The battle had waged on for hours now, Motus Invidia and Motus Timor had been battling such a great foe and their efforts had been in vain. They stood winded and battered, their beautiful gowns and wands torn and broken, the villain simply puffed their chest in pride at their disdain.

I’ve known these girls for a few months now, becoming fast friends in our collective literature class in college, and not long after knowing them I became privy to their secondary lifestyles of magical girls. They referred to themselves as “Motus” and were given names upon their “re-birth” as they so-called it. My classmate, Naili, and I watched on in horror as they waged their battle, concerned that their attacks wouldn’t be able to stop their great adversary.

“The dance of the black swan!” Motus Timor called out, one of her beautiful signature moves. The black sparkles scattered and exploded around the villain with gorgeous intricacies that could only be attributed to ancient magic that we regular humans were still too unfamiliar with.

The move simply dissipated into thin air over the side of the cliff, the battle taking place on a high plateau away from most civilians save for Naili and myself. Motus Invidia cast another spell, plethoras of large green orbs surrounding her, suddenly shooting towards their foe. With a wave of their hand, they had cast the orbs away, heading in every direction.

One was heading straight for me and Naili.

It landed with a large ‘boom’ at our feet, just barely missing us as we tried to rush out of its path, but the ground below our feet began to crumble. The rock was sliding off the side of the plateau with me on it. Naili called for me, rushing to me as quickly as she could while I simply held my hand out to her in fright, surely this would be my end.

I closed my eyes, resigned to my fate when I felt Naili's soft hand grasp my own. I was pulled with great force towards her as she used her entire body weight to toss me to safe ground.

But she was now falling into the abyss in my stead.

A scream ripped through my throat as I reached out for her, already too far out of my reach as I watched her plummet to the ground. Tears flooded my vision as I did my best to focus on her, only catching one last glimpse of her tanned skin and brown locks flying around her face.

She was smiling up at me, she had saved me.

She fell for quite some time before I heard the loud thud of her body hitting the ground. Her limbs were mangled and her body contorted in odd ways, blood pooled around her lifeless form as I wept and screamed out to her. She was gone.

The Motus were a strange thing, unsure of their power themselves in some cases, but they had never told either me or Naili how to become magical girls ourselves. They had kept their origins a secret and would either quickly change the subject or shut us down entirely when we asked to become like them. Saying that what they had to give up wasn’t worth the power they were given in return. However, for the first time since I had asked since finding out about their powers all the time ago, I was finally given the answers that I sought but realized now that I did not want them.

From my height on the plateau, I could make out Naili’s body fairly well, I could still see the morbid smile plastered on her face as her body began to convulse. Her chest sunk in deeply as she shook, and I felt goosebumps rise on my skin.

A hand had burst from her chest, covered in blood and gore, and the familiar sight of Naili’s smiling face stared back up to me from within her chest.

A new Motus had been born.

Her truck took the sharp turns of the mountain road with ease. Grace leaned forward in her seat, sunglasses reflecting the green blur of trees rushing past. “God, it’s beautiful,” she said, as a hawk flew above the ridgeline. Beside her, Matt grinned and adjusted the air conditioning. He had one arm out the window, catching the wind with his hand. The two had been driving since dawn, eager to escape the buzz of Cincinnati for a long weekend in the wild. Grace had found the cabin listing on a site that promised “off-grid peace with modern comfort.” She booked it without hesitation.

They passed a weathered old barn, and Matt pointed to a rusted mailbox overgrown with vines. “Think that’s it?” he asked. Grace nodded, pulling into the narrow gravel road. The trees pressed in on either side like a tunnel. She eased up on the gas. “Creepy,” Matt muttered, elbowing her. She smiled, but her hand gripped the wheel a little tighter as the shadows deepened and the forest closed around them.

—————

The cool fog settled on Joe’s face as he stepped out the front door. He hastily wiped his hands on his jeans and fixed his bloodshot eyes forward. The sun had only just begun to rise above the misty blue mountains. He took in the sight with newborn eyes, though sixty years of hardship had set deep creases around them. The magic of the Blue Ridge Mountains never faded. If anything, the longer he allowed his roots to grow deep into the rocks, the more they captivated him.

At night, this stretch of Appalachia came alive with terrible sounds that drove even the veterans of the area mad. As the day began to break, the thick fog covered the trails and swallowed the mountain’s secrets. It was a good place to get lost. It was a great place to disappear.

Joe shuffled across the porch, the old boards creaking with every step. His hound waited for him outside the door next to a sun-bleached backpack. “Alright, Rocky, just a minute now. Gotta have a smoke.” He pulled the flattened pack of cigarettes and box of matches from the front pocket on his jacket. He struck the match with trembling hands and breathed in the scent of sulphur that wafted out of the flame. It reminded him of when his mother would light candles around the cabin before the state ran electricity through the holler.

The folks in town had changed as wealthy urbanites priced out of the cities pushed out the families that had called these mountains home for generations. It wasn’t the same town anymore. But he tried to keep the cabin the same as it existed in his memories. That was where his father taught him how to shave with a straight razor and where his mother baked apple pies in the fall. Now, he was the last Walker left. He had gotten used to being alone.

