soaked. I hope I don't catch a cold, or even worse, the flu. What if I got pneumonia? Wouldn't that just be the perfect ending to this tragedy. What if I died? My whole family would laugh at my funeral. I'd laugh at my funeral. I  couldn't imagine a more pitiful way to die. I could see my tombstone right now. Death by Stupidity.

     I could not let that happen. I would not give my mother that satisfaction of knowing she was right. I was just a block away from shelter. I could make it.

     I struggled with the heavy weight on my backpack, and made my way through the ice and snow. Trying not to look at the cars driving past, or fearing what would happen if I slipped on ice, I marched forward. Finally, the bright lights of the sign came into view. Within a few minutes I could see the building. I was going to survive.

    I was greeted by warm air and the smell of coffee. Soaking wet, I took off my coat and ran to the bathroom. I used the hand dryers to warm my hands, and after I dry my shoes, I walk back out. Famished, I buy some tea and two jelly donuts. Actually, it was probably three. Near death experiences make one very hungry. I think the cashier felt sad for me.

    Thirty minutes later, my sister finally texts me that she's home. Her bus got held up in traffic. Oddly enough, I actually feel proud I made it all the way over here. This whole day has made me realize that being more responsible saves a lot of trouble. I almost don't want to leave, thinking of all the walking I'll have to do to get back home. I put my jacket back on, and take my change to put in my coin purse. As I drop in 35 cents, I spot something purple.

Woof. That’s all I, as a dog, can say, right? Wrong. Day after day, month after month, year after year, each stupid human believes me and my dogginess to be a dingbat, saying only that one stupid word. Woof. But I can say much more than that. Have you furless idiots ever thought that maybe it’s not me not speaking, but you not hearing? If you opened those squishy pieces of bald skin you call ears once in awhile, you would hear the things I have to say. And I do have a lot to say.

My name doesn’t matter. You humans label yourselves, but us dogs, we choose to sense each other. The smells and feelings bodies emit is enough to know who is who. My whos, the beings I know, are very special people. I love my family endlessly, but sometimes I get fed up with humans. Dogs don’t always like other dogs, but we don’t bicker the way you glabrous beings do. For the six lightrees, or maybe I should say ‘Christmases’ I have seen on this planet, I have had to share only one with another dog.

He is a little white thing they call Rory, and he is supposed to make me less hyper, and he has succeeded to the point of making me melancholy. He annoys me to no end, however, I am teaching him. I know that I will not be around forever. So he must learn his duties. As a dog, he must protect and help our family. He will always be there, but never be needy. I have faith in him. He is a quick learner. When I am gone, I know he will support them, just as I supported them after they lost the big one. His smell still lingers, even though I never met him. In fact, I believe our lives never overlapped. You know who loved that yellow dog? Daddy. You know who I love? Daddy. You know who I never can love? Daddy.

Us dogs don’t have a very good sense of time, but I know it has been a very long time since Daddy moved out. Longer than it takes for my people to open the door, longer than it takes for my hard pellets of food to hit my bowl, even longer than it takes for them to come home every day. You don’t know how scary it is, day after day, for humans to leave us all alone. Imagine if you were locked up in a bedroom all by yourself for… well, I don’t know, but a long time! It’s awful! But something even more awful? The man who named you, raised you, and loved you just leaves. Goodbye forever, with no warning. My Daddy is my protector, and I am his. I will never feel full again. It’s like I’m breaking inside.

I felt the tension before they did. Us dogs can sense that. We feel things, things that aren’t even there. I think maybe humans used to feel them too, but much like the thing they call evolution in which they pride themselves for creating dogs, they breed the ability to have compassion out of themselves. I am not as clueless as they think I am. I know what’s going on. They call it a divorce, but I call it broken. If our little group was a piece of glass, we were thrown on the gray and brown linoleum many a dog has peed on, and shattered. But that doesn’t mean my life sucks, exactly. I still have Girl and Mom and Boy.

I do like Girl quite a bit. We are perfect together. Her small frame fits perfectly curved around my back. It’s like we were made for each other. I love her so much, but lately I feel as if she is starting to forget about me. I suppose compared to a puppy she calls anything but, her nicknames for him ranging from Porky to Squirrelly, I could be boring. All she likes to do is point at him with her glowey speak box and cuddle him. I just wish she saved some of her time to adore for me. Now all I get is a quick pat on the head and “my sweet prince”. For once, I would like to be “cuddle bug” or “cutie pie” with an intense hug instead of the pup.

At least Boy likes me more than that despicable little biting thing. He appreciates me. He thinks the pup is awful because of his little bites and scratches, just as he despised me when I was just a wee thing. I love the affection, but sometimes it can be a bit smothering. I just want a happy medium. The boy, he needs to learn to love the small one. One day, that terrible little white ball of fur will be all he has. I can’t let them, all of them, become lonely. A family doesn’t just have a dog. They are a dog family. There were dogs before me, and there will be dogs after me.

 

Humans, the big ones especially, seem to think that we dogs don’t know anything. They think we just eat, sleep, poop (and eat it) and ruin furniture. We are very intelligent. In fact, we do a lot of things. We can talk, but we can also listen. We hear your words. We just don’t choose to listen. Your words our sharp and harsh, like a slick razor-sharp block of steel. Ours are, well, softer, like a warm cozy blanket or, better yet, a warm cozy pot of beefy stew. They create different ways of talking to separate them as a species into groups based on the color of their naked skin. They try to dominate over each other, a never ending cycle of who’s alpha. The pale ones especially try to be better than the others, a nonexistent superiority only they believe in. Their words are the sharpest of them all, like a small whip that cracks on the back of whoever they choose to squeal at. They use the beauty of words to hurt instead of help. They play a game, one only they find fun, where they see who can shout the loudest. Their voices overlap into a tightly woven scratchy wool blanket, but to them it’s made of soft silk.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were one lifeform? No divide between species’, or more obviously, no divide within species. My wish is that one day, everyone will learn to love each other. It’s not really that hard. We dogs are known for our ability to care for everything no matter who or what it is. You just look past the appearance, the clothes and the hair, the crusty outer edge of cruelty that you depilated creatures love about yourselves, you will see something deep inside. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s called emotion. If you feel unloved, look deep within yourself and find it. Show it off. Embrace it. Find it in others. Ponder it. Complement it, even.  Most importantly, just love.

 

 

The paint in my office room is starting to chip. Maybe it’s because I stare at it so hard, deep into the dark hours of my restless nights. I only unlock my eyes from the wall after Austin is tucked into bed and Melissa turns off her light because she is too tired to keep reading Project: Happily Ever After. This is my nightly routine. Maybe I’ll watch long enough that I’ll lose myself somewhere in the crevasses dripping down from the ceiling. Maybe it will bring me back, before the cracks were pulling me apart.

My eyes budge from the mesmerization, and I step out of the room to walk down the hall. These walls watch.. They indent where we used to press up against them, filled with distant memories. As I walk through, the walls seem to press towards each other, trying to hold onto me. They want to feel my pressure on them again. They want to feel the passion that filled this hall. They want us back. But the past is the past. I don’t stop walking and only give them a glance.

