Another Week

A regular who stops by the office once a week maybe came in today.  I asked him, as I always do, “How are you?”  Usually I get the typical response, “Doing good, you?”  Except today he answered, “Just trying to get through another week.”  This caused me to think, but not too hard at first, what it means to get through a week.  What are we hoping to get to?  Is it merely to the weekend?  My day drifted on, quite nicely, and then while gazing through a website I stumbled on a video.   Its purpose was to introduce strangers and make them friends.  I watched and couldn’t help but be overtaken by its simplicity.  How often do I rush through a day, just to get it done, and miss an opportunity to connect with someone?  I keep to myself, only talking when it’s convenient or necessary.  I am quite suddenly convicted that this is the wrong way to “get through a week”.  I have the gift of a day with so many minutes to share a smile, a laugh, an encouraging word and relate to someone who might not be expecting anything worthwhile.  That’s how I should “get through” a day, by getting through to someone. 

After all, what are friends, but strangers who got too close?

The House on the Right

(inspired by true events)
written January 2010

I’ll admit it was not the best idea. But with all great pranks, the consequences are not usually examined beforehand. It’s the thrill, the imagining of the look on the subject’s face that drives us to complete the task. Even when the situation begins to unravel, we march on, because, like I said, the consequences are a mere blip in our radar. 
     I can’t remember whose thought it was originally. I also cannot be sure who it was who decided the thought should be acted upon. These are trivial details in this story. The point is it was done. 
     The basketball game had ended, whether victoriously or not, we were in the mood to celebrate. I had some time to kill and so did my friends. It was in those moments of indecision that the prank was born. I had a car big enough so once everyone was piled in, we took off, leaving the school behind us. We didn’t actually know where our destination was so we called a friend for directions. 
     “He lives in my neighborhood, 4th house on the right after you turn,” Nate told us. He was excited about our plan. He’d left the same time Sam did, but to spend time with his family. Sam just wanted to go home. Sam was going to wish he’d stayed to hang out, or that was the plan. 
     I turned down the right street and we began counting houses. When we reached the third house, I heard Jamie say with a hint of doubt in his voice, “Umm, I think that’s his house. I’ve been there a few times and I coulda swore that was it.” 
     I stopped the car in front of the two houses. 
     “You think?” I asked Jamie. This was something we had to be sure about. 
     Jamie merely looked at me. 
     “Maybe we should ask Nate again, just to be sure.” 
     I called him up and he said, “Yes! I’m absolutely sure!” He spoke with such intense certainty, how could we doubt him? 
     Jamie shrugged. “Well, if he’s sure.” 
     The house next door, the 4th on the right, had large glass windows and a tall glass door. I took a breath and looked into the back seat. The girls, Allison and Carly, were putting the finishing touches on the love letter. We were going to leave it on Sam’s doorstep and then ding dong dash. It was the perfect plan. 
     I pulled the car up past the house and parked a few dozen feet away. It was within a cul-de-sac and where I was parked had no visibility of the house. Even more perfect. 
     I asked to see the letter. I wanted to make sure it had just the right amount hearts and “I love you”s. It was long and very odd. Details about Sam and the writer of the letter in English class spilled over the page. Stick figures envisioning their future together with little stick figure children danced in between the words describing her undying love. I laughed and started to hand it to Jamie. He just stared. 
     “You should take it up there,” he said to me. 
     My head spun around to where the house was beyond the bushes acting as a privacy fence. 
     “Okay,” I said, and opened the car door. 
     The wind picked up so I pulled my black hood over my head to keep warm and I zipped my jacket all the way up. 
     Allison poked her head out of the back see and said, “Here, take my smoothie cup. It still has a little bit left and it can hold the letter down.” 
     “Thanks!” I took it, shut the door and headed towards the house. 
     The lights were on and with the giant windows, I was almost afraid to be seen. I decided to run. I laid the paper down, set the cup on top and rang the doorbell. I wasted no time running back to the car. My long legs took me there quickly. I threw open the door and jumped inside. The girls were giggling in the back seat and Jamie and I were laughing quietly. 
     After a minute, Jamie said, “We should drive by to see if he got it.” 
     So I started the car and crawled around the corner. We all stopped laughing. It was still there. 
     “Did you ring the doorbell?” Carly asked. 