Joe shook his head, as if it would erase the memories. The match had gone out, and the cigarette was now crushed in his hand. He threw them both on the porch and followed his dog down the stairs. His boots stepped onto the mountain soil with a satisfying crunch. All around him, fireflies blinked in and out of existence, trailing into the thick woods. The fireflies in these mountains were famous for their synchronized dances. It was as if all the creatures here were one living organism, bound together by the intimacy of this strange and isolated place.

Joe walked into the woods and left the house behind him, trodding over the blanket of dead leaves and through the ferns. The smell of wet rot permeated the forest. He stopped to catch his breath after a long while, resting his left hand on a moss-covered tree. He whistled for Rocky and heard him bark a long distance away. The bark echoed through the trees and faded out, leaving behind a heavy silence. Even the birdsong had disappeared.

Joe patted the knife in his right pocket. There was a lot to fear in these mountains. There were bobcats and black bears that called them home, and hikers disappeared from time to time here. The locals traded stories about other things, awful things, creatures that were as old as the rock itself and fed on terror.

They never talked about just one monster out there. There were whispers about a howler, something that mimicked the sound of your voice to lure you off trail. Others swore they’ve seen the white buck with eyes like a man’s. Then there’s the shadow of the ridge, something that walks upright but leaves no prints. Some just said there’s something “not right” out there. That’s about the one thing people could agree on. Every time someone disappeared or turned up dead, the legends became even more indistinguishable from the truth.

Joe knew the stories were just that, stories to frighten little children into staying on the paths through the hollow. He knew better than to believe the mountain gossip and whiskey talk. A hard life taught him that there’s more to fear in the world than folktales.

He was all alone now in the still forest. No dog, no birds, no cicadas playing their shrill symphony. The sun had started coming up, but the branches above him formed a thick canopy that fought against every speck of light that threatened to come through. On any other day, Joe wouldn’t have been shaken by a little darkness. But today, the shadows looked twisted and wrong. They played tricks on his mind and made his heart race.

He had no idea how long he had been walking and nothing looked familiar. The air felt heavy on his shoulders, making him acutely aware of the tension rising in them. He was on old land, forgotten land, long stretches of rocky forest that had long been left alone. The woods were silent, watching him, waiting for him.

A sharp bark cut through the silence and snapped him back to reality. Rocky was nearby. He lifted his hand off the moss, making sap and green debris come up with it. He shuffled over to a shallow stream and knelt down to dip his hands in the water. The clear water darkened and washed the night off him.

Joe got up with a grunt and saw Rocky’s silhouette through the gaps in the trees up ahead. He walked toward his dog, weaving through the trunks. He called his name and heard no answer. As he got closer, he could see that Rocky was frozen with his ears pinned back and his tail down. He was hesitantly sniffing a carcass—or, what was left of it. It looked like it had once been a great buck, easily four hundred pounds or more. Now it was sliced and ripped into strips and lumps of flesh.

Joe bent down and saw a pair of glassy blue eyes with his own two, peering up from the detached head. Rocky whimpered. “Nothing to be afraid of, boy,” Joe said. “Things happen in these mountains.”

He patted the dog’s head and stood up. As he turned to find the trail again, a roar erupted through the mist and rumbled through Joe’s chest. It rattled him to his bones like no bear or cat he had ever heard. The trees all around him shifted, branches snapping left and right. Heavy footsteps pounded the ground in the distance and moved closer. Closer. Impossibly quickly. Rocky let out a panicked yelp and bolted down the trail.

Joe stumbled over his boots, struggling to keep up. He swore under his breath and wheezed. He glanced back for a moment, but all he could see were tall shadows moving between the trunks. Darkness was crawling out of the forgotten depths of the mountains. It snaked its way around the trees and through the branches, leaving the kiss of death on every plant and animal in its path. It was much too large to be a man, much too precise to be a less intelligent being. The woods parted like a black sea as it came.

There was a light up ahead. He tried to scream for it, but no words came. All he could do was pray to a long-abandoned God that his legs wouldn’t give out. The light grew as Joe and Rocky whipped past thorny bushes and hickory trees toward it. They were coming up on a clearing in the hollow. Joe ran out onto the grass and collapsed to his knees panting. The forest behind him had gone eerily silent.

The setting sun cast its glow on the grass, turning its dry blades a deep orange. How long had he been out here? Joe craned his neck up toward the sea of twinkling stars.

Rocky came over and licked the gray stubble on Joe’s face. “Ain’t nothin’ out here but stories, right, Rocky?” He scratched Rocky’s head.

Rocky pulled his head away and trotted off. “Where are you going, boy?” Joe called out. He looked up and saw his dog heading toward his dusty blue truck. Somehow, he had ended right back where he started.

By the time he got back to the truck, he had almost caught his breath. His trembling hands fumbled around in his pockets to find the key and when he found it, he could barely get it into the rusted lock. Joe let Rocky into the passenger seat and plopped down behind the wheel, slamming the door behind him. There were wicked things in these woods, that much he always knew. Joe drove away, his truck rocking back and forth with the rocks and grooves in the dirt. As he looked at his rearview mirror, the forest seemed to exhale behind him.

—————

Back at his cabin, Joe reached for a fourth beer. He took a hearty gulp and rubbed his aching calves. They were a painful reminder that he wasn’t a healthy young man anymore. Sooner or later, he’d have to slow down. There were some risks he couldn’t afford to take anymore.