The door to Austin’s room creaks open and a warm force pulls me in. My steps fill the room in a symmetrical rhythm, but his sleep doesn’t seem to be disturbed.  My frozen heart thaws with just the thought of resting my tired eyes on him. His face forms a beautiful mix between my nose and his mother’s cheek bones. He still has some of his baby fat, which gives him the cutest dimples when he smiles. It is still fascinating that he could come out of Melissa and me and become a such a wonder that’s changing our lives, even if we hadn’t known he was coming. I put my scrambled thoughts aside, and I kiss him goodnight. I step back out into the hallway.

I follow the rest of the hallway to our room. Damn, I hate our door. The white paint  now has the undertone of a nasty, almost yellow, hue. The edges are starting to wear off because the frame doesn’t fit the door. I can’t stop looking for something bad to see but, whatever. I step through the doorway anyways.

I take my time to get into bed. Usually, I’ll take a shower and stare at the walls in there. Then when I’m done standing under the running water, I’ll use the old towels we have and scrape off the water still clinging to my skin. But tonight I’m too exhausted for any of that. Getting into bed is bittersweet. The sheets on my cleansed skin feel like honey dripping down from the heavens, giving me a taste from up above, but I have to get in too carefully so I won’t wake up Melissa. She usually sleeps with her back towards the wall, but she feels my movements with absurd accuracy. I stare up at the ceiling for just a bit before I close my eyes, but I’m scared that if I stare too long, the paint will start cracking there too and fall on me when I’m sleeping. Sometimes I’ll stare at Melissa’s back, but just for a quick second. I would never want to see her beautiful skin begin to crack. There’s already too much of that in this house.

There’s some chipping on the wall that Melissa is facing. Does she also stare through these walls like I do?

I try to forget my thoughts as I’m finally able to shut down for the day. I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes, my legs, my arms, my torso and then finally my head. My final worries of the day slip away as my consciousness goes with them too.

In the morning, when I’m ready to go off to my 9 to 5, I always look back into the kitchen. Melissa is finishing up, getting Austin ready. God, they look so gorgeous together.

“Melissa,” I call to her.

She looks up from what she’s doing and looks at me with wide eyes.

“You look beautiful today,” I say to my own surprise.

“Ha, thank-you,” she murmurs as she smiles with what seems to be a bit of remorse. She puts Austin down and is moving closer to me. She reads my thoughts, just like the book on her nightstand.

“I love you Jesse,” she manages to say before she leans in to kiss me.

There's something different in the way our lips touched that I hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe she does actually still love me, like I love her. I look in her eyes. I remember all the times I looked in and saw the stars swirling. Back when we would meet up by Venus as two cosmic energies and fly with the stars and…

I have to catch myself from floating away like I always do.

“I have to get going,” I say as a give her a last squeeze to make sure she is still there. “I'm gonna be late.”

“Have a good day!” She looks into the horizon clinging onto Austin as I pulled out of the driveway.

I seem to shut down from all my messy thinking at work because all I hear are orders and distractions to get stuff done. This has been my routine for the past few years, but I can sense some cracking starting to build up inside me. While I start to lose interest with my task at hand, I trip into a trance at my desk and begin looking into my deepest thoughts. As I keep free falling through this rabbit hole of mine, a flood of old memories start to pour right back into my mind. I’ve forgotten so much. There’s so much missing in my life. And just as I start diving deeper, I hit a white wall infested with the same creeping cracks that were everywhere.

“Jesse!”

“Uh, yeah,” I subconsciously mumble as I pull myself from my trance. “Sorry.”

“Did you get those reports done yet?” My boss Janet, a skinny woman with a deathly stare, fumed.

“Uhm…” I stared at her like an idiot.

“The ones I asked you to have done yesterday? How could you forget that?”

“Oh, I just finished them. I’ll have them on your desk in five minutes.”

“You better,” she said as she stormed off to lurk around other parts of the office.

I finished those reports a while ago, but I’m not sure why I haven’t given them to her yet. I must've forgotten. That’s been happening a lot lately.

I print out the reports right away and put them neatly on her desk just like she asked. As I walk out of her office and down the hallway I start to get a regurgitative feeling that I haven’t felt in years. Is everyone staring at me? Am I doing something wrong? Are the walls closing in on me? I can’t breathe and I start to stumble towards the bathroom. I swing the door open and the smell of acidic soap hits my nostrils, but it’s better than those eyes staring at me. I look into the mirror as I try to splash water onto my face. It looks like I’m just dripping in sweat, but I can’t feel a drop on my body. I just feel my body temperature rising.

“Am I having a heart attack?” I question aloud as I make attempts of an inner cleansing, hoping I can wash away this awful feeling that appeared from out of thin air.

Then I feel vomit rising through my stomach into my throat like molten lava ready to burst from an active volcano that was once believed to be extinct. I move to the toilet just in time. I let go of everything. Mixes of greens, dirty yellows and old browns come together as they spew and break the surface of the water. The grotesque smell masks the nice smell of cleanliness and then water begins to obscure my vision.

After seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and hours become days, I can finally breathe again and this episode starts to slip away. I clean up the area with the thin, cheap paper towels that we keep in the bathrooms, wash my mouth and face as well as I can, and pull out my comb to push down on my thinning hair. Nothing seems the same, but I open the door from the bathroom and step out of this unworldly portal back to the office space. Everything is untouched and in order, just like I left it.

I walk back to my desk with my head hung low, while maintaining my gaze a few steps ahead of where my foot is being planted. I ignore the walls around me and I get to my desk quickly.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. It had to be when I was very young. Memories of cold fevers and haunting nights go hand in hand with even my fondest memories from my callow years.  I thought I was over that. I thought I had buried those old sweat filled bed sheets and rusty thermometers. I thought I had grown into myself and my wings had learned how to fly out of the hospital beds and white dull hallways.

My thoughts fly straight to Austin. The hands on my watch shift to 5, I dash out as fast as I can without talking to anyone and trying to leave behind what had just happened. I turn on my car and head out to pick up Austin from his daycare.

I pull into the daycare and I find myself more relaxed then I have been in a while. Walking in and seeing those white daisies growing by the front door always puts a smile on my face, and when I walk into Austin’s classroom and see him playing with the other kids, I feel like everything is how it should be.

“How was Austin today?” I ask his teacher.

“He’s doing better even though he still hasn’t spoken a word,” Mrs. Evelyn responds with a cute and wrinkled smile. “He is new here, but he seems to be getting along with everyone.”

“I’m glad.” My eyes return to Austin.

“Austin!” Mrs. Evelyn calls out. “Look who’s here for you.”

He looks up and a wide grin takes over his face. He puts down his red fire truck a bit reluctantly and crawls as fast as his little limbs can go towards us. I bend down and swing him up. Kissing his cute chubby cheeks I grab his stuff that Mrs.Evelyn hands me and we head out the door.