     I had, several times. We knew he was home, why hadn’t he answered? 
     “You should ring it some more,” Jamie nodded. The girls started snickering again. I drove the car around and parked back where we were before. I had taken two steps away from the car when a thought struck me. Wouldn’t it make more sense for one of the girls to ring the doorbell? If Sam saw her run away he would just assume she wrote the letter. He’d never met either of them. Smiling at my brilliant plan, I hopped back into the front seat and relayed my thoughts. The girls thought it was a great idea and decided to go together. Jamie and I settled in and waited. At this point, we still thought it was Sam’s house. 
     It wasn’t two minutes later that Carly and Allison were screaming and running at the car. They yanked open the door and threw themselves in. 
     “GO!” They screamed in unison. I didn’t even bother to ask. I put the car in gear and peeled out of the cul-de-sac. The girls were still yelling when we passed the house. Then I saw why. An old man was charging across the lawn we had so innocently believed was Sam’s. He was running towards the car, shaking his fists and screaming obscenities. In that moment I realized the reason old people are so slow. They begin saving all their energy for the one time they need it and then it comes all at once. That man was using ten years worth in those ten seconds. He reached the end of his lawn and turned back. 
Allison breathed loudly, “He’s turning around. We’re clear.” I took my foot off the gas and tapped the break. The last thing I needed was a ticket. 
     Then I realized a ticket was the least of my worries. Lights were flashing behind me. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw the man speeding up behind me in his Cadillac, honking his horn incessantly. 
     Jamie yelled, “Floor it!” 
     And I did. 
     I silently prayed there were no cops around because the stop sign up ahead was not going to gets its wish. Luckily the intersection was wide and clear and I could see no cars coming. I took a left and gunned it. Silence was long gone as the girls continued to scream, Jamie yelled in my ear and the old man pounded his horn. I kept repeating in my head, “Never again, never again, never again.” How long would this man follow us? The roads were long and clear and he was not losing momentum. I took another hard left. It wouldn’t be long before we hit the main road and I began to wonder where we would end up. I looked at the gas meter. It read a quarter of a tank. What would happen when we ran out of gas? 
     “He’s not backing down. What happens when we have to stop?” Jamie asked wearily. 
     In either direction on the main road there were traffic lights. I decided to turn towards the one with the possibility for more witnesses. If we stopped and people were around, would the man still want to get out? The first light was turning yellow and I sped through, leaving the man caught at the red. I breathed easier, that is until I got stuck at the next light. My heart was pounding. Please, I thought, please let my light turn before his. My unblinking eyes were glued to the rear view mirror. The moment the green light flashed I slammed my foot down on the gas, just in time to see the old man coming up behind again.   There was one more light we had to get through and I hoped against all the stupid luck I possessed that it would be in my favor. 
     It was. I left the insane old man in the dust once more and took a right at the light. A Starbucks parking lot on the left was the most beautiful thing in the world. I pulled in. 
     The girls spilled out of the car while Jamie and I clumsily unbuckled our seatbelts. In five seconds we were all inside gasping for breath. 
     “Wow,” Carly said between breaths. “That was stupid.” 
     We all nodded, our eyes glued to the street through the window, praying the man wouldn’t find us there. 
     After a few minutes of peace, I decided I had better call Sam. 
     I dialed his number and it rang. Answering machine. I dialed again, nothing. This happened a dozen times before he finally picked up. 
     “What do you want?” He sounded groggy. 
     “Look,” I said, “We were trying to play a prank on you but we got the wrong house. You need to tell your neighbor that we’re just a bunch of dumb kids.” 
     Sam groaned. “I don’t even know that guy! I was trying to sleep.” 
     “But he was gonna kill us!” 
     “I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep.” He hung up. 
     Allison’s eyes got really wide. 
     “What’s wrong?” Jamie asked her. 
     “I just remembered we addressed the letter to Sam.” 
     It was then we realized that the crazy man with all the strength and frustration of ten years was probably going to kill Sam. Well, we did warn him. 
     After grabbing some coffee and reliving the nightmare that was our folly, we parted ways and went home. One would think following a night like that, we would be less inclined to pull more pranks. On the contrary, it only heightened our resolve to be sure that next time we pranked the right house. 