He headed for the door with Rocky at his feet. There was one last thing he had to do tonight. He built a fire behind his shed and fed it items from his backpack, watching them wither to ashes in the flames. Joe reached into the backpack, felt the frayed edges of an old photo, and stuffed it in his pocket. He reached back in and grabbed a glove out of the bag, dropping it in the flame. Rocky whimpered and backed away from the fire. Joe turned to face him. “It’s nothing that’ll be missed, bud.”

Suddenly, Joe heard the sound of tires on gravel. He peered his head around the shed and saw a polished, gray truck roll up the driveway. He scrambled to stomp out the fire, jumping to his feet. By the time he reached the truck, he realized it belonged to his neighbors, the Peters—as much as you can call someone a mile away your neighbor.

The truck’s driver side window rolled down. “Evenin’, Mr. Walker,” a young man called out. “Sorry to bother you.” He paused and waited for Joe to interject that it wasn’t a bother at all. Joe said nothing. “Well,” he continued, “I just came by to see if you’d heard anything. I heard some sirens down by the state road. Turns out a young couple from Ohio never checked out of their rental.”

Joe shrugged. “Nothing out there that wasn’t already here."

The neighbor gave a nervous chuckle. “I guess you’re right, sir. Well, I’ll let you go now.” He turned around in the dirt and sped off.

Joe turned around and walked back toward the cabin through the blinking fireflies. Something on the mountain howled into the night, and he picked up his pace. Rocky was frozen in place outside the shed with his hair standing on end. Joe smiled. The hound was probably scared of his own shadow.

Joe pushed the shed door open. His grandfather had built it with his own hands during the Great Depression. That was back when people made themselves useful. Now, they lived their lives online and turned all the good families’ homes into vacation rentals. He missed the days when television was the great threat to society.

He walked over to the far wall. Various photos and accessories had been collected and displayed over the years. Some photos showed bright, happy families enjoying their hikes through the Blue Ridge Mountains. Some were in black and white, with moonshine stills in the background. In a way, they were the stories the Walkers had passed down over the generations. Joe pulled the photo out of his pocket and pinned it up on the wall, stepping back to admire the new addition. A fresh-faced young woman in a big, floppy hat smiled at the camera. A man in a red hoodie had his arm around her and was planting a big kiss on her cheek. Joe traced his finger over the letters on the man’s hoodie: “Ohio State.”

Somewhere in the holler, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a child asked their father if monsters were real. And somewhere deep in the mountain, a legend moved that didn’t have claws, or horns, or glowing eyes—just a rusted truck, a steady hand, and all the time in the world.

The loneliness has caught up the back of my chest, faltering my emotions and integrity as a person, as a man. I feel myself falling through the cracks again without a safety net to catch me, the thoughts of ideation are prominent more than ever, hurt abandoned, casted aside, no guidance, alone. I cling to the memories of pain because they are all I have left of anything remotely good. Haven’t felt more alone than I do now ever. I gave my heart to many to be rejected or casted aside left to rot alone I can’t keep going on anymore. This is my cry for help, this is my resonating thoughts and feelings, 2025 is just a constant state of feeling dread and fear of the unknown and what was. I long for freedom of my mind and to be loved again. but now I find myself disgusted by the thought of it. I feel like no one’s worthy it yet I crave it most.

i just need some sleep..

I slipped on some ice on the cement today. Ice, of course, is frozen water, or H2O below 32ºF (0ºC). At this temperature, the water molecules lose energy and slow down; they self-assemble into a hexagonally-structured crystal lattice, forming a solid state of slick substrate above which floats a thin layer of liquid water from the friction pressure of my foot lowering the melting point.

Liquid layer, it turned out, had hydrogen bonds less tightly bound, moving freely enough to become an excellent lubricant, reducing the friction between my foot and the ice, making it slippery.

It’s all chemistry, after all, which is harder to understand than the pain of a suddenly dislodged coccyx at its sacral attachment. (You don’t need to look to the heavens to see stars; they are all around us, kept in a crystal lattice themselves—one of potential energy in search of the right kinesis.)

Of foot.

And while my right foot can garner Oscar chatter, it landed my ass very kinetically onto the cement below.

Ah, chemistry.

Beware! If you go too deep into chemistry, you're suddenly doing physics.

F = M x A

The mass was my ass. What a difference one tiny, little letter makes, especially when you accelerate it. The terminal velocity of a human in a stable, ass-to-cement position is around 120 mph (193 km/h). This speed is reached when the force of drag from air resistance equals the force of gravity acting on the person, resulting in constant speed.

But this is incorrect.

The terminal velocity when my ass hit the ground was 0. Sudden and terminally stopped. My irresistible ass met the immovable ground.

That’s when I realized, if you do phsyics deep enough, it’s all math, or in my case, calculus where I met my fate at t=0. Yet, standards of rigor have evolved over—dare I invoke it?—time. Calculus, originally founded on ill-defined infinitesimals, transitioned to the modern, more rigorous formalism reliant on limits.

And I met mine. I’ve got the X-ray to prove it, so buzz off, Gödel! And come on in, Euler.

Euler’s Identity, for those who missed that class, is

e^ix = cos x + isin x

Bear with me. Hear me out.

Euler’s identity states that when Euler's number (e) is raised to the power of imaginary pi (iπ), the result, when added to 1, equals 0. Pretty scary when you think about it. I didn’t. I was in a hurry. Down I went. I was the one who went down. Euler is the one who pulled the rug out.

I was the “1”; but my ass stopped moving at “0”.

