To my future spouse,
Thank you for maybe existing, I truly appreciate it. I need to hope someone will love me again someday. I hope you’re doing better than I am socially, so maybe I can just hijack your friend group the way I had Lucius’ in high school.
I know, it’s kind of sad my only relationship so far has been three months my freshman year of high school. I needed that independence afterwards, though, and I am not completely alone: I do have friends from university I have kept in touch with, and I even have a job now, so not all my socializing is internet or phone based. An unfortunate amount is, but not all.
And who knows? Maybe we will start as an internet based interaction before blossoming into some people whose lives can intertwine.
I’m on a dating app, Boo, but somehow I doubt that that’s where our worlds will collide. I don’t even know if you exist though, so I’m just throwing as many opportunities to connect into the universe as I can without opening myself up to danger.
Yeah, it’s hard to know what to say to someone who might not even exist. I love you or will probably love you, and I don’t want to ruin that. It would be kinda cute if maybe I met you via this Prose post, but I’m not holding my hopes very high that that’ll be our path-crossing either. Maybe I just have no idea how relationships start anymore now that school is not exactly a facilitator in the equation.
Unless we meet in grad school, which would be brilliant. Spouse-spouse entomologist teams tend to write books together, and interesting papers.
Hopefully this will inspire someone to give me a chance,
Felix
Why? Did you think I’d forget?
My hand wandered in thought. It always did. Whenever I was deep in thought, it would stray to this perfectly straight line of freckles that ran down from my temple to just bellow my eye. A burst of frustration surged through my veins. I was now 16 years of age, or at least it looked that way. I was actually 2000 years old, or I had been until my old right-hand man had tried to kill me with a magic laced silver dagger.
You see I’m a fairy and it’s rather difficult to kill me. Over my 2000 years of life, I have collected lots of magic and old long forgotten charms to protect me as the reigning monarch of the Land of the Forgotten. Mortal weapons have no effect on me, mythical and demonic beasts all respect and obey me, iron normally effects fairies but doesn’t affect me to the same extent due to my half mortal blood (just gives me a nasty headache), and I have all sorts of wards to protect me against elemental magic. The only thing that could possibly kill me are old silver relics laced with the destructive magic of the Old Mages who died for the relics and pored their life source into the items, but even then I just reawaken at the age of 13, which is really irritating cause I have to train and become stronger again and the whole dying temporarily thing is painful and an exhausting process to go through.
Grinding my teeth and dropping my arm as HE walked in, I thought angrily, “If you’re going to take my kingdom from me and kill me at least do it correctly. “
I wasn’t a bad ruler. My right-hand man was a greedy pig and thought he could take it from me when we had finally achieved peace for the Forgotten. Bastard.
He now sat on the ancient throne of the Forgotten, MY throne, the throne that had been in my family for centuries. He sat on it with his large wine belly, chubby face, grubby hands and his piggish eyes dancing with delight as he ogled the handmaidens. Glaring from under my hooded cloak I stood silent as all servants who waited on the king should. I was only a cup bearer, but it gave me full access to his drink so I could lace the wine or whatever drink had taken his fancy that week with magic.
Standing there I thought of why I had kept him on as my right-hand man, even when I had known he was a greedy pig, the reason being he had a knack for getting into places he wasn’t meant to be and more importantly I thought I had owed it to his brother, High heavens hold him in his eternal slumber, to look after the oaf. Now he has stolen my throne, has made my people suffer at his chubby greedy paws and I now must be one of his servants to get close enough to slowly curse his soul for all eternity and eventually duel him for the throne as the honourable thing would be to do!
Glee like a kid getting away with a successful cookie jar heist rushed through me as I thought of how much I’m going to enjoy making him pay for my peoples suffering at his hands and his outrageous spending of resources. The land was almost destroyed because of him and his greed.
Month in and month out I kept serving him, slowly, bit by bit lacing his drinks with subtle traces of magic that he would be too drunk to notice.
Month in and month out I trained and trained, from dusk till dawn, I trained until my hands were raw.
Month in and month out I spread stories of a challenger arising to challenge the Pig King.
Month in and month out I won the peoples favour secretly, promising them vengeance and the payment due to them for their suffering.
Month in and month out he grew more paranoid and became harsher with his punishments and depleted more resources trying to win the favour of the nobles.
Month in and month out the people started rebelling.
And then, the silver dagger was stolen, and a challenge was demanded of the king. In an intoxicated state he accepted the challenge and rashly announced that it would be held at the next high moon, in the ancient amphitheatre of the Old Ones. High moon was in 3 days. The dumb oaf had just signed and sealed his own life away and had it presented to me on a silver plate.
Paranoid and frantic he tried to gain back the strength he’d lost over a long 50 years of feasting and drinking. He frantically paced away those 3 days, searching for a way out.
Day 1 was paced away with all of 15mins of battle prep that ended in hunched over gasps and fits of coughing.
Day 2 was paced away as they searched for a willing mage to put a spell on the king to de-age him. They came up empty handed.
And day 3 was paced away in a fit of wheezes, coughs and failed training attempts all to end with him finding the most outlandishly decorated and covering armour and drinking the night away until the sun dawned on the challenge day.
As he walked into the arena the crowd roared with displeasure. Almost the whole kingdom had gathered to watch his downfall. Across from him I stood, standing in my silver cloak, hood concealing my identity, my traditional war paint smeared on my cheekbones and high pointed ears. Even without the symbol of my war paint that only I wore and the family sword that hung at my hip completely concealed by the cloak everyone in the kingdom would recognise me. Their old queen. The moment I removed the cloak I would watch his face fall and go snow white with fear for he thinks his worst nightmare lies cold and dead 3ft under, the bastard couldn’t even bury me properly.
The horns blare, the crowds roar and the old arena came alive again for the 1st time in almost 2100 years. His hand goes to his horrendously and grossly over decorated sword and he charges. I glide easily away. "He’s lost his touch," I think to myself as he almost trips and falls when he meets no resistance to his charge.
Smirking I grip the very dagger he tried to kill me with, still hidden from my cloak and my identity still concealed. He swings round and charges again. Without turning around, I dodge with the grace gifted to me through my ancient blood. I find a tiny gap in his armour. I slice. Nobody sees it until he grunts, falls to a knee and brings his hand to the wound to find blood seeping out. Turning around his boring brown eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open flabbergasted. The crowd is silent, nobody knows how I did it. Smiling wickedly, I whip my cloak off and let it fly with the wind. All the blood drains from his face as he looks at me. Healthy, young, strong, alive and brimming with the fury of all the monarchs who governed the beautiful Land of the Forgotten before me.
The crowd goes wild. Smirking, I’m in front of him in a second. Dagger to his throat I whisper for only him to hear fear making my words harsh and full of dark humour, “Why? Did you think I forgot? After all these years. She must have forgotten the anger from my betrayal. She can’t possibly burn with fury still. She would understand. Right? Think again.” And with that I ended his miserable existence and burnt his body as we do with traitors and not as I would have my right-hand man. I would say sorry to his brother when I do meet him on the other side but until then I will reign as monarch of the Forgotten and wear the birthmark from the wound that almost killed me, as a warning to all those who try to hurt the Forgotten ones and dare go against their Queen.
Podunk
We gotta get out of this place
If it's the last thing we ever do__The Animals
1
The lights cast their yuletide illumination over the living room. Woven gracefully around the faux needles of the artificial Christmas tree were those bulbs of deep blue,rich purple, & the reds and greens that make you want to bask in its glow.
On the floor in a semicircle sat Hunter Riley and his family, Momma, Dad, and his kid cousin, Becky, they was raising cuz her folks were crackheads doing time in the pokey( that's down south slang meaning jail for the uninitiated.) The group was surrounded by the remnants of wrapping paper strone about and overturned gift bags now emptied of their contents.
Hunter Riley was decked out in the Christmas pj's he'd opened last night, for it had long been tradition for the Riley family, at least this particular branch of ’em, to open one present the night before the Big Day. Christmas Morning no gifts were open until the story of Christ’s birth was either watched or read from the good book & of course later that night they'd sit in front of the T.V. and watch the Peanuts special. All-in-all it was an old fashioned down home Christmas. He was glad to have this time with his family before he returned to College. It was always bittersweet but he'd be back here soon enough. Everyone always came back here.
The days passed as they would, some stressful others not. When not cramming for exams or slogging through homework Hunter Riley could be found either hunkered down in his dorm room shutting out the world while he watched T.V. or read books–mostly though he just caught up on sleep–or hanging out with his friends. Eventually the moment came. He had to choose where to spend his internship that would take up his spring semester. He was at a crossroads. One path led to uncertainty, the other to the familiar warmth of home. Home won out in the end. Momma and Dad came up to Oklahoma to help him pack his stuff(far too much stuff for those years of college.) Becky had stayed in Louisiana with a friend of the family that Hunter himself had grown up with as well. His last night there he sat in the empty husk that he'd called home. He watched videos on YouTube about various paranormal topics because that was what intrigued him. On the desk beside his laptop was a collection of comic books given to him by a fellow buff, a man in his late fifties perhaps his sixties who worked the night shift at the front desk at the dorms.
He, that is Hunter Riley had spent two years at this here technical college because that's how long it takes for an associates degree you understand. For a man that had homeschooling all the way through Highway through high-school and was introverted as a turtle surrounded by dogs it was a bold, new experience. The initial adjustment period was tough, especially getting lost the first couple of days which wouldn't happen again until a few semesters later but that was a mix up in classrooms.
Eventually he'd adjust and throw himself into his studies. Math has always been his kryptonite and one day after three all-nighters in front of his computer screen that made him want to gouge his eyes out he decided to take a break. He journeyed forth from his dorm and walked the distance to the IT building where the tech support and programmers of tomorrow were being trained up and nurtured with bad pizza and energy drinks.