Receptionist Blues

Demanding

Commanding

Your desire is to be heard

Not merely once

Or twice

But until you feel in control

Your voice rings

Like nails on a chalkboard

Scratching away my

Understanding

My happy landing

Of another fine day

What’s the rush?

Can’t you wait?

Why so irate?

You say those words

Your temper rises

My finger falls upon your silence.

Hold, please.

the secret

And then I realized that the secret to being a good writer, to forming believable characters whose emotions jump off the page, is to have felt all these things myself.  To have encountered both pain and happiness that is indescribable yet more real than anything and having the responsibility of allowing the characters to portray it.  That’s how we make books come alive.  That’s why we fall in love with stories and the people in them.  We feel their pain.  I should not wallow in my pain and sadness and instead I should record and embrace it.  Use it to color the pages of my future characters.  

That alone makes it easier to deal with. God is not allowing me to feel pain for no reason, he’s shaping me in more ways than I can imagine.  With that in mind, every experience becomes an opportunity.

The Strain

Like dew in the morning

It always comes back

It fogs up my vision

Points out what I lack

I wipe it away

Or I try to at least

But I miss a spot

And it laughs like a tease

My neck feels the strain

Looking over the mess

Take my hand off the wheel

Lose control of the rest

But before I can crash

Before losing it all

I cry out to you

Confessing I’m small

I know I can’t steer

And hold up my weight

The pressure is strong

But you know my fate

You hear in my silence

And see through my tears

Your grace falls on me hard

Scooping up my fears

Though, alone, I will fail

Pulled to do wrong

I will lean on you

While I’m weak, You are strong

The Run of Pride

(my latest short story-I'd love to hear what you think!)

It begins when we’re very young and only intensifies as age becomes us, the desire to be like those who have gone on before.  The stories are recited countless times to rapt audiences.  There are moments the epic tales seem too good to be true.  How could such daring exist in a single entity?  Yet, the examples laid out are what we all aspire to: success.  One day we will all reach the same path but the result that transpires will depend solely on our own wit and decisiveness.  Will shame or honor be our legacy?

I remember it quite clearly, the morning that changed everything.  I awoke to the sound of birds chirping, rather incessantly, I might add.  Was there a particular reason they sang so early?  It was a beautiful day so perhaps that was what struck their need to proclaim it to the world.  Sleep, it seemed, was no longer my companion.  I stretched, feeling every muscle pop, warmth spreading throughout my body.  My brothers were already up and had gone, most likely to get breakfast.  Mother was still sleeping so I left quietly.

Foster found me immediately.  His eyes were wide and I could tell something had happened. His breaths were short and he twitched slightly.

“Corbin!  I’m so glad you’re up!”

I shook my head vigorously, willing myself to be alert.  “What’s wrong, friend?”

“It’s Benson!  He’s been talking all morning like he wants to go.  We don’t know what to do!”

I sighed.  Of course he was.  My brother had been threatening to go prematurely for days now.  It wasn’t entirely his fault, though.  His desire to make his mark in the community was steepening with each passing day.  It didn’t matter to him that the stories we’d heard of were successful attempts made by those much older than us.  They were told for our benefit, to learn and study, not to challenge and outdo.