And seeing the stars, I realized that if you do math deep enough, the physics becomes metaphysics, the branch of philosophy that explores what is hubristic “first principles” of things, such as the abstract concepts of being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.

And nothing explores being, substance, cause, and space like falling on your ass. (The knowledge of the knowing and time it takes to know—truly know—comes with the stars.)

Time, from ambulation to inertness, from motion to frozen in time like water frozen into ice, can be reverse-extrapolated to t = 0; however, the opposite of extrapolation is miscalculation. Look it up.

There are quantum effects that emerge at Planck lengths and Planck time, miscalculated or otherwise, both of which become evident when one hits the ground sitting. (Alternatively, hits the sitting grounded.)

Thus, deep math is quantum physics. In math, though, wrong assumptions cannot occur beyond what is provable or unprovable; but in quantum physics we are deluded into thinking we have a choice. Prior to slipping on my ass, I walked in a probability field.

When I fell on my ass, I was in a definite field: The field of pain.

And that, my friends, was definite! With the collapse of my ass, so collapsed my probability field, and with it, my sacrococcygeal ligament. And as we all know…

…the hip bone’s connected to the thigh gone…

…and on and on. You realize the interconnectedness when you remember that all pain is perceived in the brain. Acute pain engenders anger; chronic pain engenders depression.

But there is hope.

The stars—like hip bones to thigh bones—are the result of somatosensory neurons connected to the occipital lobe; and when the descending pain modulation pathway fails and, counterintuitively, amplifies the pain, deep quantum engenders religion.

And this is when I found religion. Does that sound irrational? or just complex?

Thus, reads the postulate, “More people, in these troubled times, should fall on their asses.” (You can quote me on that!)

You know, I never thought I'd be sitting in a sex ed lecture feeling jealous of how innocent the teacher is. The teacher asked us why teens aren't concerned about STDs. My first thought was, because I don't plan to have sex. The only way I'm gonna get an STD is if I'm raped. You should be trying to stop that instead of lecturing at us knowing we won't listen. My teacher started talking about how kids don't think about death because they're so young and healthy that death feels like it's just a story. Bitch, I've tried to kill myself. Shut up and do something useful. The first thing you said in this class is that you know what you're saying is going to go right over our heads. If you know that, why are you saying it? And btw, I may be young but I'm not healthy. I couldn't walk last night because my ankles are too weak to support my body on any surface that isn't flat. I think about death constantly. I know that my uncle would kill me himself if he knew I was trans. I'm fuckin seventeen. I have a job. I'm raising a kid. I've never had sex. This wasn't my choice. And this lecture is not helping.

Once upon a time, there lived two little leaves. The first leaf was perfect - beautiful, green, thriving. The second leaf was far from perfect - decrepit, spotted, struggling. Yet their feelings were seemingly antithetical. The first little leaf felt a strange, subtle, lingering sort of angst and disgust knowing that the tree to which it belonged was not nearly as perfect. So many other leaves, so much imperfection. Such ugliness. Such an unfortunate mess for the tree as a whole to not be so beautiful, green, and thriving. The second little leaf felt a similar feeling for a very long time, but then realized that there was no leaf, there was only the tree. And while that tree might be flawed and ugly in some ways, as a whole, overall, it was magnificent and consummate - and all its imperfections made it ironically more perfect. Time passed, and the first little leaf had a similar insight - and a lasting, full sense of bliss and content. This leaf noticed a spot on its otherwise perfect form - such a tragic blemish. But soon the leaf reminded itself that there indeed was just the tree, and many other leaves, many leaves with far more blemishes, many leaves with far fewer, but overall, all in all, the tree was the tree, and that meant the purest form of beauty and wholeness one could possibly imagine. The leaf was all the leaves - all the brilliant and dull ones, all the green and brown ones, all the whole and tattered ones - everything. How silly it is, thought both little leaves, to get caught-up in such little feelings of imperfection and lack when all that really existed was the utter opposite.

- The Edith Fowler Series -

Pastor Collins raised his sallow hands signaling pallbearers to lower Lester Smith's coffin in the marked grave of Bleakville's cemetery. A smell of fresh soil wafted through the air, mixed with cut grass surrounding his interment. Craving booze, pastor Collins ignored his jaundiced look and took a sip from a hidden flask. He watched as townsfolk made their way to the Community Negro Baptist Church. There, they mourned Lester's death and ate comfort foods like fried chicken, dumplings, apple pie, and potato salad.

Mayor Edith Fowler dressed in a gray Dixie hat, white blouse, and black skirt for the occasion. She pulled a long-stemmed rose out of the pocket of her open vest and matching boots. A pricked finger drew blood, spotting the blouse near her heart. After buttoning the vest to conceal the blemish, she tossed the rose in the grave on top of the coffin she had specially built. Sealed before the ceremony, no one saw what was left of the colored man's body that was beaten and whipped by a mob days ago.

"No peace in life. Have peace in death," she prayed.

Edith put on her octagon glasses with gold forged frames. When her eyes adjusted to clarity, she looked at a family photo of the Smiths before tossing it in the hole as well. Lester's wife and two children fled town right after his body was found. The value of their lives was worth more than the possessions they left behind. A smell of retaliation ran through the air, putting fear in civilians. Bleakville lawmen stood on high alert. Sheriff Tuney spotted the mayor leaving the gravesite and called her out with urgency. Startled, she locked eyes on the briskly walking blond man coming towards her, stirring up dust as he approached.