The gamer nerds held a Lan party once a month and he'd seen the poster for it tacked up on the billboards around school as well as the wall near the elevator. He intended to only go for an hour at most just to clear his head but he ended up staying the full time and didn't make it back to his dorm until after midnight. For those not well versed in nerd culture the simple explanation of what a Lan party is is that a bunch of people get together and play video games. It's named after the cord that connects a console or computer to the internet. It was at this venue he'd made his first two friends.
There was the summer burnout when he had to withdraw from a class only to retake it during another semester. There were the late night gaming sessions, the gaggle of friends he'd made who in the years that followed would become not only family but also lifelines. Yes that initial adjustment had been wild but now Riley practically bled his school colors!
As he sat there at the desk he reflected upon all the memories mentioned and many that were not. And he began to silently weep. Why should he though? He'd stay in touch with his friends and the stress of college was behind him. He was heading home. Should he not feel happier than he did?
Rutherford Louisiana was a town so small & backwater that it was glanced over by Rand McNally. During the Reagan era the most exciting thing to its name was a gas station three miles down the road from the church. It had grown since then and now included a strip mall and even a dollar store. That was about it. For the past three terms Rutherford had the same mayor who even the good Reverend Horace Daniels called a stubborn jackass and he'd come up with some real crappy excuses to fight the growth of his town beyond the church, strip mall, and that there gas station. It goes without saying he wasn't that well liked and the only reason he'd served as mayor as long as he had was because he was old blood and greased a few palms.
It was to this town that Hunter was returning. It seemed like a good idea at the time. His internship would be carried out at the clinic in Shreveport Louisiana which was a two hour drive from Rutherford. He would get a break before he had to start, which was certainly welcome.
2
The months of internship went by. Hunter was already wondering if he'd made the right call in moving back to his old home in Louisiana; something was different. To be quite frank he was finding it nerve racking. For one thing Becky was seven years old and he was in his mid twenties that age gap could cause her to grate his nerves though he cared for her & would have loved to have put both her parents under the prison instead of in it. That wasn't a Christian way of thinking but it's how Hunter felt. He had many flaws but he also had a strong sense of justice & having injustice that close to home really ticked him off.
Then there was Momma & Dad. They seemed to argue a lot these days. They'd always sorta done it but the frequency seemed to have increased. No that wasn't it at all. He realized it had always been that way but it took him leaving home, becoming mostly independent and returning to see the crap show for what it was. He'd glanced at it on his breaks but ignored it for the prospect of free room and board during an unpaid internship.
At least he had his room to retreat too. In the refuge of four walls that two decades ago had been painted his favorite shade of blue he played video games and watched YouTube and also escaped into the world of comics and prose books as well. Fortunately he had his internship to keep him occupied and out of the house. He crashed out at about 10:00 PM which was early for him.
Some weekends were spent on day trips to Arkansas. These started out fun but like so much else they became monotonous. Hunter Riley reckoned at least he had graduation to look forward to. After that he'd get his driver's license, his own house, and then he'd be on his own yet again. Of course he'd have to get certified in his field. These thoughts helped him rest at night.
Internship was up. The family loaded in the car and drove eagerly to Oklahoma. Hunter spent a day with all his buddies, his brothers he'd built steadfast friendships with. The excitement was positively electric. The following morning was the big day. Hunter waited for his name to be called. He was but one in a sea of gowns and mortarboards with tassels jiggling as the owners fidgeted nervously, impatiently, excitedly, or a potent cocktail of all of them. The actual act of walking up the aisle and shaking the school president's as he was presented with his sheepskin was a blur.
Afterwards the family gathered for pictures. His friends were there of course as well as one of his aunts & two of his favorite cousins. There was much banter exchanged and python-esque hugs meted out. On his way out the door he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder accompanied by a familiar voice that said, “Hey, young man!”
Hunter Riley spun around his tassel dancing in space as he did. There stood the bespectacled, bald form of his Bible study pastor. He embraced him greatly, never expecting him to be here. One or two others were as well not counting the members of his graduating class he'd attended the Bible study with.
This. This is what life was supposed to be like He thought as he sent his graduation cap spiraling into the air. As it soared up and made its downward plummet he saw his future flashing in the blur of motion. Perhaps he should have focused on the plummet…..
Five in the afternoon, quitting time & Hunter departed the comic book shop where he worked. Life had thrown him a curveball with all the skill of an MLB pitcher. He'd not passed his certification test and decided to take a break from that academic pursuit. Just as he was gearing up to try again the world, which was already insane, went nuts and everything shut down!
Quarantine from the pandemic proved almost too much for Hunter & would have been if he had not had his beloved car, a 1985 Toyota Camery. He at least had his license that hadn't come easy but it at least had come. The care was used and occasionally needed some TLC but it was a hearty little thing and got him where he needed to go and if gas wasn't so darn expensive he'd have been gone more often.
One night he'd run an errand mostly as an excuse to get away from the toxicity and tension building up in the home he'd once held so dear. He was in no rush to get back so he deviated from his course and cruised down a country back road he knew from when he was learning to drive. Finding a spot to pull over he shut off the engine and got out of his ride, closing the door behind him. It was quiet,save for nocturnal insects and the pop of the engine cooling. He looked up at the stars and began to plan. “Hunter, Old Boy you gotta get out of here soon. I don't know, maybe go back to Oklahoma. This doesn't feel like home anymore.”
It was true; the place he'd once called home had come to feel like a cage. It had not felt that way since before Hunter left for college & only now did he remember it ever doing so. That night even as he went to bed he was planning to leave. He'd get a job, save his money & skip town. This was all before the lock down and he'd started work just as it hit. That brick and mortar shop almost went under, joining others that had done everything but it held fast. Hunter Riley was just happy to have a job he enjoyed. He had dreamed of one day starting his own comic book company, a dream that was buried somewhere in the past of his junior high days.
He'd gone to see the latest superhero movie in theaters and it unlocked a geekiness that had always been there in hindsight & he'd spent much time trying to draw and there were many sketch pads sitting in drawers filled with aliens, superheros, supervillains, and warrior babes. They'd be part of a massive interconnected universe and he had planned out starting and stopping points, and spin offs for several of his brainchildren.
Right now he faced reality and that reality included covid-19, two parents who could go off at each other at any moment, and the pros and cons of being a car owner. Hunter had been brooding and helping customers with a sort of mechanical efficiency no doubt with a smile as genuine as a political promise on his face so he'd barely noticed it was time to break for lunch. “Hey, Hunter, let's go get something to eat.”
That had been the voice of his friend and coworker,Ryan cutting into his thoughts.
“Ok, sure.”
“Yeah I loved that part where he flew up and hurled that thing into the sun where it couldn't regenerate.”
“Yeah that was cool. I haven't finished part two yet!”
The duo sat at a local cafe & discussed the storyline of comic book series they were invested in. Hunter was also preoccupied with watching the patrons come and go. They were folks who lived in Rutherford for decades. They lived here, spawned offspring here, and most stayed right here until they died. Those who left eventually came back as though drawn by some unheard siren song.
This made Hunter Riley that much more determined to put this one horse town in his rear view mirror and maybe never return. His parents could solve their own lousy problems. If they couldn't get their crap together for themselves maybe they could do it for Becky either way it'd be none of his concern. Ryan continued his side of the conversation & Hunter merely responded briefly in between bites of his food.
Sunday morning was of course church day. As much as Hunter Riley loved Jesus this had been the biggest adjustment since returning from college. His church going during that time consisted of that Bible study group he'd been part of. Hunter Riley was a deep thinking type of man surprisingly so for one his age and he went to thinking that this was how it was in the ancient days when his faith was still in its infancy.
All them apostles and such had gathered in small groups and rooms like this one. They had to stay off Rome's radar. Coming back here and sitting through a typical service felt off.
That was just it. It was typical. It felt ritualistic and shallow like he'd walked into some sort of spiritual brick wall that wasn't present before. But he sat there and played the part that was expected of him all the while wondering how long his folks could keep up their facade that all was well because he knew that what sat beside him in that pew and what sat on the couch at home was very different.
The church itself could have crawled out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It had sturdy wooden walls painted white, a thick brown double door and of course it had a steeple. It had regular windows, not stained glass. It looked tranquil and Hunter loved seeing it at Christmas when the nativity was out front and the lights were strung up.
However if you walked down a well used path out behind the church you'd end up in a little patch of woods and in its center was a dead gnarled tree, its bark black as sin. It had been struck by lightning some time in the mid 20th century though the accounts of when varied. Something about that tree gave Hunter the heebie jeebies. What made it worse was he could never get a straight answer about it. He'd asked the church folk including the preacher and he'd asked every old timer in town.
Oh sure they gave him various local legends and the pious history of how the men gathered around it three times a year, harvest season, hunting season, and New Years to pray & he'd sure enough seen it done but each of these answers seemed like cover ups for something the town wanted buried. He'd earnestly discussed the matter with his family only to have his suspicions brushed off as he watched too many paranormal videos.
Those videos were how he knew a cover up when he saw or heard it and he knew if that patch of woods was as holy as folks ’round here made it out to be it should not in any way feel as dreadful as it did. His web searches also proved fruitless. He knew that the inhabitants of his home town knew the true story of that place behind the church but they kept it shut up tight like a clam trying to safeguard its perl. So he simply avoided that spot as often as possible.
Monday was his day off. The comic book store didn't open until Tuesday as is the nature of such establishments. On this particular Monday he was fishing in his uncle's pond. In Vernon, a small Louisiana town that was all woods and houses and a few farms. It had been one of the few pleasures he'd known since things had started going all cattywampus. His Uncle Henry was quite the paradox. He'd had Jesus in his heart and the words of a sailor in his mouth. Those words as well as the tattoos on his arms were leftovers from the Marine Corps.
Hunter described his uncle as, “A man who will rebuke the devil and cuss him out while he does it!”