I always have trouble buckling him into his car seat and the more I struggle with his belt the more he laughs at me, but today something seemed different. To be fair it had been a rough and odd day so far and he must be feeling it. He still smiles a bit when I tried buckling him in, but as I look back into his face, all he can do is stare back at me with those big eyes full of wonder. We lock our gazes for a bit and I try to memorize every angle and shape built into his complexion, and he seems to do the same. I give him a little peck on his forehead and get into the driver's seat. I pull out of the parking lot and head home.

 As I pull into our driveway I check my phone to see a text from Melissa.

I'm going to be home late today. Don't forget to put Austin in the pajamas that he really likes. Sorry, I'll see you tonight.

Not this again. I think it's been the third time this month, right? A small feeling in my insides comes back from earlier in the day, but I beat it down hard as I unbuckle Austin from his car seat.

I bring Austin into the house and the rest of the night is a blur. Nothing makes sense or maybe is it that everything is making sense. I'm not really sure. All I can make out was that I put Austin to bed. As he starts to doze off, old memories from my childhood fevers and AiWS come back and I remember someone saying it was genetic. I can’t really recall exactly if it was true, but I would rather have it again, instead of having Austin experience even a tiny sliver of what I went through. I pick him up and hold him tightly. Whenever I do this, the cracks seem to disappear, but I can’t hold onto him forever. He is finally fast asleep and I put him under his cozy cover.  

I walk out of the room into the hallway, while staring at the walls that always seem to stare back. I move quickly and I go into my office pretending to do some work that probably didn't have to be finished. I take up time until Melissa comes back home.

A car pulls up to the garage. The same car that had dropped off Melissa the last few times she had had to stay late for work. I try to see into the car. Melissa and the figure behind the wheel are talking. Something about the situation felt surreal. I had to keep my eyes on the car.

 

They had not stopped talking. It reminded me of the younger Melissa I had met so many years ago. Then she leaned in towards the figure. My stomach churned again and this time more rigorously than before, but I swallowed all my feelings back down. I was a white wall of emotionlessness. Did they kiss? Obviously I wouldn’t know because I never looked out my office window. I just kept on staring at my wall as the pain slowly chipped away.

 

It was calling for me. My best friend and my worst enemy. I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of losing the impulsive and self destructive battles with it. I couldn’t handle it screaming my name. “Trevor, Trevor, TREVOR!” It finds me almost every night when I am alone and  and most vulnerable.

 Every single ounce of my body is wanting to run to it. To cave in, to give up and, to feed it. How couldn’t I give into it’s power? I love it. The tears start creeping into my eyes and begin to distort my vision. I could only see the faint outline of the objects in front of me. But I knew where it was, I did not need to see to it to find it. I am connected  to it and it controls me. It was near, how could such a tiny object have so much power?

 As I moved my history book, I saw the faint silver rectangle. When I was reaching for it, a tear rolled down my cheek. I stopped myself but only for a second then continued to my addiction. I picked it up and held in my hands. I held it so tight and close, I couldn’t let go. I knew I should’ve put it down but in that moment all I could think about was how much I needed it and how much it needed me.  

 I felt like I was set on autopilot, I'd been here so many times before and I knew exactly what it wanted me to do.  With every step I took while holding the blade I sensed the soft carpet under my feet. The longer I held my enemy in my hand the less I could control my rational thoughts.  I was numb I couldn't feel anything and then I knew it was time.  

 ‘Click’ went my bathroom light switch. At that point tears were rolling down my cheeks and I still didn’t given my situation a second thought. My eyes didn’t even react to the brightness of the lights. I was too focused on my own self destruction, I was driven by its force. I did not want to do this; I really didn’t, but I did because I needed too.  When I stared in my bathroom mirror, I saw a broken, unlovable boy who was captivated by a tiny but dominant blade. At that very moment I looked away, I hated seeing him, I was disgusted and disappointed in him once again.

I instantly went into robot-mode, my neck tilted downward looking at left arm and my right hand closed tightly in a fist that was supporting the blade. Once again I glanced at him in the mirror but this time it was only for reassurance. I knew what he was feeling. I knew what he would’ve said to me. Why didn’t I listen? I could only hear the silver rectangle yelling at me. I quickly looked away from him and then I slowly opened my right hand exposing my master of self destruction. The blade shifted in between my thumb and my index finger. Holding my breath I held it to my left forearm. Applying pressure, I dragged for the same amount of time as I exhaled. Feeling my skin pop and split open from side to side. For a moment I saw a thick white rut in my arm. Blood came rushing in, overflowing the deep gash. ‘Drip’ ‘Drop’ ‘Drip’ the blood dripping into my sink. My gash stings, but I can’t complain because I did this to myself. Oh how I have missed this feeling. This relief of sensation, almost as if I were high on drugs. It felt as big as if an was elephant being lifted off of my shoulders.  I craved more, I wanted more,  I needed more.

This became my obsession, the only thing I could focus on. My mind became a tunnel, with every gash the closer I got to the light at the end. Deeper, longer, wider and more blood.  Again I took a long over exaggerated breathe. I stopped for a moment  to prepare myself and to savor the feeling. I pushed down hard and exhaled for as long as possible, because I needed as much as possible. I dropped the blade, ‘ching’, it hit the floor. Blood came rushing to the forefront and began dripping off my arm into my sink ‘drip’ ‘drop’ drip’. I looked up and  stared at that broken, unlovable boy again. This time he was even more broken. Every time I cave in, every time I give in, and every  time I let it control me he breaks a little more. I could not apologize to the broken boy because he was me and I was him. Realizing what I had done my knees buckled and I collapsed to my floor. I was not focused on the blood profusely running down my arm, instead I became indulged by guilt. All I could do was cry and soon my cries turned into screams. Covering my eyes with both hands the blood became diluted by my own tears. Both dripping on to the floor. When I finally got my uncontrollable wailing under control I uncovered my eyes and slowly rose from my bathroom floor. Still looking at the blood on the floor I wiped the tears from my cheeks; sniffling like when a kid scraps their knee but can’t cry. I turned to my left so I could see the mirror and there was the broken, unlovable boy again. Right where I saw him last. This time he was a little more broken, I knew what did this to him. Not the self destructive behaviors he performed on himself but what the self destruction brought upon him. I could see it in his eyes. His swollen, watery, bloodshot brown eyes. I could see the guilt and shame in his eyes. I look down at his wrist and stared at it for awhile. I wasn’t shocked because I had the same red stained wrist as him. The guilt started to consume me. The shame started to devour my sanity. I collapsed and laid down on my back staring at the ceiling. Still crying, the lukewarm liquid running from my forearm did not intrigue me anymore. The high was gone and so was its control over me. The gashes still stung but did not sting as bad as the shame I felt on the inside.

When I think back on it, my memory of that day is still there, clearly planted in my brain. I’ve tried to get rid of it but it always sticks, like the maple syrup that makes it’s way onto your chair when your family eats pancakes for dinner, the way mine used to all the time. When I really think about it, though, I realize that it wasn’t that day that it all started. It was the day before, and it was all because of Rosalie Blanchard.