"Mayor, I'm calling a meeting at the courthouse. I want the Bleakville town heads to meet me there lickety-split. This is a matter of life and death for our town," he insisted, blue eyes staring her down. "You best show up too," he said, with contempt. Edith kept her head low and said nothing.

"Your colored life is on the line for what you did," she felt he wanted to say.

* * *

Bleakville town heads filed into the courtroom. Sheriff Tuney Moonbay, Marshal Pete Doyle, Pastor Steven Collins, General Store owner Ewald Bensen, Blacksmith Arnett Hedley, doctor, and mortician Ingram Wardell assembled. The men who kept her town running stood before the mayor, a woman, the only colored in the room. Her clammy hands clasped together to avoid shaking as her heart pounded and breath shortened.

"Did you disremember widow Norma Thorton, the owner of 90 acres and the 40 cattle heads that help feed our town?" Edith spat out before she could stop herself. The sarcasm she was famous for escaped her lips, unable to be reeled back in.

"She was the one who instigated a riot when her husband Sam was killed," said the sheriff. "Then she got the owner of the Rusty Spur to start a petition that got a white man hung and Lester killed. That colored gal is not welcome here," he fumed. "Let's git started boys," he said while directing the men to maneuver tables and chairs together, deliberately cutting communication off with Edith.

She started to tell the sheriff "You're so weak north of ya ears that you couldn't lead a horse to water, no less a meeting," but thought better of it.

Sheriff Tuney took the front and center seat, a move to show he was now calling the shots. He passed a document around for the others to see. It was a proclamation for the arrest of Mayor Edith Fowler, signed by the governor of Pennsylvania. The paper reminded Edith of the petition her townsfolk signed a month ago requesting to have swift justice done to a man. The difference was this document contained a raised seal stamp and was signed by Governor Arthur Harry Moore himself.

As the sheriff started the meeting, someone knocked hard on the courtroom door just before entering. Florence, the Rusty Spur barmaid, balanced a tray of glasses and several bottles of whiskey as she made her way to the court table. Brown, blue, and gray eyes ogled her hourglass shape and brunette hair. Lust turned to disgust when her long locks betrayed the woman, revealing a hideous scar on the right side of her face as she put the glasses down.

"Obliged Miss Florence. You may leave. I'll settle up with you after the meeting at the Rusty Spur," said Sheriff Tuney.

"But Miss McIntyre requires I bring compensation back with the tray," she said diplomatically as Pastor Collins was the first to reach for a bottle, pouring a big gulp.

"Maybe you didn't hear right correctly," said the sheriff. He walked toward her with a menacing swagger and pointed a finger at the door. "You best skedaddle. I'll settle up wit that painted hen boss of yours when I'm done," he urged, his voice growing louder with each word.

"Yes sir sheriff!" Florence answered as she bolted through the door without looking back. She considered herself lucky that those men only wanted booze and let her go. Satisfied watching her race away, the sheriff closed the door, filled a glass with whiskey and hovered over the seated businessmen and mayor.

"Let's weigh our options. We could git some money and personal things together and git her outta town quiet like. Or we wait for the governor's men to bring her to trial for dereliction of duty in another jurisdiction. Either way will be hard," Sheriff Tuney added.

"What do we do about the hanging crew coming up from New Jersey? They want justice now, not a trial. And they will be here in a few days," remarked Arnett.

"We could put her in jail for her own safety," said Doc Ingram.

"That dog won't hunt. She won't last a day in there," corrected Marshal Pete, remembering how he aided a mob removing Maverick from the same jail at gunpoint.

A high-pitched screeching sound came from the mayor's chair when she suddenly pushed back, stood up, and pounded on the table. "SHE HAS A NAME!" the mayor yelled as her nostrils flared. Edith held tears in check, but not the raw vocal emotion of everyone talking as if she weren't present. Everyone stared at the mayor, now standing over them.

"Edith," the sheriff said as he slowly stood up also. "The governor wants you arrested for the lynching of Maverick Lawson on your watching eye," he reminded. "We are hoping to keep you outta that situation. And there's the New Jersey storm coming our way in the form of a neck-tie mob. If we don't hand you over to them, they will burn down the town in retaliation... so forgive us if we don't address you proper like," mocked the sheriff.

* * *

At the Rusty Spur, widow Thorton sat at the bar, exhausted from tending to her livestock. Norma's husband, Sam, killed by Maverick, earned her the moniker. Her dirty denim overalls and blue cotton shirt looked out of place on the colored woman in the bar. She was grateful that most patrons were at the church paying last respects to Lester Smith, one of the colored men who participated in the lynching of Maverick. Florence, overhearing talk about the widow, warned she had best wait for the meeting to be over before trying to talk to the mayor.

"They've been in there quite a spell," said Florence as she cleaned glasses behind the bar. "The mayor will fill us in when it's over," she continued.

"I hear they got a bounty on the mayor's head," chimed in Lucille McIntyre, owner of the bar. She had bought the Rusty Spur with money earned by spending time with men.

"If I had let matters be, the mayor wouldn't be in this spot," the widow said as she kicked the stool she sat on, causing dried-up mud on her boots to sprinkle the floor like sand. "But I have a plan. Something I learned from my grandma. I want to make things right, but the mayor must back me for it to work. As soon as that meeting ends, call her out, and Blacksmith Arnett. I'm gonna need him too."