His uncle had not had an easy life from an abusive childhood shared by him and Hunter's momma to the love of his life after many many years of marriage getting on drugs and divorcing him while dragging his daughter down the gutter with her. But he'd walked into the fire and God had walked with him, seeing him always to the other side.
They stood on the bank waiting for the perch or the catfish which ever bit first to give that indicative tug on their lines that filled a fisherman with the same feelings as a groom seeing his bride undressed.
“I like coming here and doing this. It's peaceful.” Hunter commented just loud enough to be heard but not enough to scare the fish.
“I know what you mean, Nephew. Don't think I don't see what's going. That sister of mine calls me up and bitches about your daddy. And your daddy bitches about your momma.”
“I'm planning on lighting a shuck when I can. I'm building up my money right now. Then I'm striking out on my own”
Lighting a shuck is Wild West slang for leaving quickly; it referred to the rapidity of burning corn shucks. Hunter had come across the term while reading The Daybreakers by Louis L'amour and had integrated it into his vernacular.
His uncle responded, “That's good you need to. Just make sure you keep yourself right with the Lord. Don't build up a bunch of resentment. You got me, Hunter?”
“Yes, sir, I think I do.”
“Good man. Whatever the hell is going on with your parents is something they're gonna have to work out between them and God.”
Moments of silence passed with only a Summer breeze breaking that self same silence. Until Uncle Henry tugged on his line. The fish on the other end made a get away and snapped his fishing string. “Well shit. Ain't that nice of him.”
He studied the severed filament line for a moment before deciding to “piss on it.”
The duo cleaned what fish they'd caught while Uncle Henry alternated between singing gospel music and ribald Marine tunes and Hunter put the fish in his ice chest. After that he and his uncle parted ways with hugs. It was time for them to both go take a nap.
During the global lockdown everything not only was turned upside down but also eventually fell into a hellish, monotony. New normal those schmos on T.V. declared. Hunter continued about his routine with some modifications made to keep within these blasted new mandates. The masking wasn't an issue. “How can you stand to have something like that on your face all day?” his mother had inquired.
The answer was simple enough. He'd attended a comic book convention the two preceding years so he had already worn a face covering all day. It was everything else that was on the verge of driving him up the wall. At least he had a goal. He went about saving his money. He was not quite sure where he'd go but Louisiana was definitely going to be in the rear view.
The more he pondered it the more he became settled on returning to Oklahoma. That was where he'd spent some of the best days of his life and become a man. He had two aunt's( both his dad's sisters) but he also had plenty of friends who had already offered him a place to rest his head should it ever be needed. It was at this point that his vague plan began to take a more precise form.
3
An unexpected expense here and a car repair there. It seemed to Hunter Riley that the more he planned to leave town the more the town conspired to keep him here. First his engine became fubar. His dad had been inside and outside many cars in his days and even he'd never seen one in need of this sort of repair.
Unfortunately Mr. Riley had a bad habit called procrastination or “get round to it” to use the redneck turn of phrase. That was one of the many sources of friction in the marriage of the elder two Rileys. An entire month went by before the Toyota was up and running again.
A week or so later night fell and without a word Hunter snuck out of the house. He wasn't thinking straight because he was angry and fed up with the deterioration of his family climate. He couldn't even go on a walk with his Momma without her using it as an opportunity to vent about something to do with his dad or the situation with poor Becky; it was usually the same thing said two days before.
Without thought of his job or anything else he stepped into his car and drove toward the unknown. He was stopped by Enos Braddock, a deputy for the sheriff's department before he could even cross the line that would have taken him toward the town of Ruston, the first leg of his journey.
Enos had been a family friend for several years but as Hunter rolled down his window the man seemed to loom outside like a golem from the corners of some forgotten arcana.
“Evening , Hunter, you going somewhere this time of night?”
“Yeah.”
“Where might that be?”
“Oklahoma. I'm sick of this place.”
“So you decided to just disappear into the night did you.”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“Your parents know about this?”
“They'll figure it out tomorrow if they stop arguing long enough over stupid stuff.”
“Hunter, I think you better go on home and cool off that head of yours.”
He definitely seemed to take on a sinister aspect. Hunter gritted his teeth and turned around still in the clutches of the small-town that seemed to hold on tightly to its denizens. Perhaps his imagination was running wild–too much Quarantine and paranormal YouTube videos– too much time in his own head. Still the innocence of Rutherford seemed to be a carefully and purposefully crafted facade.
It was through gritted teeth and eyes which produced tears of rage that Hunter Riley made his way back home. He observed distant flashes of lightning. A storm system was moving in, no doubt it was spawned by Laura, the hurricane brewing in the Gulf. 2020 hadn't ceased to be a Charlie Foxtrot yet so yeah why night add a hurricane into the mix.
He quietly rolled into the driveway and carefully made his way inside hoping to high heaven that he wouldn't wake up his dad who– as he did most nights lately– was sleeping on the couch. Worse yet the family dog. That little fuzz ball slept in his momma’s room. That's how he thought of it now. It once had been both his parents’ room but now…. Ah screw it.
If the dog woke up and started growling he'd get a nagging ear full in the morning and that was something he didn't want to deal with. Quietly as possible he walked down the hall to his room. He turned on the light and noticed on his bed the backpack he used in college. Now it was loaded down with clothes and sundries for his exodus.
In his heated rush to blow this popsicle stand he'd left the backpack here and had given it no thought. He shoved the thing off his bed and turned on his lamp and then walked back over to the light switch by his door and flicked it off.
This done, he attempted to sleep. Now normally he'd read before dozing off but he knew that he'd be unable to concentrate on the book so he skipped that part of his nightly routine. Sleep proved as elusive as that white whale Captain Ahab made all that fuss over.
Try as he might Hunter couldn't fall asleep and that only upset him more. When he finally did drift off it was in a maelstrom of horrible, angry thoughts about God, his family and even himself. Outside the rain began to trickle.
He woke up once to be lulled back to sleep by the sound of heavy rain. When he opened his eyes he crawled out of bed and stepped into the hallway. It was well lit but where was everyone? He heard a rapping on the door that led inside. He opened it and found two of his favorite actresses standing there. Both beautiful blonde women with ample bosoms and wide hips. “What are you doing here?”
“We dropped by to spend the day with you!”
First they ate lunch. He was unsure about where it came from and he didn't give much thought. His hormones were very active and already he felt blood flowing to his crotch causing his manhood to stiffen.
Then they were in his room and already he'd removed his shirt and was pulling up the shirt of one of the actresses. She wore a black lace bra underneath and he began sliding down the shoulder straps. The other actress was already naked and began to kiss him! The other dropped her panties and pressed her nude form against him. He kissed her then she bit him and her companion began biting and clawing!
The humanity slipped away from the women and they morphed into something akin to dryads except they were not nubile forest nymphs; they had bodies of rough bark and arms and legs like the cartoon caricatures of sentient trees.
They tore at Hunter Riley until with a jolt he woke up to thunder and lightning. His body was damp with a cold sweat born of a nightmare. Any sexual stimulation the dream had first provided his body was no more. He sat up for a few minutes, hesitant to go back to sleep. He saw in his mind the dead black tree behind the church and that image made the plant women much more sinister.
Complaining about the interruption of his phantom love making he closed his eyes and was asleep yet again. Outside the storm raged and was building to a crescendo.
Civil War cannons sounded outside his window and the rain pounded his window so hard it sounded like grasshoppers ramming into it. He tossed and turned. He was glad that he was not scheduled to work that following morning. At last he got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen for some water.
Hunter saw his dad standing in the living room. The light was on and so was the boobtube as the meteorologist in Monroe was standing in front of a nasty looking weather map. Hunter stood near his dad who had his jaw set. “This might be a rough one. He said.
“How bad is it?”
His dad pointed to a spot on the map “Calhoun is already getting tornados.”
“Yikes.”
The weather man circled a spot on the radar. “Those of you along Highway 80 and the I-20 corridor you should be heading for your storm shelters. Stay away from windows. Again this storm has already spun twisters in parts of Calhoun and – “
it went on like that for a few more seconds until outside among the cannon shots of thunder was the distant sound of a train. That caused Hunter some anxiety tornadoes were near. “Those of you in Choudrant, Ruston and Rutherford you are probably going lose power in a–”
Yep. Sure enough the lights and television died in an instant. Now in the ominous silence the tempest outside could be heard in its full fury. Once the morning came the extent of the damage could be seen.
Leaves and branches and trash were scattered helter skelter across the yard and a large tree branch had been hurled through the windshield of a certain Toyota Camery. Hunter Riley was immediately sapped of strength. His key to freedom was now a trash heap. That was a repair they couldn't afford which meant he had no more of his own transportation. He was trapped.
The following days passed as they would. The Rileys along with others had no power except for a very noisy generator. To save fuel it was only run at night. Hunter went into work the day after the storm, transported by his dad. Without power there wasn't much to do except clean up. The little shop had taken a beating. This was the year that kept on giving that was for sure.
Eventually power was restored but one day during the outage Hunter retreated to his room, opened up a clear plastic drawer and removed a sketch pad from it. He flipped through it and stared at the characters he'd filled it with. After a few minutes that seemed like hours he put the sketchpad away, shoved the drawer closed & silently grieved for a plan that didn't payout, a dream that like Charlie Brown's love life remained unrequited. He quoted one of the great poets of old, “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.”
He was convinced that Rutherford was under the sway of a malevolent force or perhaps more than one that maintained a choke hold on the citizens not letting them and eventually dragging them back if they did. He was an open minded individual and he believed in such things as much as he believed in Jesus. Of course as mentioned earlier, anytime he'd make an inquiry into the town's history after a certain point folks would just clam up. This prevented him from piecing things together. If a dark force did rule the spiritual plane of this Louisiana town it had to have gotten a foothold in it somehow wayback in that past which made folks so uneasy!