 

Rosalie was one of those girls at school that always gave me a death stare when I walked by. For a while I never knew exactly why she did it, but over time I decided she was jealous of me. She should be, after all, I kept telling myself. I have everything. Ambition is something I have never lacked, and back then I had tons of it. My friends and I were going to be models in the near future, and everyone knew it. Money has never been an issue, and we usually spent our weekends shopping at the mall to find the clothes we had seen in the pages of a fashion magazine.

Rosalie’s glasses were too big for her miniature face and were always sliding down her nose. She pushed them back up so often that after sitting close to her in math class for half a year I was ready to grab the duct tape and permanently attach them to her face. She would slide them up and I would breathe a sigh of relief, hoping they would stay when clunk, they would fall straight off her face and onto her desk. Again and again and again.

It was the same way on that memorable day, the day before the day that I remember. Again and again her glasses fell, disrupting the entire class. It wasn’t that I really cared about my math grades (I don’t think models need to know math),  but it was obnoxious. After about fifteen minutes of class, my friend Erin slid me a note. “OMG, this is so crazy. Wish I could just glue those glasses to her face!” I laughed and grabbed my pen to write a response. Unfortunately, luck was not on my side.

“Serafina, I’ll take that note in your hand.” Mrs. Wales was an unforgiving teacher, and one that I particularly despised in that moment.

“Mrs. Wales, it’s nothing. I mean, it’s not a note. It’s just… well, it’s a....a letter! To my uncle. I really need it to stay a secret because there’s some personal family stuff in it.” I rambled on and on, and Erin gave me a look. I quickly stopped talking and turned red.

“A nice try, Serafina. Pass it up, please.” I reluctantly handed her the note, which she immediately unfolded and read aloud.

Rosalie’s face turned bright red and her glasses slid down her nose and onto her desk with a hollow thunk. I felt bad, but also a prick of something else that I later realized was satisfaction. Rosalie had gotten what she deserved for bothering us, and it wasn’t my problem nobody else was brave enough to tell her how annoying she was. Still, seeing her face made my stomach feel hollow.

After class, Erin disappeared without an apology, so I decided not to give one either. Rosalie had other ideas, however. She marched up to me in the doorway, blocking my exit.

“You know what?” she said defiantly, looking me in the eyes, her own eyes red and puffy. “You and Erin and all of your fashion model friends may be pretty and stylish, but that’s all anyone can say about because there isn’t anything inside you. You’re empty, all of you.” She took a deep breath. “Some of us don’t have money like you. Some of us can’t afford nicer glasses. You live in your little bubble where you’re some kind of princess or something, and everything’s bright and colorful and happy. Well, guess what?! The world isn’t like that! It’s all an illusion, everything you have, all those bright, happy colors, so I suggest you leave me alone. Your world will be a whole lot brighter if you treat people like they deserve to be treated.”

I couldn’t believe she had talked to me that way. If she only knew how hard it was to be me. To have the family that I have. In case you were wondering about my family, my father is… he’s gone. He died, about 5 years ago. He was sick, and they couldn’t make him better. When he died, I locked myself in my room for weeks, barely eating, slowly fading away. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t accept his death. The warm, kind woman I had never known life without had hardened her facial features into a mask and never took it off. At first, it wasn’t a physical mask. She was looking for someone to blame for his death, and her face never changed from it’s hardened expression. First it was the doctors. They couldn’t fix him. She stormed into their office, shouting and screaming but never crying. That was the thing that scared me the most. She never cried. Not when he died, not when the doctors made her leave, and not when she turned her stone cold gaze on me, and I knew that she was never going to be the same. And she wasn’t.

She blames me for his death. I’m not sure why, but I know she does. I knew it even before she broke into my room and took all of the money I had saved up for college, because my father had said to save it for something special. She spent that stolen money on makeup, of all things. She always wore it, so much I could barely recognise her anymore. It’s been that way for years. She’s never smiled at me, or told me that she loves me. Her emotions are hidden behind her mask.

Rosalie stormed off, and I stood there in the doorway, my eyes filled with tears.

“She’s right, you know.” I hadn’t realized Mrs. Wales was still in the room. “You leave that girl alone.”

 

The next morning I was still thinking about Rosalie’s words. They echoed in my head the way sound ricocheted around the beach caves my parents used to take me to when I was little. When my family was happy.

I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice, at first, what had happened. It took me a minute, as I sat there in my bedroom, to realize something was wrong. Then, slowly, I saw it. Or actually, I didn’t. I couldn’t see colors.

I screamed. I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t even heard myself scream. But I did, my mother told me, and in a tone that said that she didn’t appreciate having her beauty sleep interrupted.

“The colors! The colors! I can’t see them! I can’t see them!”

“Serafina, that’s such a story. Haven’t I told you not to tell stories?” my mother said, exasperated. Her long nightgown had once been pale blue, but now it was gray. So was her dyed yellow hair.

I hadn’t realized how important color was until I couldn’t see it. My mother looked different without it, like all the layers of artificial beauty had been peeled away, leaving behind a hint at the woman I remember. The woman that used to care about me.

 

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me. My mother acted like that was my fault, like I was lying. I think she knows I’m telling the truth, though, because otherwise she wouldn’t have taken me in the first place. She wouldn’t want to waste money that could be used for her own beautification.

 

I was sent back to school later that day, after the doctor turned me away. Everything looked different now that color was gone. My friends, who had once stood out among the crowd, now looked so similar to everyone else that I barely recognised them. I spent the day in a daze, looking at everything as though I had never seen it before. It wasn’t until the end of the day that something clicked in my mind. Something someone had said. I knew who I had to talk to.

 

I found Rosalie in the library with her nose buried in a book. The idea to see her hadn’t worried me, but once I had actually gotten there I had started to have second thoughts. I was slowly backing away when she whirled around to face me.

“What do you want?” Her expression was stone cold, and reminded me of my mother. In fact, when I blinked, I saw my mother standing there, in her place.

“I….I...um…” I blinked, and she was Rosalie again.

“I told you yesterday to LEAVE ME ALONE!”

She was furious, and I didn’t blame her one bit. She deserved to be mad. I ducked my head. Rosalie seemed to notice that I wasn’t there to hurt her, and her stone cold expression softened just the slightest bit.

“Actually, I came to ask you something.”

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t do homework help. Sorry.”

“It’s not that. I wanted to ask…What did you mean about illusions the other day?”

“It was just something to say to make you leave me alone.”

“Was it? Because this morning when I woke up, I couldn’t see colors anymore. Explain that.”

Rosalie’s eyes widened.

“Remarkable,” she said, staring at me. “I don’t believe it.”

“What? WHAT?!”

“You have lost the illusion of color. You must have. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Color is an illusion?”

“No, of course not. But you… As I said before, you live in a bubble. Or did, at least. But when I told you about it, I guess the bubble burst. The colors you thought you could see were just an illusion built by that bubble. Now that it’s gone, you can’t see them.”

 

Nothing Rosalie had said made sense, but it was more logical than what the doctor had suggested, which was that I was delusional.

“Can I get them back?”

She took a moment to ponder this, then said “Maybe. Some people (your friends, for instance), only see color as an illusion. I, on the other hand, was trained to see the real colors. I could do it since I was very small.”