* * *

Within 48 hours Bleakville came under siege. In the cover of the night, the Bleakville businessmen were tossed in jail with the marshal and wounded sheriff after a brief shootout. Several New Jersey henchmen stood guard and mocked the town heads standing in the overcrowded cell.

"I'd offer you boys some drink, but you only got one chamber pot to piss in," joked one of the Jersey men as the others laughed out loud.

Men ate, drank, and caused a ruckus at the Rusty Spur. Several fought for a turn with Lucille's painted ladies. The demand for flesh was so high that Florence the barrister was forced to take up with men at half the price on account of her scarred face. Lucille tended the bar while Florence took on two out-of-towners. One of them left an upper bedroom and pranced down the stairs wearing just a wife-beater, carrying coins. He dropped them on the table.

"Whiskey, a full bottle this time," he said. "And let me borrow a hat for a spell."

"To cover yourself?" Lucille asked.

"No, to cover that heifer's face," he said as he went back up the stairs with a bottle and a 10-gallon hat.

More men came into the bar, this time with the New Jersey lynch mob leader, Vasil Huges, a name Lucille and her ladies were familiar with. Vasil was the man responsible for a mob beating Lester to death when he was questioned in Gold Rose County, and had gotten away with it. He came up to the bar and sat down with three men. His brown eyes looked through her as she stared back at the unwanted patron. Lucille didn't have any more women available if he wanted one for his boys. The ones she had were bruised up and worn out. Terrified, she envisioned herself on her back, with a line of men waiting for a turn. His words snapped her back to reality.

"I was told you know the whereabouts of that colored mayor," Vasil said over the noise of the bar.

"I might know if I can get that bounty on her head," Lucille suggested.

"I'll see you get the bounty. As long as I get to burn her alive," he declared.

"She's hiding in the Funeral Parlour, waiting for your men to leave town," Lucille revealed as she poured the four men each a shot of whiskey with shaky hands.

"If that's true, you'll have the coins as soon as I lynch her behind this nice establishment," he chuckled while he searched Lucille's demeanor for motives. Finding none, he asked: "Why you giving the mayor the little end of the horn?"

"When Edith became mayor, she gave the job a lick and some promises, but she didn't keep any. She caused all the trouble you see in town. All she had to do was wait for the sheriff and let justice be done," she lamented while pouring Vasil more whiskey.

"It's all 'cause Edith had a rough growing up. Got passed around a few slave owners that liked youngins. When she thought one of Bleakville's boys was touched wrong, she let Maverick swing. Truth be told, that kid was stretching the blanket. I'm sure he wasn't telling it right. But what's done is done, and I want that bounty," she said without guilt. Vasil finished his second drink as his men pushed back what was left of their first. No one paid for the liquor.

"Let's take a walk over to the Parlour," Vasil told his men. He looked at Lucille. If I don't find what I'm looking for...me and the boys will pay you a not so friendly visit," he promised her as hard eyes undressed the voluptuous woman before they headed out.

* * *

Vasil's men surrounded the Funeral Parlour. He placed a man by the south side window and the back, even though there was no exit. He stood by the front door. More men had guns drawn, waiting for instructions.

"You, go fetch the mortician from jail. His name is Ingram. I want to know if he's in on hiding the mayor," Vasil told a blond henchman then turned to another."And you, go over to General merchandise and buy enough oil to burn the Parlour down if need be," he told a stockily built man."And you," he said to another, "go fetch that painted lady Lucille. Bring her to me," he directed the last man.

"If the mayor got away, I'll pass Lucille around to the boys, then burn down the Parlour for my troubles," Vasil promised himself as he loaded his gun, preparing to go inside the building.

He looked through the side window of the Funeral Parlour but a bloody smear on the glass hampered viewing. Frustrated, he kicked open the unlocked front door. A stench of death stopped him in his tracks.

"Good God!" Vasil said, holding his nose.

"Did she kill her fool self?" said a ponytailed-man following behind Vasil. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand but kept his gun out. As they walked, the smell of death became stronger, causing ponytail-man to vomit. The only light inside came from the door kicked open. A buzzing sound like a thousand flies was heard, but Vasil couldn't locate the source. Ponytail-man put his gun away and wiped spittle from his mouth as he swiped at flies swarming the room. They continued looking around.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw a row of chairs on the left and right side of the Funeral Parlour. Sitting in the chairs were several rotting corpses in various stages of decomposition, held together by deteriorating clothes. In the center of the floor was an octagon drawn in blood. Human skeletal bones connected to two points like the hands of a clock. Flower arrangements made of intestines hung on a closed casket that sat on a wooden table in front of the circle.

"Dead coloreds...having service? Who's leading it?" Vasil stammered. Then he heard the coffin unlock. The top half of the specially built casket creaked and squeaked on noisy hinges as it opened. The contents were fully visible even in the dim light. Vasil and ponytail-man saw a body wearing a gray Dixie hat, gold frames, and a white blouse. It slowly sat up.

"She done come alive!" yelled ponytail-man as both men fired at the body, fear causing them to miss the mark. Bullets bounced off the steel-reinforced casket, hitting chairs, corpses, and the Parlour walls. The men backed out of the building, still firing. The flash of gunfire illuminated the room enough to see the body lie back down.