There was of course an even more gonzo way to look at this. This particular train of thought would have tickled the fancy of a certain H. P. Lovecrat. What if the town itself was somehow itself the dark force? In the following says Hunter's conviction on the matter would strengthen.
With the world in a state of near isolation due to the pandemic. No one had been to the little old chapel in months. Still Reverend Daniels would give his sermons and broadcast them over the church website & Facebook pages. Following the tornados however the broadcasts were stopped temporarily because like much of the rest of Rutherford the church had been hammered. So Hunter Riley and his dad masked up and drove out the chapel grounds to help Daniels clean up things.
The church only needed minor roof repairs and the good Reverend took that as miraculous because that's what good reverends do of course. Hunter knew he was growing more cynical each day(this had actually been happening for years before any global snafu), but he couldn't help equate miracles to stuff like people rising from the dead or couples unable to have children discovering one day that a bun was in the oven. Maybe the Reverend was right and this was simply a small miracle compared to those others. The bulk of the work was removing trash and tree branches. It was slow going and this was summer time after a storm in Louisiana so the weather was humid and could quickly sap you of energy.
The later part of that day found the three men in the woods behind the church. Yes, those woods. Many a tree had been felled by the fury of the winds and would now be cut up and used as firewood. The old tree still stood though. It still stood in its place like some gnarled, black tumor. It was one of the oldest trees here yet it remained rooted to its place. During a lull in the work Hunter sat down on a newly created log, sipping water so he didn't dehydrate in the summer heat. He felt the pinprick of a mosquito on his upper left arm & he swatted at it. He smiled to himself thinking of how he had dozens of unclaimed children across the State because skeeters use your blood to hatch their eggs.
His jocular respite was broken into by something eerie. He heard a child singing a Sunday school song & that's not the kinda thing a man expects to hear when he's in the woods all his lonesome. He followed the sound to its source. What he saw marked him for the rest of his days. There under the blackened tree was a young girl, a young African-American girl in a style of dress that hadn't been worn for the better part of 100 years. She froliced beneath the tree singing to herself, “The rains came down and floods came up!”
She then stared at Hunter and suddenly her melody was cut off. Her “body” jerked and a strangled gurgling resounded from her then she was gone. The elder men approached and the Riley patriarch saw the look on his son's face. “Hunter, are you alright?”
The young man collected himself. “Reverend, has anyone ever talked of seeing haints around here?”
The Reverend Horace replied in a very stern manner, “Young man I don't know what you saw but let me assure you the only ghost around here is the Holy Ghost!”
Hunter told of what he had seen. The preacher man spoke yet again, Hunter you've obsessed over that tree so long the Devil is using it to mess with your mind. Turn your thoughts back to Heavenly things.”
Hunter nodded. He went back to work frustrated. He'd been frustrated a lot lately and channeled it into lifting the heavy chunks of new born firewood. As the pick up sped toward home Hunter addressed his dad. “I know what I saw!”
“We're not saying you didn't see it. We are saying that Satan made you see it. You know he comes for us cuz we don't follow him.
“You know what the Word says about how he seeks whom he may devour.”
“Fine, I'll pray about it.”
Hunter said nothing else just stared at the passing scenery through his window, a window held in place by mummified newspaper and a wood wedge because the system for rolling it up and down broke years ago.
He didn't speak much of the apparition much after that except to his closest friend who had a balanced view of the paranormal and knowledge of the occult. Hunter wondered how a person could believe in werewolves but not bring himself to believe in God. He was certain that patch of ground had not always been holy. He was up until four on a workday trying to find dope on the town's past. Google searches like all previous inquiries amounted to diddly squat; either he was wrong and there was no secret after all or he was right and it had been swept under the rug very well.
One day a few weeks later Hunter and his dad were talking to an old acquaintance of theirs, Tom Driscoll. They ran into him at the store. Of course they communed behind masks and stayed six feet apart. “Yeah, I'm moving down near Lafayette soon.” He informed them.
Mr. Riley and Mr. Driscoll talked for another half after that about various topics, for this is the customary procedure in the South. “Whatever happened to Chris, Joey Summers’ boy?”
This man referred to by the elder Riley was a high school buddy of his that he hadn't seen in years who was also known by Mr. Driscoll.”
“You didn't hear? He died on a dang hog hunt three years ago.”
“Na! I haven't heard anything from that bunch since that potluck back in 94.”
Finally they parted ways. Later in the day Mr. Riley was doing yard work, Momma was hold up in her room with Becky watching movies, Hunter was on his fifth playthrough of a favorite video game.
At his own home Tom Driscoll was cleaning gutters. The summer heat was beating down and he was an older fellow. He began to grow dizzy and he lost his footing and tumbled off the ladder. His spine shattered on impact and death was at least swift. Once news spread as it so quickly does in the small communities in the South and the Rileys attended the funeral the big question was posed.
It was the same question that is always asked after someone passed away: Why? In his mind Hunter Riley knew why. Tom Driscoll was going to leave the town and the town didn't want him too. He was pretty muchly convinced that some dark secret in the town's bygone past had somehow spiritually festered, giving the town itself some malevolent will of its own or else unleashed something hellish that ruled over the town from the shadows. It would still be many months before he was able to piece the mystery together.
4
Was it late 2021 or early 2022 when things returned to “normal”? He was unsure. For Hunter everything ran together now. The days were monotonous & he wasn't sure how many more he wanted to wake up to. He'd changed over the course of the pandemic. The young man was beat down and broken.
Hunter's hope for the future was a fragile, porcelain vase and it had fallen off the shelf it rested on. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered, the pieces were swept away before they could even be glued back together. He was struggling to not be bitter but it felt like a losing battle.
The young man had been caught up in the middle of an endless barrage of horse pucky–of bickering parents, politics and conspiracies!
Momma and Dad butting heads over petty things was wearing thin. When it wasn't that it was China this, conspiracies that, Democrat that, Republicans this. He heard the same crap over again ad nauseam! He could barely stand to be around his family for an extended length of time because an argument would start or something just as pathetic would assail his peace and he had no way to escape from it, for his car still hadn't been fixed.
He would never be able to escape for very long anyway. Rutherford or whatever controlled it would never let him! There were occasions when he sought the ultimate escape. He took walks when he could and every so often the temptation to step into the path of an oncoming semi would overtake him but Hunter was a stubborn cuss & always resisted.
The young man sought out solace where he could. He wrote some, read books, and was always happy when hunting season rolled around. The forest was peaceful and calm. Even when the hunting was poor he considered it time well spent!
Fortunately he had friends who saw he was in a bad way and not friends miles away in another state. These friends were locals. Once the Covid regs became lax enough four of them absconded with Hunter on an overnight excursion. Momma, who had always played the mother hen a little too well, seemed to forget that her “baby boy” was well into his manhood by now. And expressed several concerns she had about this little overnight trip.
She had done this once before when he was about to head to a friend's birthday party in college. He was far less patient this time and his replies were terse and covered in jagged edges. “No, nobody is going to be drinking anything other than soda pop and water! No, no one is bringing girls along and I know how to leave if I have to!”
“So you'll walk out the woods at night by yourself?”
“Dang right I will! I'll have my phone.”
“Yes but what if you get there and there is no reception? See these are the things you have to think ab–”
At last he could not restrain himself any longer. It wasn't right but he snapped, having become a rubber band stretched too far. He told her something that amounted to “Kiss off!” And he marched out of the house and waited for his friends to pick him up.
It was night and the little clearing was illuminated by a small campfire. In folding lawn chairs sat the quintet, Hunter, his four friends, Joseph, Henry, Dan, and Hoss(his parents really liked old westerns.)
Joseph was a history buff and it was at this moment with the fire casting a strange reflection in his glasses that he helped Hunter Riley complete the puzzle of the town. “Now I'm a f&>÷+ing geek when it comes to history. I know you've had some questions about our little corner of paradise.
“I did some digging at the Library in Ruston. As you well know Lincoln Parish has always had something of an underbelly. Our roads suck, there's a bunch of rich old families, and the entire Parish was pretty much snatched out from under the people it used to belong to hundreds of years ago.”
Yes, this he already knew; he had learned about it during a field trip with his homeschooling co-op. Joseph continued,”Well it turns out Rutherford has a pretty checkered past all its own. Our innocent little God fearing town used to have its own chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.”
That brought a gasp from everyone, especially Dan who was black. “There's more y'all. The Grand Wizard of this chapter was a f&>÷+ing hypocrite named Nathaniel Horace. Yeah he's kin to who you think he is. He was Reverend Horace’s grandpa; he held Klan meetings in that wholesome little chapter.
“Well one night in the 20's he and the rest of those white robed shits drug a whole family out behind the church and strung ’em up like Christmas ornaments.”
He produced a photo from his pocket and handed it to Hunter. “I xeroxed that from the history book I was reading. Do you happen to recognize anything?”
Riley's eyes winded, behind the sinister figures of the klansmen stood…”The Tree!”
“Exactly that creepy ass tree was a hanging tree. You'll notice it was healthier lookin’ then. Well the years passed and one day lightning struck the tree. George Horace the Reverend's father didn't share his dad's views on people who weren't white took that as a sign from above.
“That was when the tree was used by the hunters for those little prayer meetings. As the town grew more diverse they erased the town's racist history. You won't find the book I read in our own library.
“They wouldn't want folks like Dan over here to feel unwelcome. There's a legend that the ghost of the little girl can sometimes be seen near that tree, that no one ever permanently leaves here–outside of a coffin that is–because that family wasn't allowed to leave. That part is hogwash.”
“No it's not!” Hunter exclaimed.
“What are you on about, Bro?” asked a now concerned Henry.
“I've seen the girl. She sang for a little while and then her body jolted before she vanished. It makes sense now. It was the motion of her being lynched. None of us can ever escape!”