I decided not to say that she still was very small.

“So… how do I do it?”

 

A week later, I was sitting on the school roof, which is off-limits to students. I can’t see why, though, because it has a 4-foot wall all the way around it. I think it was made so students could eat lunch up here or something, but the rumor is that the teachers thought “Our school is so high up that all with all these suicidal teenagers, we’ll have a huge death toll on our hands.” Or something like that.

The thing is, though, the roof was really pretty. Well, not the roof itself, since nobody’s been up her since the janitors the last summer, but there was a really great view. Rosalie told me to meet her up there, so I could get the colors back.

After a few minutes of staring at the grey city below me, I heard the clatter of the big metal door to the roof. Rosalie climbed through the door and sat next to me.

“Hi, Serafina.” It was weird to hear a girl who used to hate me say me name without even a hint of distaste in her voice.

“Hi.”

“Are you ready to see color again?” She smiled, and pointed up. “Tell me, what colors can you see in the sky?”

“Grey.”

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see pink, orange, yellow, purple...and so many more.”

She stared out at the sunset, seemingly lost in thought. The dull gray glow of the sun setting deeper into the sky made Rosalie’s eyes sparkle dully.

“So… how can I see the colors, too?”

She jumped a bit, as if she had forgotten I was there.

“Right, right. So. Like I said before, you can’t see colors because your illusion of the world  disappeared, so now you can see without, shall we say, a protective bubble filtering out what you want to see and don’t want to see. You can’t regain those colors because they were never there to begin with. You have to find the real colors.”

A thought occurred to me.

“Why are you doing this? You hated me just last week.”

Rosalie smiled. “I have my reasons.”

“So you do still hate me! I should have known this was a load of crap. All that illusions stuff… I can’t believe I bought into it.”

“That’s not it at all! You’re right, I’ve always disliked you… But I’ve also never had a friend before. I figured if I helped you…”

I smiled, and for a second I could see the colors in the sunset before they faded back to grey.

 

Rosalie and I have been best friends for a year now. My old friends never quite understood why I abandoned them the way I did, but Rosalie was right- they’re all empty. I have the colors back now, too. They’re even brighter than before.

I said I would never forget the day they disappeared, which is true. But what’s more important is the day I got them back.

 

I sat in the car with my mother, on the way to the pool. She wasn’t swimming, of course. But I was meeting Rosalie, and in a surprise turn of events, she had agreed to drive me. We sat in silence a while, until she pulled up at the pool. As I climbed out of the car, she said,

“I just wanted to let you know, Serafina… I’m not mad at you.” I stared at her in shock, one leg out the door.

“ I was just mad, I guess, for all these years. Your father was a good man who never deserved to die. I took out my anger for his death on you.” She paused. “I’ve been seeing a therapist, and he helped me understand that. I’m so, so sorry, Serafina. For everything.”

I guess I was smiling when I got out of the pool locker room, because Rosalie grinned at me.

“I’ve never seen you quite so happy. What happened?” When I told her, she hugged me.

“Oh Serafina, I’m so glad for you!” She looked out towards rippling blueness of the pool.” You know, that pool isn’t going to swim in itself.”

As I plunged into the icy water with my best friend, the world finally felt right. As I fell, the grey grew brighter and brighter, until I couldn’t see it at all.

Just Another Zombie

By: Andrew Hawley

That night, Raphael was found eating a sandwich at midnight. There was a noise coming from outside the cabin, he failed to notice. Then it became louder. And louder. And louder. He began to notice. Then it stopped. He continued eating his BLT as if nothing had happened. And nothing did happen. He ate happily and then went back to sleep.

It was the next night. Up as usual at midnight. This time, it was a PB and J. His personal favorite. Then he heard the noise again, but louder than the previous night. And there was moaning. Loud moaning. There was a scratching too. Like nails clawing to… break in. He checked out the first window. Nothing. The second window. Nothing. The third. Nothing. Then a shattering of glass made the hairs on the back of Raphael’s neck stand up. But the windows were fine in his cabin. After all, it was only one room, and he would know if his  windows were broken.

Then the screaming started. He could see others sprinting. He saw the broken window in the cabin next to him. He could see a green figure lurching toward Raphael’s screaming friend. Henry. He jumped into action, sneaking up behind the zombie about to make a feast out of Henry, and stuffing the half eaten PB and J down it’s throat. Raphael loved his Peanut butter sticky. Which was a good thing, because the zombie was now busy trying to brush his yellow teeth with his hand.

They started sprinting side-by-side into the woods, as a group of zombies formed behind them, sprinting like their hunger was unbearable and couldn’t be taken as a joke any longer. Unfortunately for the campers, there was a group up ahead as well. Henry screamed ”Into the woods!!!” which was the best option available. Sprinting up a hill, they were able to catch a break. The zombies lost interest and started chasing other campers. Catching their breath, they trudged on wordlessly. Past bare trees and bushes. They found a good climbing tree and decided to risk it. After all, zombies weren’t good at climbing, right? Occasionally, they saw some groups trudge by, oblivious to the rather enticing meal above them.

Then there was Jack, a good friend of theirs, getting chased by the biggest train of zombies yet. “Jack!!! Climb faster than you ever have before!!!” They screamed at the same time. Scrambling up to the same level of branches that  Raffaele and Henry were on, Jack started wobbling side to side from the sheer effort of climbing a 50 foot tree in less than a minute “Thanks guys.” he huffed. “I was a goner.” “Don’t mention it.” said Raphael.

The one big group of zombies decided that 3 campers were enough to be a good meal and started pooling at the bottom of the tree. The huge group attracted more and more zombies. Then they started to get desperate. One tried for the first branch. His arm fell off. He tried again, giving the others the courage to attempt the climb as well. Eventually they made progress. Scary progress. The more time passed, the farther they got. Until they were 5 feet below them. The campers made a decision. They started prepping themselves for the dangerous leap to another tree branch.

They didn’t make it. To the branch that they intended to land on, anyway. Raphael got a hold on a branch just below the intended one. The others did the same. The zombies now started to try figuring out how to get to the new tree. They jumped as well, with not as much luck. The zombies hung from the bare branches like ornaments, making it look like it was christmas time in the north pole. The campers made their way down the tree in the hopes that they could sprint away fast enough so that the zombies couldn’t catch up.

It worked. The zombies started deliberately falling off the tree to pursue the three. They did not stop to rest. Running deeper into the woods, the campers saw the zombies regrouping. And more adding on to the train, which was terrible luck, considering that they had another zombie in front of them. Except it wasn’t a zombie. It was a scientist. “That guy has to have had better days.” Raphael said under his breath. The scientist beckoned them forward as the train grew. “Come inside!!! Quickly!!!” He said. They followed him into a cave.

Which turned out to be a lot more comfortable and civil than just a regular old cave. It was a laboratory. A small one at that, but nevertheless a laboratory. The equipment looked high-tech to Raphael considering that he was not the best in modern day technology. And then he saw it. The train closing in. Blocking all exit. The scientist started pressing buttons and pulling levers on a control board. Then a mechanical voice came from the speaker on the control board,”Access Granted. Closing Doors.” And the zombies slowly went out of sight, as the door sealed them inside the dark and damp cave.