"Burn it!" Vasil hollered at the men standing guard. "Burn it down! If anything comes out... shoot it!" he ordered as the men threw oil around the building, through the front door, and set it on fire.

Lucille and Ingram, tied to a pole, gasped at the burning Parlour. Vasil cut the two loose and helped Lucille to her feet as townspeople came out from their homes to put out the fire. Vasil's men prevented them from starting a bucket brigade, so all just stood by and watched it burn.

"Is the mayor in there, Vasil?" asked Lucille, terrified as the Parlour burned.

"She is," he answered. He thought about those gold frames and the body lying back down in the casket. A sight he would never forget. "She's in there with four corpses, having some kinda...something."

"Oh, God!" Lucille cried out, hugging Ingram tightly as flames engulfed the whole building, turning the beginning of dusk into a bright orange night.

"God had nothing to do with what I saw in there," Vasil remarked. "And...I'm a man of my word. I'll go over to General and fetch the bounty I promised," he told Lucille, still looking at the burning Parlour.

"Won't be anything left when that fire is out," Ingram rambled as the heat and flying ash pushed everyone back.

* * *

A horse and buggy rode away from Bleakville. Looking back briefly, she saw an amber light of something ablaze. Edith, wearing dirty denim overalls and an old blue cotton shirt carried food, water, and a gun in a wooden chest in the back of the buggy.

"Judging by the fire, I'd say all went well...or to hell," she said to herself.

"I'll have to give thanks to Widow Thorton one day. She knew Vasil was a superstitious fool and would be scared of the bodies we set up in the Funeral Parlour. When I get further away, I'll stop and say a prayer for the bodies I had dug up to make Vasil and his Jersey men think I was coming to life, leading the dead. One day, I'll thank Arnett too. That blacksmith fixed the casket with springs, making Lester's body in my clothes and glasses stir up and down. Bless that man and Lucille with her ladies keeping the men off-kilter. Everyone will think Lucille turned against me, but she played a part in the plan too.

"I have to make it to Gold Rose County. Then take a train using the widow's name out to another state. I will start a fund to build another town with my cut of the bounty Lucille will send to me. I will not fail this time. There will be justice for every color man and woman in my new town...or there will be justice for none."

Edith continued on the dirt trail using the clear moonlit sky to guide her, thinking only about the 4-day journey to Gold Rose County.

"Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions."

~ T.S. Eliot

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned by Mayor Edith Fowler (r.i.p)

***Lynch Mob Abandon Hunt After Fire In Mortuary***

Sheriff and Marshall Reclaim Bleakville From Vigilantes - Morning Press -July 17th, 1877

An alleged lynch mob from New Jersey led by Pinkerton officer Vasil Huges age 39, was called off after a fire burned down the Bleakville Funeral Parlour with beloved Mayor Edith Fowler trapped inside.

The mayor was seeking a pardon from Governor Arthur Moore after she was implicated in the death of white businessman Maverick James Lawson, from Lakewood Tennessee, age 35 by an unknown mob. He was found lynched behind the Rusty Spur, a Saloon run by Lucille McIntyre, age 29.

According to the governor, Mayor Fowler failed to protect Lawson who was in custody. Mr. Lawson was part of the governors administrative staff but his job was not known. Several patrons witnessed Pinterton Security officers surround the funeral home, trapping the mayor inside. For some unknown reason the home caught fire killing the mayor. Deceased citizens in their caskets were also consumed by the intense fire. It is unsure why the fire was not put out before it destroyed the 12 year old building.

Sheriff Tuney and Marshal Pete lead a group of 35 township men that forced the Pinkterton's out of town. With the henchmen gone, the town restored order to Bleakville. Ingram Wardell, the mortician for Bleakville, promised to rebuild the parlour and dedicate it to the founder of Bleakville, Edith Fowler.

Story written by B.D., The last reporter of the Bleakville Gazette

In that reversed place, I am Mara Vex, the part of me that never learned guilt. I move through ruins I made myself, laughing like a crack in the earth. I betray because I can, because the ache on someone else's face feels like sunlight on my skin. Every kindness shown to me is just a weapon handed over, blade first. I am hunger without end, a mouth that sings when everything falls apart. There’s no shame. There’s only more.

You did not break down my walls. You didn't make me blindly trusting and impervious. You caught my interest, and I watched you from inside with a child-like curiosity. Every movement was bewildering, every word was fascinating. Eventually, my curiosity consumed me, and I let you in so I could learn. You helped me rebuild when my fortress was under attack. You made windows so I could still experience life. You brought me paint, and helped me cover every wall with a beautiful mural. I am still guarded. I still have my walls. But it no longer hurts to see their dreary bricks. I feel safe, and I feel happy. You didn't leave me without shelter. You made it into a home, and made me feel comfortable enough to venture out on my own.

Tapping my finger against the table, I stared over my drink and past the seats at the door. What may come to me through that door is the very thing I might fear, or the thing I might hold most dear. My body went rigid at the thought, trying to find some balance to that concept, but I started to thrum from the rattle of my nerves instead.

What may come to me through that door... The tapping from my index finger felt almost synonymous to the ticking of a clock as I waited, watched, and then waited some more for things to take a slightly different turn. What may come through that door.

I tried to squint at it, like scrutinizing it would allow me to twist and warp space, turning the door until the windows gave way and the iron beams framing it all together snapped loose. Come.