The five friends left later that night. Joseph and the rest were deeply concerned now for their friend. They said nothing. What was meant to be a simple history lesson and campfire yarn had convinced Hunter that he had been right all along that the town would forever hold him in its grip.
Riley was now a caged and wonder animal. He longed to escape but now knew he never would. God was on his side sure but he had no Earthly allies. Most of his friends were heathens( though he held out hope for their salvation) and his family didn't believe him they were to divide amongst themselves anyway. Whatever forces were at play here were too powerful and dug in for him to battle alone. He'd be like the armored warrior from his favorite Dungeons and Dragons art: a lone paladin against the combined might of the Abyss.
His life crept by at this petty pace from day to day as was written by the great playwright, William Shakespeare. When not working he continued read comics, played video games or spent hours on end turning out stories of his own that he figured nobody else would ever see. His favorite of these was a lengthy alternate history crime thriller starring fictional versions of himself & his college pals.
Hunter did his best to focus on the positives, like family game nights and fishing with his uncle. But something would always eventually sour the happiness, turning it from a sweet yoohoo in a cold glass bottle into curdled milk left in the sun. Eventually there came a day when this poor, beat down thing that had been Hunter Riley shut himself in his room and almost took the ultimate exit out of the haunted town. He didn't even pick up the hunting rifle which had been a Christmas present many years prior and had at least twice put meat on the table.
Hunter had a tendency to overthink things. What was normally a curse turned into a blessing. He loved his superhero and sci-fi posters. His favorites were the color publicity photos of an actress from the 60's that played a lady crimefighter he'd had a crush on since roughly 2014. Even though he'd be “on the other side” and it wouldn't matter much, he didn't want to mess up his posters or the photos of that beautiful lady in full costume. Plus his friends would miss him.
So in a twist of Providence over thinking, the very thing that led to that moment also caused the moment to pass without a crimson stained incident. However the very fact that Hunter had gotten to that place at all would forever haunt him more than any vengeful spirits this one horse could muster.
5
In time the town did what it always did; it found a way to draw back someone who had left.
This time it was Hunter's aunt on his dad's side. She had lived for years in the Sierra Nevadas in California. She had her eccentricities but she was good as gold. Now she returned to help take care of Grandpa whose health had declined.
One day the two of them took a walk through the cow pasture across the road from the house. Alone with her he told her of all he learned of his town and also his situation. Most of it she guessed already from hanging around her brother and sister-in-law.
“What I don't understand is how you escaped as long as you did.” He said.
“I came back here to take care of Dad not because something shadowy compelled me too. You know why most people spend their whole lives here? It's because of a mindset. Perhaps they're content here, maybe others are like you and have no hope of being anywhere else.
“Besides if Rutherford did have some sort of dark power do you really think it's greater than Jesus? That's fear speaking.
“You've got to get rid of that fear of the unknown and spread your wings and fly. Don't worry about Becky. God’ll watch over her like he does you and me. As for your parents, they're gonna have to sort that crap out for themselves. You can't stay caught in the middle!”
The words were true and a kick in the pants. From that day forward Hunter laid out a very careful plan. Once he had enough money saved up he put in his two weeks notice and began packing what he could. Finally, with the car fixed and loaded up, he drove off into the late afternoon, Oklahoma bound. The deputy stopped him again. “You leaving us again, Hunter?”
“This time Riley stood his ground. “Yes. In fact I am.”
He punched the gas and sped away making sure to keep within the limit. His final act before leaving was his Christian Duty to shine light on the darkness the township had concealed for far too many decades. He found the information expansion tool on the town's official website and related all hechad learned from his friends around the campfire.
The was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky with beautiful pinks and oranges. Hunter looked at that sunset and for the first time in too dang long he felt hopeful.
Enough to Sleep at Night
He pulls up in the Range Rover, the hybrid one, because he cares about the environment. Parks on the far end of the lot, where the car won’t stand out so much—not that anyone out here is paying attention to the parking lot. The volunteers are inside, and the people who need food are lined up at the door, looking down, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for something that should’ve been theirs in the first place.
He tugs the sleeves of his hoodie, soft as a cloud, stitched in Italy, priced just right to keep it exclusive. His sweatpants cost more than a full shift at the mission, but they’re subtle. Simple. That’s the trick—nothing too flashy, nothing too loud. Just nice enough to say, I have money, but not so much that anyone calls him on it.
Inside, the place hums with activity. Volunteers moving fast, metal trays slamming into place, the faint smell of burnt coffee mixing with disinfectant. He steps up, nods at the regulars, pulls on the plastic gloves that always make his hands sweat. He takes his spot at the serving line, ladling mashed potatoes onto paper plates.
“Hey, good to see you again,” one of the workers says, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag that says Marta. He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers her voice.
“You too,” he says. “How’s it been?”
She gives a small shrug. “Same as always.”
He nods like he understands. Like this is normal for him. Like he isn’t about to go home to a kitchen with an island big enough to seat six, where the fridge is stocked with organic produce and aged cheese and wine selected by a guy—because he has a guy for that.
An hour passes. Then two. His back aches. His feet hurt. The line keeps moving.
Eventually, his shift is up. He peels off the gloves, tosses them in the trash, nods at Marta.
“See you next time,” he says, and she nods back.
Outside, the air is cold. The line is still there. He moves past them, head down, keys already in hand. The car unlocks as he approaches, the interior warm and waiting. He sinks into the seat, exhales, watches the mission shrink in his rearview mirror as he pulls away.
The streets widen. The houses get bigger. The people disappear.
By the time he gets home, the thoughts have already started to fade, the weight of the evening slipping off his shoulders like an expensive coat. He pours himself a whiskey, settles onto the couch, flips through his phone.
Good work today. Really gave back.
At least he’s doing his part.
A Season Passes
(This is a revised version of the first story I ever posted on Prose. I was prompted to extend the narrative. The first seven paragraphs are a repost, those after the asterisks are new.)
As the old man sits on the porch, the rhythmic rocking of his chair produces a creaking noise that clashes with the harmonious notes coming from the cardinals in the trees. He’s unaware his movements make a disruptive noise that offsets the birds' animated warble. He is too preoccupied to take in the free avian recital.
His thoughts have wandered back to how the days passed so quickly without notice or urgency. He remembers carefree summers of his youth running barefoot through the pine forest, the branches jutting out like arms trying to slow him down. He recalls his mother's baked pies sitting on the windowsill to cool, the enticing aromas permeating the kitchen. He relives the thrill of catching crayfish in the brook next to the decrepit barn as the invigorating water swirls about, anchoring his feet to the streambed. He reminisces of drifting off to sleep under a canopy of stars as his oldest brother stirs the smoldering embers of a waning campfire.
He retraces the path that he took to get here by inventorying both the jubilant as well as heartbreaking moments. Like the intermittent cool breeze from the oscillating fan on the weathered floor, the memories fluctuate between turbulent and calm, refreshing and stifling. Throughout it all, he endured the dark times, the low points, knowing that sadness is offset by the comforting times which follow life's natural ebb and flow.
There was optimism for a bright future. Then the war and its disruptive, lasting impact. The various jobs and associated travels he took. His wedding day, the tragic death of his middle son, the birth of his grandchildren and the passing of his wife seem evenly distributed over time. Maturity has purged the resentment and self-pity associated with the setbacks punctuating his 77 years. He tempered his attitude about life's harshness knowing there were never any guarantees. Feeling cheated or bitter at this point wastes precious energy and time, both of which are finite commodities not to be squandered. Tears will dry up and smiles can be retrieved. He appreciates the good and weathers the bad because you can’t have one without the other. He understands that life balances itself out.
Yet sitting there, as the condensation from the glass of lemonade beads up around his swollen fingers, the old man can't help but be envious over the possibilities available to his granddaughter. He longs for the intellectual stimulus of college; something he never finished, much to the dismay of his father. He yearns to socialize among peers, an opportunity lost since most of his friends are physically or geographically absent. He desires the wonderment of learning something new and overcoming inexperience. He wants to be mentored. These are unattainable now, stolen by the passing years. “Youthful innocence" is not compatible with anyone his age.
She’s the future. He’s the past.
His granddaughter sighs. Sitting quietly on the porch steps listening to the birds, she knows it’s time. Summer is ending which means sixth grade is only one week away. She dreads going back home to start a new school year in a new building with different teachers and different subjects. She wishes she could trade places with her grandfather. In her eyes, he doesn't have a care in the world. No worries. The idea of waiting months before she has a summer free to do nothing with him again is daunting. She hopes time passes quickly.
***
The decorations were left out well beyond normal this Yuletide season. Usually, the house was reset, converted back to ordinary before any battery-operated toys needed fresh double A’s. Preparation for December is hectic. Finishing the Christmas/New Year’s Eve combo means her focus turns to Valentine’s Day. After that, her anniversary is followed by a month laden with birthdays. Before she knows it, the garden needs tilling. Summer’s blur precedes another school year. Time really accelerates post Labor Day. Then it’s bundling up for winter and she’s right back here changing out calendars.
Looking forward and diverting attention to an upcoming event detracts from enjoying the current one. She knows this yet felt powerless to fend off the anticipation. Until now. This holiday was different because her youngest had become self-aware that Santa wasn’t real.
The doubts started formulating well before Thanksgiving. He listened while opinions were bantered about on the bus and spontaneous, one-sided debates unfolded in the cafeteria. The logistical requirements being implausible made sense. Independently gathering the facts his siblings were already privy to but not sharing, he formulated the truth. That changed the narrative. There’s no reason for anyone to perpetuate the charade anymore. Without the risk of ruining any traditional secrets, the curtain was inalterably pulled back. The Kringle wonderment was abandoned. Like the others, she knew her baby would come to this conclusion at some point. Still, it arrived too fast.