The scientist offered them no explanation as he busied himself on taking notes on a human in a tank. His skin tone was slightly different. A little bit more… green. ”Ummmm… doctor?” Jack said “ What is happening?” He ignored Jack. So they stood in silence. Until he spoke. “You are all going to die.” Naturally, their jaws all fell open. “Just kidding.” They exchanged nervous glances. “Unless you screw this up. Then you’re all dead.” They got ready for the “Just kidding”. It didn’t come. The scientist proceeded to continue with explanation of what they were undoubtedly going to screw up.

It was a genius plan. One that would make them heroes, and stories of glory and fortune were sure to follow (best case scenario). Or they would all be made into a delicious buffet (worst case scenario). They sprang into action. Looping cords through cords and working together to help build the weapon. Finally, they were ready. They ran out of the cave that meant certain safety and into the open which meant almost certain death.

They sprinted all with earpieces because if something went wrong, they could make up a plan on the fly. They saw a few stragglers, but none gave them any trouble. The scientist spoke the dreadful words,”You’re almost there.” and the group groaned. They didn’t want to be close to their destination. But they needed to. Unless they wanted the human race to go extinct.

The campers snuck through a bush, about to undertake an incredible feat. It was like rush hour in chicago. Wherever you looked, a sea of green was blocking their view of the dirt on the ground. And they weren’t trees. Raphael’s palms started sweating. There was a cold wind, and the temperature didn’t explain why he was sweating. They prepped the weapon, about to unleash the powers of science upon the freaks of nature. The others started shifting uncomfortably, and Raphael wasn’t doing much better to control the fear rising into his throat.

Part of them wanted to go screaming back to the cave. But they had to stay. “I think i’m going to be sick.” Henry whispered. The color of his puke and matched the zombies skin color. His face did, too. As they shook and slowly got out their projectiles, they prepared themselves to hurl the quick “Arts and crafts” project.”Three…Two…One...0.5…” Raphael said, ashamed of himself for dragging it out.”Go.”

Then, Raphael snapped awake from his nightmare. To a faint...moaning and... scratching on his door.

 

 

Have you ever noticed that when people die, it’s not on their list of things to do that day? However, now I can relate to them. My name is Benjamin, I’m 16 years old, and this is my story.

 

“Hey Tyler, wait up!” I shouted on a cool autumn day, running to catch up with my best friend. I live in Kindred, the capital city of Heron, in the year 2032. It’s usually peaceful and uneventful, though sometimes we do hear bad news, such as what we were about to find out today.

As I took my seat in Social Studies, my teacher, Ms. Raleigh, called for the class' attention.

“Okay everyone, settle down,” she chided, “I have some news.” At this, the class fell silent, fearing it would be related to our current war with Parrish, a powerful country that often clashed with Heron. Sadly, we were correct.

Ms. Raleigh continued, “This morning, Heron bombed Parrish, taking 176 lives. The president of Parrish has sworn revenge on our country, threatening to destroy our homes with a NAT bomb, similar to the A-BOMB.” She sighed, a grim look on her face, before going on. “The state will sound alarms if there is any threat of an attack. If you hear air raid sirens, take cover immediately.”

I shared a look with my girlfriend Lauren, her face crinkled with worry lines. What would happen to us? Would we be ripped apart as so many had been before us?

At this, we ended the discussion, and turned our attention to our lesson. Even so, not one person in the class smiled for the rest of the day.

 

As I trudged home, I couldn’t seem to get the war out of my mind, until I saw my little sister Abigail running up to me.

“Benny!” she exclaimed, jumping into my arms. “The most amazing thing happened on my TV show today!”

“Really? Tell me about it.” I said as we walked inside. My mom was standing by the counter, washing the dishes, when we walked in. As she heard us coming, she turned around, smiling but with worry in her eyes.

“Hey Ben, how was your day?” she asked. She said it casually, but with a clear message in her eyes: Don’t talk about it here, not now. Abigail didn’t need to know about the latest development in our war, she was too young.

“Great.” I answered meeting her eyes. “Though I do have a bunch a homework.” This comment resulted in her ordering me to my room, and I gladly obliged, as I needed time to think.

 

Once I reached my bedroom, I settled onto my bed, pondering the day's events. Why does the world have to go to war? Did God create it? Does He approve? But perhaps most important of all, what will happen to me and my family? We could try to flee, but where would we go? All of our family lives in Kindred, and…

No, I thought, shaking my head. If I was destined to die, I could accept it. But I could not accept that fate for my family. Would life be as merciless as to give little Abigail over to the grip of death? And the same for the rest of my family? And what about Lauren and Tyler? With these dark thoughts still churning in my mind, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

I awoke to the sound of a car horn honking. Dad’s home, I thought blearily before dragging myself out of bed. I quickly checked myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, so I quickly smoothed it down before walking downstairs. The kitchen door opened as I crossed the landing, and I saw my father hug Abby, laughing, though it sounded forced, before giving my mom a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi Benjamin!” he said. “Guess what I did today?” he paused for barely a second before continuing. As he launched into his story, I started to zone out and drift away. Once again I found my thoughts drifting back to the war, until a loud noise wrenched me from my dream land.

Eeeoooeeeooo eeeoooeeeooo a loud sound from outside startled me, leaving my ears ringing.The air raid sirens were ringing. God help us I prayed as I jumped up. My parents froze, then flew into action.

“What’s that, Mommy?” Abigail asked. “Is there a tornado coming?”

“No, sweetie.” she replied with evident strain in her voice. “Everyone go to the basement. Now.” We all scrambled to the basement door, tripping over one another in our haste. “Come on Benja-”

BOOM! The loud noise shook the earth. The house began to collapse on us, trapping my family inside the basement.

“Ben!” I heard my mom scream. I tried to answer her, but sawdust choked me, filling my lungs and throat.  My heart breaking, I stumbled backward, tripping and feeling dizzy. I wondered if this is how the people of Pompeii felt, trapped and helpless, not knowing what was happening. I rushed out into the street, just as the house caved in.

Mom, Dad, Abigail… I thought, my mind searching for an explanation. Is this how it would end? Surely this could not be happening, it must be a figment of my imagination. The boom would be explainable, as would the sirens. At least these were my hopes, before I saw the debris and fire. This was no normal bomb. A ring of fire seemed to spread from the center of Kindred, starting on the brink of the horizon and traveling faster and faster. The fire rose higher than the eye could see, swallowing everything in its path. I heard broken screaming all around me, making my eardrums throb. I shoved my fingers in my ears to try to muffle it but it didn’t make a difference. Only later would I notice it was coming from me.

The fire was coming closer, the heat singeing the hair on my arms. Chunks of debris from houses, cars, and more flew around me as the winds picked up. Yet I held my ground, bracing myself against the gusts.

As I watched the roaring flames coming towards me, I found the perplexing idea of one’s life flashing before their eyes. My mind drifted away, and the world faded into nothingness.