Antsy, my anticipation started to reach a peak, my tapping no longer keeping in rhythm until the train wreck of my finger's twitch ached up my hands, spasming my knuckle and tendons until I yanked my hand from the table sharply to grab that hand and squeeze. And I mean squeeze! I squeezed that hand so hard, I was almost to believe I'd pop it from the joint, rip it away and discard the limb wholly with the intent to throw it away or yeet is across the room in some capacity.

"Diana?"

My gaze snapped sharply up, and an uneasy smile worked up out of me as I tried to smooth the wrinkles of my nerves and emotions like the lapels on a gentlemen's suit. "Yes?" I answered back calmly.

The woman settled in across from me at the faux wood table in the chair made of iron and 'wood' where we nestled face to face in the cozy atmosphere of the dimly lit café, where overcast clouds shrouded the entire room in gray. I didn't look at her. I couldn't. Instead, I snapped my gaze down to the table, at the fake grain of the wood that had black stain settling in the grooves just below the surface.

"I know this was an impromptu meeting, but I figured it would be better to see you in person to discuss this than over the phone."

"I know," I told her, toiling with my fingers a little bit. Taking in a deep breath, I stopped, held it and closed my eyes as the waning distortion of my surroundings displaced me in my mind, making me wonder if I might throw up from it all.

"I wanted to let you know it wasn't your fault."

"I know," I repeated again.

"She loved you."

"I know." I answered back, my voice harder, more rigid, like I was blotting out everything in me warring and raging to lash out.

"Di-"

"Stop." I told her, unfurling my hands from themselves to put one up in motion for her to pause. "Just-" I put my finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, pinching my eyes shut as I tried to think. "Stop. For a moment. Before we continue..."

"Sure. Take your time."

"Thanks," I answered, my tone serious, and all playfulness wrung out of it. "I just- I need to think."

"Okay."

Stop answering everything I say! A part of me snapped, but I didn't speak those words. Don't feel sorry. There's nothing to feel sorry about! Another part of me barked out, but those words also didn't rip loose from my mouth. Slowly, my eyes opened, and I felt like the blare of the warm overhead lights must have hit me in a way because it hurt. The light stung, and the pollution of it dug into me in a way that made my head throb until I was rubbing my ears, like they were already ringing. And then I spoke.

"I wanted to say so much to her," I said. "I wanted to see her turn around. I really did, because no matter what I said or did, I never could hate her, but when we were in front of each other, I couldn't do anything else but feel resentful, and I'm still sorry for it."

"That's not your fault."

"No! Of course not. It's not my fault!" I said, my voice rising a little as the jilt in my tone took a sharper note. A curled smile spread over my lips until I was opening my eyes, but rolling them as I fluttered them open and shut, like I was pissed by the prospect of it all. "She's her own person. I only wish she knew and understood that."

"Mhm. We know that. You and I both know that."

"Gah- And she fucking!" I put my hands up, and then everything kind of let loose out of me as I let my hands drop and I sighed, blinking away the wetness in my eyes. I was still pissed. Cut... Hurt, you could even say. For someone who was supposed to have sired me in this life, she sure had done a funny job at proving that she was a decent human being... at least to me. Fuck, I hated how that shit all went tits up when I took off the rose colored glasses. "I wish I could shake her!" I said, feeling my teeth scrape the cold air as I sucked it in. "I wish I could yell at her and ask her, scream at her, what the fuck she was thinking when she did all this and then up and died on me! Like she thought she never had to deal with absconding from her responsibilities all because I told her I was tired of being her kerosene, but no! That wasn't good enough! And I wasn't worth it!"

"I mean, you are-"

"DON'T!" I put my face in my hands. "Don't speak on her behalf. It just makes me more pissed."

"Okay."

"God." And I shuddered, my shoulders slumped forward as I bent over my table, in my chair, in this hard seat that somehow didn't make my ass hurt because it was bare of any cushioning. "I want to hate her," I told her. "I really do, but I can't. I'm just pissed that she never took initiative to fix anything, and she always played pretend that she did and it hurts. It sucks! And it hurts." And when she didn't say anything, I continued. "I wanted her to be there, to kind of turn things around and stop being that kid. That kid that just... watched me grow from being a little kid to an adult. I want to be adults side-by-side with her, but now she's gone. She's just... gone, and I have to deal with that too. I knew I had to, but it doesn't make it feel any better."

My teeth chattered, so I clenched them. "She could have bought kerosene from the store, like every other fucking idiot who never seems to get it instead of setting me on fire, but she just couldn't help herself!"

I sucked in a sharp breath, and my body shuddered. "God damnit! I hate that shit! I hate how everyone who's ever tried to paint themselves as these... helpful people, these... community actors, just love to fucking set people like me on fire because they can't be fucked enough to buy kerosene from a store, to find some other entertainment elsewhere and I get to suffer for it. And she wasn't any different, and now she's dead. Great!" I rolled my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I blinked a few more times, then squeezed my eyes shut as more tears kept streaming down my face. "Great."

The chair clattered as she got up, and I nodded at her that it was good. That it was okay to go, because I think she too knew she was at a loss, and without the capacity to be the heart health I needed right now.

And so I just put my head in my hands and leaned over the chair as she stepped outside to give me a moment, while I sobbed... in the corner of the dark room of the nearly empty café. Some mother... Some body... But not mine. Not me.

We weren't close enough, because it was never meant to be.