She sighs. No longer would there be child-like awe on any of her kids’ faces after coming down the stairs and finding new presents under the tree. It’s disheartening. From this point forward, Christmas won’t be seen through an adolescent filter. So, here’s yet another watershed moment in their march toward adulthood. A march she completed over fifteen years ago.
Having children forced her to drive in the HOV lane of life. Her speed exceeded that of solo travelers leisurely cruising on the same road. Milestones were approached with a blistering velocity and then discarded by the wayside before being savored. She wonders if her parents and grandparents experienced this while watching their children and grandchildren grow.
Taking advantage of the stillness which has settled over the house from everyone else being distracted by outside forces, she begins the delayed eviction of the holiday by herself. This might prolong the season, if not for just an hour. She’ll cherish any extra time at this point.
The labeled plastic totes are situated within arms-reach, ready for packing then destined for the attic. A systematic dismantling of the decor begins with the tree. Working from top to bottom, she anticipates seeing the special ornament she got during eighth grade.
Prominently displayed on the front of the tree, her eyes soften and the corners of her mouth curl up ever so slightly when she reaches it. Removing the miniature rocking chair hanging from a hook, she nestles it in the dedicated cardboard box lined with cotton batting. She pauses and gazes at it.
She happened upon this random piece of dollhouse furniture among the scattered, unrelated knickknacks on the bottom shelf at a local thrift store shortly after her grandpa’s funeral. She would have willingly paid much more than the $0.49 asking price. That was a bargain because of the overwhelming nostalgic rush that washed over her when spotting it. Although a cheap assemblage of simple wooden pieces, one of thousands mass-produced, it was made specifically for her. This memento transported her back to the happy times spent with her grandfather on his porch.
She always assumes responsibility for the placement of this ornament. Her trained eye knows how to find the perfect location. It needs to be unobstructed by adjacent boughs, ensuring ample space for the ornament to dangle freely from the satin ribbon she fastened to the top rail. This positioning ensures that when the kids, even after repeatedly being told not to, run past the tree, the breeze left in their wake gently sways the chair.
The rest of her family have no emotional attachment to this ornament. She’s reiterated its backstory on numerous occasions. Sometimes solicited, mostly not. Transferring its personal connection and provenance onto her children is futile. They’ve heard the history and get the importance. Still, to them it is just a tiny chair. But for her, it’s a childhood. When it’s prompted to tenderly move among the pine needles, it reminds her of him.
When exactly did her carefree life as a child get ousted by a chaotic life as an adult? She wonders if there was a specific moment this happened. Or was it a slow, grinding process over a protracted length of time. Like the way a glacier’s methodical advancement scours the substrate hidden beneath, leaving behind a transformed landscape.
She thinks back to the June prior to his passing, when she asked, “Pop Pop, tell me about the good ol’ days when you were young.” His response was unabashed, “Oh Baby Girl, the good ol’ days are right now. If you have something to be thankful for, you’re living in the good ol’ days.” She didn’t fully grasp the context of his statement. Amid the clutter, she does now.
A lot has transpired during her brief existence. She reminisces about family vacations. Getting then losing her favorite doll. Her first kiss. Smiling for her driver’s license picture. Being asked to both junior and senior prom. Graduating college. Her storybook wedding. The birth of her children. The divorce’s protracted bitterness. Saying, “Goodbye” to beloved pets. Falling in love with a new soulmate. The biopsy results. A fulfilling career. She chronicles the laughter and weeping and success and failure that composes the movements of her symphony.
Contrasting the younger version of herself with her current version is insightful. She appreciates how the trajectory established during her adolescence has successfully directed her to maturity. She doesn’t diminish the fact that the issues faced then weighed heavily on her mind despite paling in comparison to the struggles of today. But getting through those tough times is why there’s optimism that the future will be better for her kids.
The family room is void of its decorations. Christmas is over. A new year has started. So far, she’s stuck with the two resolutions made. The first was to enjoy the moment. The second was to think about her grandfather on a regular basis instead of waiting until the totes are dragged down from the attic and that dedicated cardboard box is opened. This way, his fond memory will be a constant source of comfort, unlike the breeze from an oscillating fan that disperses once it brushes against the skin.
She hopes the time doesn’t pass quickly. But it will. It always does.
Logline In an attempt to become the beneficiary of an elderly woman’s eighty-three million dollar estate before she is declared mentally inc
FORWARD
Lyra parked her car in the staff lot of Primrose Path nursing home where she had spent the last fourteen months working three, twelve hour shifts a week. Ten of those months she had dedicated every ounce of compassion, patience and friendship she had to her favorite patient, Mrs. O'Toole.
Colleen O'Toole is extremely wealthy and barely holding onto her senility, and as of seven months ago, a widow.
Mr. O'Toole passed in his sleep last September after a lengthy battle with multiple sclerosis, leaving his entire eight-digit estate to his beloved wife. Despite thousands of hours of prayer and devotion to Saint Catherine, Colleen was never able to carry a child to term, leaving them with no heir to the fortune, so the money would die with her.
For nearly a year, Lyra had been working her mark. Drawing Colleen in with vulnerable and tragic stories of her childhood in foster care <true>. Her parents killed in a car crash <lie>, an only child with no family to take her in <lie>. Simultaneously she kept her guard up with dramatic silences so Colleen could experience the pleasure of coaxing her out of her pain, like an adoring mother. Days and weeks and months of emotional manipulation, plotting and scheming had resulted in Colleen loving Lyra with all she had left. Not able to turn back time and provide a mother's love to Lyra, she offers the only thing she has left that could make up for such a tragic life. Eighty-three million dollars.
As she twisted to reach into the back seat for her work bag, her stomach summersaulted, sending a rush of blood to her head and she thought she might vomit. Turning herself back around to face front she grips the steering wheel, plants both feet against the floorboard and pushes all her weight back into the seat, locking her arms at the elbow. She begins breathing deep into her nostrils and out through her mouth. Sweat is beading on her upper lip, her ears begin to pulse with a distant buzzing sound that grows louder with each exhale. Unable to ward off the rising panic in her chest, she quickly flings her door open and violently launches her breakfast all over the pavement. Gasping for air as the bile scorches her throat and steals her breath she sways, half her body hanging out the car door until the tears in her eyes cleared and she can pull herself upright.
Reaching again for her backpack in the back seat, she rummages in the front pocket for tissue. Using the visor mirror to check her face, she locks eyes with herself. Her eyes are her signature feature and Colleen never let a day go by without telling her that she could have any man she wanted with eyes like that.
"If Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships, then you my dear command a legion with one glance."
Her eyes are so large they make her face look disproportionately small by comparison. She was bullied her entire childhood for her eyes. They called her Brat, like the knock off barbie doll with huge eyes and drag queen make-up. In her twenties however, Anime hit it big and her eyes became the envy of every cosplay groupie air-bender whatever you call them. Even more unique, their coloring is a moody silver-gray, always reflecting light from under thick dark brown lashes that curled half way to her eyebrows. They were her father's eyes. That made it difficult for her to appreciate them, but she has gotten more comfortable with using them to her advantage. Her father didn't die in a car crash; nor her mother. In fact, his matching set can only be seen now through the steel bars of Pennsylvania state penitentiary where he is serving year thirteen of his twenty-five-year sentence for armed robbery. His sentence would have carried far fewer years had he not accidentally shot and killed her mother trying to evade arrest.
Lyra pulled her water bottle from the side pocket of her bag. As she sipped the water she forced her heart rate to slow with her breathing. She ran through the outline of her day that she'd been memorizing for weeks. Everything had to go according to plan, and she had only left sparse opportunity to pivot should certain interactions not go to plan. Glancing at her dashboard clock she pulls herself out of the door, careful to avoid stepping in the pile of breakfast on the ground. She scans the parking lot for any potential witnesses to her panic puking and breathes a sigh of relief. She hikes her backpack on, slams the car door shut and clips her identity badge to the pocket of her scrub top. As she half-heartedly jogs towards the staff entrance of The Primrose with three minutes to clock in, she says to herself
Pull it together Ly, Today is beneficiary day.
CHAPTER ONE
MEETING COLLEEN
The day she met Colleen properly was the morning after her probationary term was complete. Until that day, Lyra only shadowed other nursing assistants at Primrose, but was strictly forbidden from interacting with them directly without express permission from Everly.
"Good morning Mrs. O'Toole" Lyra said with a gentle two-tap knock on the door of Colleen's private garden room. She was carrying a breakfast tray in one hand and her morning vitals checklist under her arm. As the day-shift lead, Everly was in charge of all patient care protocols for day-shift workers, and she was particularly proud of her vitals checklist. Using her free hand Lyra pulled the rolling overbed table towards the bottom of the bed and placed the tray of scrambled eggs, fruit and toast on top. In doing so she accidentally slid the television remote and a crossword book and pen off the table and onto Colleen's feet. She startled awake with a silent jump, clutching her sheet in her tiny pink fists.
Lyra winced and whispered an apology with only the slightest of a smile.
"Oh, don't worry dear, no need. I was having a bit of a nightmare I think" she said as she struggled to sit up and reach for her water glass on the table hovering over her feet. There was hardly anything to the woman. She couldn't have been more than eighty-five pounds. Immediately Lyra noticed that though her hands were skin and bones her fingernails were thick like bird talons, hooking slightly over the tips of her fingers and painted expertly with a glossy shade of magenta polish. The youthfulness of the color a stark contrast to the splattering of liver spots that covered nearly all of her porcelain skin.
"My name is Lyra, and I brought you your breakfast. I'm here to assist you to the bathroom if you need it and take your morning vitals" she recited from memory with as much saccharine in her voice she could possibly muster.
Everly reminded her every day of her training that her tone of voice was too menacing. Residents needed to be woken with a cheerful demeanor in order to start their day in a positive manner. "The less opportunity you give them to be combative with you, the better your day and their day will be, and that all starts with the tone you set in your voice."