 

Suddenly, it was my fifth birthday. My buck teeth protruded from my face, and I had a mischievous smile that unnerved the substitute teachers. My class had just finished singing happy birthday to me, and I was about to take a bite out of a cookie, when the kid next to me started crying. His name was Tyler, and he was allergic to the cookies.

“Stop crying.” I said crossly. “It’s annoying.” But my heart gradually softened, and I began to pity him, and asked him if he wanted to come to my house after school. He dried his tears and weakly smiled, saying he would have to check with his mom…

 

“We’re home!” my mother called as my father opened up the door to the house, holding a baby carrier in his arms.

“Yay!” I shouted. “Look Grandma, the baby came!”

“Yes, I see that.” she replied, chuckling. “What name did you give her Jessica?” she asked mom.

“We named her Abigail. It means, father’s joy.” Grandma liked it, but I personally thought that the meaning didn’t matter.

After Mom got settled back in (Grandma had said Mom was tired), I walked over to the baby and peeked in the carrier. She’s ugly, was my first thought. But then she smiled and made baby sounds, causing me to laugh. I asked Dad if I could hold her…

 

I watched her from across the classroom. I was in 7th grade, and my true love, or so I thought then, was in my class. Her name was Lauren, and she wasn’t exactly popular, but not unpopular either. She loved to make people laugh, through making jokes about herself or certain topics, but never about other people. She didn’t gossip, and was gentle and kind, making her beautiful in her own spectacular way. I didn’t date her until the 10th grade, as middle school relationships never last longer than a few months, but all through the years I dreamed about it.

“Hey Ben,” she called running to catch up with me after class.

“Yeah?” I responded, my heart thumping inside my chest.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. Was it my imagination or was she blushing? “I wanted to know whether or not you were going to try out for the school musical or not.” She paused, before continuing, “I’ve heard you sing before and you sound amazing.” She likes my voice? Really? “I’m part of the musical committee, and we were wondering whether or not you would try out.”

“Um, sure, okay.” I responded sheepishly.

“Great, auditions are on Friday.” she said, shoving a flyer in my hand. “See you around!”

She dashed away and was soon lost in the crowd…

 

My mind came to as if it were surfacing from a pool. The fire was almost upon me now, but I determinedly stood tall, feeling the heat stripping my mind away like layers on an onion. Hope gave me strength as the fire got closer, threatening to take my life, and then it swallowed me whole.

 

A bright light almost blinding, surrounded me,  I was floating, weightless, in a sea of emptiness. My loved ones surrounded me. Mom, Dad, Abigail, Lauren, Tyler, all whispering encouraging words, giving me strength. The bright light came closer and closer. I could no longer see. A safe feeling filled my body, tingling and warm. Angels were singing a heavenly chorus, and then everything around me shattered.

 

 

 I.

It was the first time I had visited Lieutenant General Vivian’s grave since she had been shot to death by a Government army soldier, not including when I went to her funeral. The sun had started to set, casting an extraordinary prism of yellow and orange tones across the sky, which was painted with numerous golden clouds. A truly idyllic scene, to say it succinctly.

 

Her headstone laid under a large cherry blossom tree— one that bloomed in late June and lost its flowers in the wake of September. Along with the tree’s blooms, many different types of flowers adorned her resting place. Many soldiers left camellias, for her last name had been Camellia. Others left roses, larkspurs, poppies— Hell, there were so many flowers that I could never count all the different kinds. The individual army we were in, known as the Six Hundred, consisted of many people who thought we were like a gigantic family, and because of that, we all gave her blossoms so she knew how much we loved her.

 

They were all heartbroken when they heard the news; not because she was a significant member of our military— being our lead strategist and tactician, but because she was no older than fourteen years old. Vivian had managed to convince her parents to let her join the Rebellion military, and she immediately applied to be a strategist. Her parents told me that she had been known as a local child genius, with a high IQ and a bright mind. Shockingly, she actually got the highest score on the Tactics exam, and I had no choice but to allow her to be a high rank as a result.

 

Instantly, I formed a bond with her. I had lost my own child due to my ex-fiancee having struggles that ended in a stillbirth, and I longed for the desire to have a daughter. The ecstasy of being able to live vicariously through her was possibly one of the best feelings I had ever known. I adored her— watching her every little action with curiosity and interest. From the way she talked, smiled… even just the little subconscious actions she performed when she was writing or planning. It had gotten to the point where I would accidentally refer to her as “my daughter” when conversing with others, which resulted in me covering my face in a feeling of discomfiture.

 

However, every part of our connection was crushed in mere seconds, on a day where the sky was overcast and the ground was cold. That day, where she went on the battlefield and was shot to death by a high-ranking General from the Government military. I remember holding her limp body, soothing her and trying to mitigate her agony as calmly as possible. She had been shot directly above the heart, and I knew there was nothing I could do to save her. Her last words were stifled, but they flowed out of her mouth as if she had planned to tell me this for a long time. She had said to me:

 

“Evans, you’ve done so much for me; I had to return the favor. Thank you for being such a great leader. No matter what happens, you’ll always be in my thoughts… Let’s see each other again soon, okay?”

 

I nodded to her, barely able to choke out the word “okay” through my tears. When she heard me, she closed her eyes and died with a smile on her face.

Standing up, I decided to stop lamenting the past— for I would just become sullen and wistful thinking about her now-evanescent presence. Setting the carnations that I had left for her next to her stone, I turned and headed back to the military base, where my soldiers awaited me.

 

II.

 

I had lost count of how many times I had visited Vivian’s grave since her funeral. It had to have been at least two hundred. I tried to visit her grave daily whenever I was close enough. This time, I was filled with joy. With tears welling up in my eyes, I spoke to her; I knew she was listening.

 

“Vivian! Dear Vivian, we won the war! The Government military surrendered, and now we finally took power!” I fell onto the grass, digging my hands into the ground in front of her headstone, staring at the silent stone that was before me. I continued to smile, reading over her epitaph a few times before I eventually calmed down from excitement. I leaned back, my hands holding me up as I sprawled out on the ground. I took off my military jacket, setting it on the ground next to me and tilting my head to the side.

 

“Why did you leave such a negative thing on your epitaph, Vivian?” I read it again, paying careful attention to it once more.

 

VIVIANA ROSEANNA CAMELLIA
DECEMBER 24 - AUGUST 21

 

THE EVIL TRUTH IS ALWAYS BEHIND YOU

TO STAB YOU IN THE BACK

 

Why she asked for that on her headstone had always befuddled me. Perhaps, someone did something to her and she left behind a warning to others. Maybe she wanted to play a little joke and confuse everyone who read her stone. Either way, it was certainly an aberration from her usual demeanor, and I always felt strange after reading it. I knew so much about her, but this was the one thing I didn’t think I would ever comprehend.

 

I gave a small smile, shaking my head. “You really are an interesting girl, you know that? Did you want people to remember you in such a negative way?” I went silent for a moment, almost waiting for a response that I knew I would not receive and would not receive for quite a long time.