Lyra could hear Everly's stupid songbird voice at this very moment echoing from the hallway 'rise and shine' as she closed the door.
"I swear that woman's pitch is higher than her ponytail," Colleen jested as she attempted to move her legs from under the enormous quilt covering her bed. It was far too large for the bed and hung down to the floor on every side, but it was her wedding quilt. It had been passed down through four generations of her family and was remarkably heavy. Though it was worn and faded by the torture of the war and famine it had endured over the nearly 150 years since it was made, the stitching and delicate pattern work was classically beautiful in shades of buttercream and luscious greens. Miniature squares of mint and sage blended into tones of emerald and avocado, building themselves gradually inward toward the largest square in the middle, a dark forest green with a hand stitched Celtic trinity knot pattern of golden thread at its center.
Lyra reached for the quilt, folding it over itself to expose Colleen's twiggy legs. The skin across her shin bones was translucent like the wings of a dragonfly. Her calves were still long and lean, with no sign of varicose veins. Both were freckled with more liver spots and small flecks of old purple bruising peeking out from under her posy-pink sleeping gown. As Lyra watched Colleen scrunch her feet into her petite Isotoner slippers she noticed that her toenails were painted perfectly with the same magenta polish as her fingers.
"You must have an amazing manicurist in the family, your polish job is about as perfect as I've ever seen." Lyra commented as she hoisted Colleen to her feet from under her armpits.
Colleen placed her shaky hands-on top of Lyra's, spreading her fingers apart so they could both admire them before quickly grasping her wrists to steady herself.
"No dear, no family manicurist. Jakob paints them for me, every two weeks. You know Jakob, don't you? He is the most beautiful man I've ever seen. Calls me Queen, I am quite fond of him, and he's a whiz with the polish."
"Yes, I know Jakob, he's a friend. He does have amazing skin doesn't he? And those cheekbones?" Lyra said as she sucked in her cheeks as hard as she could to mimic Jakob's model bone structure.
Colleen paused her shuffling towards the toilet and turned to face Lyra directly. She watched her slowly take in the dramatic traits of her face, lingering purposefully on the eyes. She placed one freezing cold hand on Lyra's cheek and smiled.
"Come now, you don't even need skin with eyes like that."
"Let's get your situated in here. Do you need me to lower you, or can you manage" Lyra asked, quickly moving on from the all too familiar examination of her eyes.
"I can get my business done myself. I'll call for you when I'm done." Colleen said as she slowly shuffled her feet to grab onto the sink and lower herself to the toilet seat.
No other resident had a bath suite like this. While all the other patients Lyra cared for had personal items from home to soften the clinically sterile boarding suites, Colleen's décor could easily be mistaken for a powder room at the Plaza hotel. The woman could easily be sitting down for afternoon tea instead of her morning piss.
Lyra made herself busy tidying as Colleen took her time on the toilet. She moved towards the window at the far side of the room, pulling back heavy polyester curtains and gathering them to rest in the ornate holdbacks. She adjusted the top-down-bottom-up shade to the midpoint to allow the morning light to warm the room without being blinded. Next to the window sat a wingback chair upholstered in a pattern of pale lavender primroses with trailing loops of ivy connecting the blooms. She plucked the child size bathrobe draped over the back and tossed it over her shoulder. Moving to the bed to straighten the quilt a photo on the sideboard caught her eye. Many residents used this piece of furniture that came installed in every patient room for photos, usually many photos of children or grandchildren, often smiling back at her from under a graduation cap or a wedding gown. Most commonly there was a show in numbers with grandparents at the center and ten or twenty bodies smooshed in a frame from some back yard family reunion. Colleen had one photo. It was clearly her, in a plain but elegant white church suit. Five large fabric buttons down the front from neck to navel and a figure-hugging pencil skirt, a little too long for a woman of Colleen's petite stature. The only embellishment pulling from the natural beauty of the bride was a glittering broach pinned just below her left collar point. A classic Audrey Hepburn fascinator hat pinned to her head, slightly off center with a short length of white netting, acting as a veil.
The man standing beside her, presumably Mr. O'Toole, was not looking at the camera, but gleaming with pride at his beautiful bride. His suit was also plain, dark brown but smart looking even though the jacket was a tad too big in the shoulders and hung a bit too far past his waist. His shoes polished to a shine, much like his hair which was greased with a hard, exaggerated part to one side.
Lyra imagined their life as a couple, letting flashes of memories of her own parents mingle in her brain with the idealistic couple in the picture. The contrast was stark. The only photo she'd ever seen of her parents makeshift wedding was of the two of them standing next to a black Camero held together with rust and dust. Both were as young as the O'Toole's but not at all put together. Her father wore faded denim Levi's with a tight-fitting white t-shirt. The only resemblance of any effort was a black satin clip-on bowtie around his neck. His hair was blond and wavy, longer in the back than on top. He had one arm linked with her mother's and with the other he threw up devil's horns made with his pointer and pinky finger. His eyes open wide with excitement and his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a rock star. Her mother wore cutoff shorts and a white frilly peasant top with long sleeves, showing her middle that had not yet begun to show proof of baby Lyra growing inside. Her long brown hair parted down the middle and she held a small bouquet of wildflowers that she lifted toward the bright blue sky as she kicked one foot behind her, showing off a dirty brown cowboy boot. Remembering the picture from memory, Lyra realized that to anyone that wasn't there to witness it, no one could ever tell it was their official wedding photo.
A clattering in the bathroom pulled Lyra from her memories and she replaced the framed wedding photo on the sideboard and rushed to the bathroom suite.
"You okay in there?"
"I called out twice. My toes are starting to fall asleep"
"I'm so sorry Mrs. O'Toole, I didn't hear you," Lyra said as she slowly pulled the door open and found Colleen on the floor, sitting on her feet, holding the side of the sink to steady herself.
"I used all my strength to stand up and didn't have any left to get to the sink. I used to be so strong Lyra, now look at me" Colleen huffed in defeat.
Lyra bent at the knees into a full squat and got her arms under Colleen's armpits and placed her frail arms around her own neck. "On the count of three I'm going to stand up and you just hang on okay, I'll do all the work."
As she raised Colleen off the floor to a standing position, she realized she may as well be hoisting a bag of flour. She was so tiny.
As they both stood face to face a loud knock sounded at the door of Colleen's room.
"Good morning! How are we doing in here?" Everly's voice filled the room, jolting Lyra into panic. She sucked in a breath and her eyes widened as she recognized the voice and looked at Colleen sharply.
"I won't say anything if you don't." Colleen whispered to Lyra with a smirk.
"In here, just give us a moment." Lyra stammered as she moved to Colleen's side and braced her around the waist before opening the bathroom door.
"Everything alright with morning check?" Everly bubbled as she scanned the room for evidence of Lyra's incompetence.
Lyra brought the wide-eyed innocence of her face to the surface as she always did with Everly, and candy coated the pitch of her voice.
"We are doing great, just finished up in the bathroom and we're on our way to meds and breakfast."
Lyra helped Colleen into her robe and helped sit her down at the small dinette in the corner where meals were served. She reached for the breakfast tray and her vitals checklist from the overbed table to the sound of Everly softly tsk'ing as she glanced at the empty vitals paper.
"Lyra, can I speak with you a moment privately?" Everly smiled over her shoulder at Colleen, giving the hand gesture for 1-minute with her forefinger.
Lyra was familiar with private side-bar chats with Everly. It wasn't a matter of whether she would find an opportunity for improvement of Lyra's work, but when, and today's opportunity was only twenty minutes into her shift.
"You have got to remember to document the time when you enter a resident's room," she said in a stern whisper. "I was hoping since documentation was one of the items on your goal sheet for performance reviews that I wouldn't need to check that any longer."
This is what Everly did. Passive-aggressive leadership was her signature. Each day was different with what she chose to put under the magnifying glass. Yesterday she held a fifteen-minute pre-round huddle because too many of the staff were not wearing the required non-slip footwear. She even went as far as to ask everyone to lift their feet so she could inspect their soles.
"I'm sorry Everly, I was getting there, she's my first resident of the day, I didn't forget." Lyra babbled quickly, putting the please have pity on me gaze into her eyes.
Like clockwork, as quickly as Everly aggresses, she passes over it with the satisfaction of having provided constructive criticism. "It's been discussed, so follow the protocols and document the times you spend with each resident both in and out. It is tremendously important to the reports we run that project the number of staff we need to schedule. It may be above your paygrade to worry about staffing, but some of us aren't so lucky."
There's the final Everly leg-sweep. It's bad enough she seeks out breaches in protocol like a heat seeking missile, but the additional effort to remind those beneath her to know their place is what makes her the worst kind of boss.
" I will, I promise" Lyra mumbled as she turned back into Colleen's room.
Everly stood at the door and watched until Lyra documented the time on her checklist.
She grabbed the clipboard and without looking at the page, stared sharply at Everly and wrote 7:17am and dropped the clipboard on the bed.
Returning to Colleen's side at the table Lyra watched as she struggled to keep the food on her fork as she moved from plate to mouth. The tiny white paper cup containing Colleen's morning medications was already empty.
"I'm supposed to watch you take those" Lyra whispered as she reached for the clipboard again to check the medicine boxes and document the time.
"And I am also supposed to take your vitals before you have them as well. Do you mind?" Lyra nodded at the food tray as she put her stethoscope in her ears and reached for the blood pressure cuff from the rolling monitor that accompanied her on morning rounds.
Colleen dutifully laid her fork across her plate and held up her arm. "It's high, it's always high," she mumbled.
"Reason number one why I need to document it before you have your meds" Lyra smiled as she secured the Velcro arm band and pressed the start button.
"We must have it for the reports" Colleen quipped in sarcasm. Before she could catch it, the laugh escaped her mouth and reached her eyes. Lyra patted Colleen on the shoulder in appreciation for lightening the mood, "don't you worry about that, it's above your paygrade" she said with a wink.