 

I stared at her headstone, thinking about the words and how they made my mind spiral into confusion. I read them over and over again, eventually giving up as I noticed the moon had risen high into the sky, and the mosquitoes were dining off my blood with perfunctory ease. I leaned forwards, wiping off some of the dirt on her resting marker with an aching arm, before putting on my jacket and buttoning it up. I waved farewell to her, smiling and telling her that I enjoyed her company.

 

As I headed down the hill, I saw a glimpse of her beautiful, glowing face for just a short moment.

 

III.

 

This time, I was not happy when I visited Vivian’s grave. I was choking on my own saliva, feeling as though I was about to vomit. I was sickened.

 

It had been about eight months since I had last been at her grave. In that time, I didn’t expect much to happen… and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

I had lost my quixotic view on life. My mind became ill -- telling me that my lust for peace could be achieved by ending it all— and I gave in. I woke up on the floor of my kitchen, curious as to what had happened.

 

Eventually, I remembered that I tried to overdose on medication. I barely escaped the maw of death.

 

I didn’t know whether I was happy about it or not at first. I ached to be with Vivian again. I wanted to see her beautiful face, and be able to embrace her fragile body in my arms. Over time, I became grateful that I didn’t die that night. It was a miracle, considering I lived alone in the middle of nowhere. Despite this, my mental health got worse. My mind was still sick, always telling me that I could try to kill myself again and be with my imitation daughter.

 

After a period of time, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got in my car and drove to Vivian’s gravesite as quickly as I could. I ran up the hill, before my legs felt like they both broke as I collapsed in front of her headstone, which had started to grow foliage on it. My tears spotted the base of the monument, as I wept to her and spoke of my sorrows.

 

“Vivian… Please, come back to me. I want to see you again… I’m so scared— I can’t go a day without thinking about how much better it would be if I killed myself just to see you, but I don’t want to die yet. Help me; help me find a cure for this. It’s all I ask for, please.”

 

I waited for a response, listening for anything. The trees rustling, the night birds cooing— any noise at all would be enough.

 

Yet, I heard nothing. I heard silence. Looking up, through my clouded veil of tears, I read her epitaph again.

 

THE EVIL TRUTH IS ALWAYS BEHIND YOU

TO STAB YOU IN THE BACK

 

“...Is this what you meant, Vivian? That the truth finally got to me? That I have to suffer on this planet until death takes me away with one fell swoop?”

 

The agony of silence continued to occupy the surrounding area. I waited a few more moments, before dropping my head again.

“Will you be there for me?” I whispered, as though I didn’t want anyone else to hear.

 

A wind blew, rustling the tree. I continued to keep my eyes on the ground, swallowing thickly. A few short moments later, a lone cherry blossom fell onto the base of her headstone, right between where my hands had been. I smiled. “Thank you,” I murmured, my tears of sadness mixing with new tears of comfort.

 

I slept next to her headstone that night.

 

IV.

 

It was December 25th when I saw something that warmed my heart at Vivian’s grave. I trudged through the snow, my boots crunching as I made my way up the hill. When I reached the top, I stopped in my tracks and stared at her stone, before smiling and slowly heading over to it.

 

Her stone had been decorated with flowers. Some of them were real, but many were spurious in design. Wrapped around the stone with thin, brown vines were magenta clematis flowers. Below, there were a few baskets and pots of flowers. Though there weren't as many, I recognized many of the flowers from her funeral immediately. The camellias were numerous, with an entire basket being filled with them. There was a vase of white roses nearby, though they had started to droop. Small petunias and poppies laid among some zinnias and carnations. The comfort of the flowers made the reminder of her death seem less macabre.

 

I reached out and touched one of the clematis flowers, its cold, fragile petals shivering under my warm fingers. I looked down at her grave, noticing the knit blanket that was wrapped around the base of her headstone. Moving my gaze, I saw a piece of thick paper sticking out between the stone and the blanket. I bent down, pulling it out slowly and reading it.

 

Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas, and Have A Wonderful New Year, Viviana!

 

-- Takao and Levitica Zenruth

 

My small smile turned into a grin of warmth. I had been aware of the fact that Takao and Levitica, two high ranking commissioned soldiers, had gotten married shortly after the war ended. However, I wasn’t aware of the fact that they visited Vivian’s grave and left her flowers. The idea of people still visiting her and keeping her company made me so happy, to the point where I could feel my eyes clouding up with tears.

 

Then, I started to cry. Smiling and choking out a strangled chuckle, I crossed my arms and stood up straight, my gaze slowly moving back and forth between the different foliage sitting around her headstone. After a few minutes of staring silently, I spoke to the beloved child who was resting before me.

 

“I’m really glad that other people take care of you when I’m not around,” I murmured, sniffling a bit.

 

I listened to her response-- the wind blowing softly. She was attending.

 

“It makes me feel like others haven’t forgotten you, since you left us about three and a half years ago. I haven’t seen much of anyone else visiting; not even General M’envoler… or your own parents,” my voice got a bit quieter when I said the last part, as if I didn’t want to be mistaken and anger her.

 

The wind instantly blew louder, my scarf flying up out of my coat. I frowned a bit, worried that I made her mad. I stepped back from her headstone, seeing if anything would happen.

 

However, the breeze died down after a few short moments, eventually blowing gently and calmly. She was agreeing with me; she was sad.

 

I reached out, pressing my hand against her stone and smiling. “Don’t worry… As long as I’m here, it’ll be okay.”

 

The wind went silent.

 

“Dad’s here for you.”

 

V.

 

It had been nine years since Vivian died. In that time, a lot had happened. I tried to kill myself, I reunited with my third lover, I adopted a boy as my own. Fate had kept me busy for the last three of those nine years.

 

Trudging up that familiar hill, I swallowed thickly as the summer cicadas cried, making their presence known. Perhaps they were telling Vivian that I had finally returned.

 

I got to the top of the hill, seeing her headstone. The clematis vines that Takao and Levitica planted all those years ago had overtaken it, covering it in spectacular beauty. I slowly moved towards her, stopping in front of her.

 

“I’m sorry it took so long,” I mumbled, rubbing my hands shamefully. “Are you angry?”

 

The wind -- the one that I knew all too well, blew quietly. “No,” she was saying.

 

I smiled. “Thanks,” I stated. I set my eyes on her epitaph, reading it for the first time in many years. Instantly, I remembered those strange words.

 

THE EVIL TRUTH IS ALWAYS BEHIND YOU

TO STAB YOU IN THE BACK

 

I bit my lip, thinking for a moment. “I wish you would tell me what that meant… You’ve got no idea how many hours I’ve laid in bed -- just thinking about that phrase.”

 

She said nothing, but the cicadas continued to scream. Almost on cue, one flew over, landing on her grave and resting on it.

 

Frowning, I reached forwards to swat it away. It wriggled away from my hand, running to the backside of her headstone. I followed it, walking around her stone to get it off.

 

I reached out, brushing it away. It flew off, revealing something that I had never seen before.

AND I GAVE MY LIFE TO SAVE YOU FROM IT.

 

 

My eyes shot wide with realization. My knees buckled, giving away as I collapsed to the ground and started to sob. I finally knew why she was on the battlefield that day.

 

 

 She sacrificed her own life to save me from the evil truth’s blade.