"Well for god's sake don't forget to write it down."
Lyra found herself feeling impressed at Colleen's sharpness and wit. Though her eighty-seven years had stripped her of mobility and balance, her mind was clear, and her hearing was better than average since Everly's scolding should have been far enough away to not be heard word for word. Most patients here couldn't make out a full sentence if you shouted it at them with a bull horn. Lyra made a mental note to not underestimate Colleen's hearing again.
"No need to document your auditory perception" Lyra smiled, again the full light of happiness reaching her eyes.
"How old are you honey" Colleen questioned with a smile
"I'm twenty."
"Ah, you're too young to be pushed around like that by your peers, you're just a baby, still learning. She should be ashamed of herself for not being a better teacher."
Lyra felt her face warm with emotion and immediately turned her back to Colleen to avoid eye contact. She didn't know how to respond to a protective nature, it was something she'd only ever heard of, never experienced.
"I'm used to it. It's the job"
"Well, you shouldn't be" Colleen spoke softly, looking up at Lyra and putting her tiny, manicured hand on her cheek.
Lyra pulled back from Colleen's touch, realizing the comforting gesture of kindness made her feel uncomfortable. She quickly shook off that feeling of anxiety, frosted with longing as she softly moved Colleen's hand from her face and returned it to her breakfast plate.
"I've got to move along now, is there anything else I can do before I go?" Lyra busied her hands, adjusting the shade on the window to allow a bit more light in.
"Bring me the remote dear, I want to watch a program while I eat"
"Sure, do you want the news?" Lyra asked as she grabbed the remote and punched the power button.
"God no," Colleen chuckled, "put it on Law and Order, the Lifetime channel has a marathon today."
Lyra smiled with a little disbelief and set the channel. "That's one of my favorites too. I used to watch it all the time with one of my fost… um, with my father" she stammered.
Colleen never took her eyes off her focus to move her fork full of scrambled eggs from her plate to her mouth, but Lyra sensed she was sharp enough to decode the mistake in her words.
"I'll be back around to check on you later"
Lyra moved Colleen's walker next to her at the table and did a quick scan of the room to ensure there wasn't anything on the floor that would cause a fall and headed for the door. She tucked her clipboard under her arm and wheeled her mobile cart towards the door.
"Lyra dear?" Colleen called out softly, as she raised one shaking hand to point at her clipboard. She smiled mischievously and whispered, "7:35."
Frostmoon’s Last Stand
It's been 17 days or maybe more since I am here. I am sure if the kingdom knew what I am going through here then they will definitely call me a legend of Fera. Though I am sure they don't know anything about the horror I have scene today. Well then let me narrate my own story, it might appear to all as exaggeration but well then I cannot help you.
It's my story, I am Gregory Fredrick Frostmoon, from Frostmoon clan of Leona, last of my name now. Though my family isn't a rich noble family but still I know that my family has some connections in the royal family as my great great grandfather Rickshaw Frostmoon had married the royal princess of Leona Royal family.
Well currently I am the only Frostmoon left. My family had prepared a long lineage of warriors but we bear a curse that if we kill even one more enemy than one thousand in battle then our heart starts to stop, leading to a cold fight.
Well enough of my past and my clan. Well after I am done with this damn plague, I will marry my beloved fiance Laura, though she is probably getting hit on by that old count Grainer, that bastard just doesn't know when to give up, in his seventies and still wants some young concubine.
Well let's talk about this place. I am currently fighting the plague to save our continent, Fera. This place is called Blood Desert, just red sand everywhere I see. When we had arrived here, we were around 10000, now we are just 70 people left.
Many perished in the red storms, while others fell to the creatures. We had never seen or heard of anything like them—fin-eared monsters with an insatiable thirst for blood.
I remember one of my men, underestimate them and the creature ate his head in just one attack. Their claws can even scratch through the iron shields given to us.
I think my subordinates just called me, let me go I will return in a few moments, bye my friends.
Well I am back after 7 hours, a correction now we are just one left, me only. Well it was a harsh fight, I killed many of those vile beasts with my axe and solar hammer, but they just don't die easily even my special ice bomb doesn't work well against them.
Well I will say this though that I killed around hundreds of them today, don't know what is out there in the world that can create such creatures, well for now, I can say that I have around an hour left as they will come back again.
During this time I will sharpen my axe, and after that I will take a quick nap. Sorry but it does look hopeless though I have no other choice.
Well I think it's my final entry. Goodbye, Laura, I will always love you. Goodbye, anyone who finds these words, tell my story well.
I finally closed this journal and asked my subordinate "Go, and take this to Leona, give this personally to Lord Alberto, tell him that a hero named Gregory Fredrick Frostmoon died here as he died while fighting against plague and his curse, and if someone stops you then just tell them that Lone Wolf, the right hand man of Lord Caine has sent you."
With that I turned toward the place where we buried the hero of Fera, atleast for me. My deepest regret is not being able to meet you and fight you. Guess it will be a mystery forever, as who would win between my Shadow Blade and your Frostmoon Blade.
Dear Abacus,
I'm ready-made to be there for you through your hard times. Aside from possessing all of the unconditional love of being your mother, my life has hurt more than you can imagine at your age and experience. I know how to navigate the emptiness and the largeness of these heart-wrenching moments. I know how to not drown.
I know you are feeling alone because it's what I lived when I was your age, in this type of circumstance. I know a path that made the dark times darker, and I'm scared that's where you're headed (or are). I didn't know what it was like to have someone who could hear, who could understand, who even wanted to listen (without an ulterior motive). More than anything in the world, I wish you could know me right now. It's my whole job to be here for you. And I am.
I just wish you could see it.
I love you.
Mama
Now I See It
Searching for a spot offering an unobstructed view, I take my regularly scheduled walk alone into the chilly night. The ideal location is suitable for gazing up with unrelentless optimism. When far enough away from distractions, I lean my head back and focus on whatever identifiable speck of twinkling light first catches my eye.
On clear nights, a simple wish is repeated: I wish happiness would come into my life. I send off this terrestrial request hopeful that my star light, star bright will miraculously grant me the elimination of all personal strife. But this evening, clouds are stacked tight, their nocturnal shadow occludes the sky over my head. Patiently, I wait for a seam to open and reveal a celestial anchor for my wish. I scrutinize the heavens, but no beacon materializes.
The clouds never move. Reluctantly, I abandon all expectations. I’m dejected by the opportunity to ask for happiness being postponed for another 24 hours. Adjusting my gaze horizontally, I look for the path leading me home. That’s when I understood.
I realize that the clouds aren’t and never have been hiding something I needed. They’re a sign pointing me in the direction I’m supposed to go. Their presence is God’s way of telling me, “Don’t wish and wait to be bequeathed something that’s always been within your deserved grasp. Stop looking up, down or backwards. Look forward. Happiness lies ahead. Go forth with confidence that the talents I gave you will make your dreams come true.”
The nature of human existence
Lately, a book I read in college keeps coming to mind: Things Fall Apart by the Nigerian author, Chinua Achebe. Given the class was 40 years ago and my brain is an indiscriminate sieve, I am pleased that I actually remember the title and author, and am unsurprised that I have no memory of any specific details. I believe it was about one people's traditional way of life falling apart in the face of another nation's empire building.
Regardless, it is the title that speaks to me: It is a simple reminder to me that life is always falling apart in some way, somewhere for someone.
A marriage. A friendship. The business or personal relationships thought to be unbreakable that fall apart.
A terminal illness that eradicates a family's life savings before the loved one finally succumbs.
Unexpected job loss followed by extended unemployment.
A contract. An agreement. Peace.
Over and again, throughout history, lives have fallen apart because of catastrophic events or decisions with far-reaching repercussions made in distant halls of power.
Consider the genesis and impact of the following policies, programs, events. The goal of each, even the wars, though maybe not the pandemics, was to improve lives, the way of life, for some group or groups. As you know from your own experience, you can never please everyone; this is even more true at the macro level. So, things falling apart is inevitable. In each case, while some benefited, others lost their lives and/or livelihoods. New lives and ways of life arose from the ashes.
Manifest Destiny; the Monroe Doctrine; the Industrial Revolution; the Open Door Policy; the (Theodore) Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine; Dollar Diplomacy; World War I; the Spanish Flu (considered a misnomer for the 1918-1920 pandemic); the Wall Street crash of 1929; the Great Depression; the New Deals (the presidency of FDR); World War II; the Marshall Plan; the UN (and its many offshoots); the Cold War (with its proxy wars); the Great Society programs (the presidency of LBJ); USAID and the Peace Corps (the presidency of JFK); the fall of the Berlin Wall; 9-11; the Belt and Road Initiative of China (also known as the New Silk Road, which, as of this writing, has 140 participating nations that comprise 75% of the world's population and 50% of the world's GDP); the pandemic of 2020 (the Chinese Flu?); and, perhaps, the second presidency of DJT as it seeks to change the US government's role at home and abroad.
The worlds of faceless millions whose names will never be known in the annals of history, fall apart daily, have fallen apart consistently, throughout history.
Your life may be falling apart right now.
Personally, I have been watching my husband's life fragment and crumble for almost a decade.
Things fall apart; it is the nature of human existence.
That being said, I choose not to descend into an abyss of misery.
I am a huge fan of Dale Carnegie's works. In his book, How to Stop Worrying and Start Living (1948), he gives some very helpful tips to living more joyfully no matter what life throws at you:
1. Analyze the situation. Consider what could go wrong.
2. Accept the worst. Realize that the worst could happen, and prepare to accept it.
3. Improve the situation. Use your time and energy to make things better.
That last one is key. Criticizing, complaining, condemning...worrying does not help to make things better for anyone, least of all, yourself.
Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy." Leo Buscaglia
I wish you an abundance of joy-filled moments.