Benson was notorious for overlooking the obvious dangers and believing that none applied to him.  Unfortunately, this was the exact thinking that lost us our father.  He was too brave for his own good and while he had made the run countless times, it only took one moment of indecision to make it his last.  Our mother called it an act of nature; I believed it was a failure to know one’s limitations.

Regardless, my brother was determined to make this run in honor of our father, to finish it for him.  While this may have been honorable, it was too soon for Benson to attempt such an impressive feat.  We were too young.

“I’ll show you to him,” Foster squeaked, turning on a dime and rushing away.  I moved quickly, staying on his tail.  Hopefully it was still a concern and not another story to add to our history.

The scene was prestigious in its own right.  Benson was surrounded by our peers, his head held high, speaking solemnly.

“Our earliest memories are ones of encouragement and preparation for when our time will come.  We are trained, ingrained even with the need to accept our impending duty, and in some cases, fate.  Our forefathers accomplished this with speed and agility.  Their examples are to be revered and in some respects, finished.”

The crowd nodded, agreeing in hushed tones, their faces in pure awe of the brave one before them.

“But no one our age has ever gone before!” the small one just to his right pointed out.  “We’ve all been told that we have to wait until we’re old enough to leave home.  We’re still young.”

Benson scoffed.  “I left home this morning.”

Whispers of surprise rose around him.  I’d had enough.

“Brother, this is preposterous.  You can’t go now.”

He looked over as if he hadn’t noticed me standing there for the last moment.  “Oh, Corbin, I’m glad you finally joined us.  It will be good to have another family member to testify to Mother of my act.  No doubt it will be too amazing to believe.”

“It’s too soon!”  I urged.  “Father was twice our age when he gave his first go.  He studied and examined those before him.  He waited until he was strong and fast enough to take the risk.”

“And look what happened to him,” Benson said coldly.  “I’ve thought long and hard of this, brother, and come to the conclusion that age does not mean everything.  Some of us come to greatness on our own accord and without the aid of those gone on before.”

Our friends could now see it, the arrogance that illuminated his words.  His attempt today was not to bring honor to our family, but to him alone.  Pride in oneself only results in the fall of oneself.

“You’re making a mistake,” I said heatedly.  “Don’t do this now, just wait a little longer.  That’s all I ask.  If not for me, then for mother.  Don’t cause her pain twice in one cycle.”

“I don’t intend to cause her tears.  I will show her that we can prevail, our family will move on and gain our status among the community once more.  This is my chance to remove our shame.”  With that, he pushed through those huddled around him and approached his target.  He looked steadily across, his body arched at the ready.  He charged forward and at first I believed he might actually be successful.

But in a moment, it was over.  I watched in horror as my brother was stopped short and forced to meet his fate, from an end he would not return.  My heart lay broken as the scene before me, a twisted repeat of past moments in my life.  We mourned where we stood, knowing there was nothing we could do.  Benson had let his pride overpower his common sense and it was a lesson to us all.  Instead of redemption, he made our family an infamous example that would be remembered for many years to come.

If only he waited.  If only our honor were not subject to such danger.  If only time could reverse and bring us those we have lost.  But alas, that is our life.  This is our mark on the world.

***

“Mommy!  You just hit him!”

She sighed, switching lanes without a blinker.  “Honey, it’s just a squirrel.  They run out in front of cars all the time and no one knows why.  It’s just a part of life.”

The little girl looked sadly out the back window, the scene growing smaller as they traveled down the road.  A group of squirrels gathered at the corner, their heads bowed in honor of their fallen friend.

                                                                                                the end.

The Standard

It’s sad when we choose to characterize people on how we choose to see them and not how they really are.  The easiest thing in the world to do is also the most harmful to our relationships; judging. 

    People are different.  We see and react to things differently.  Since this is the case, why do we then seem to put everyone in the same category, ignoring that fact?  On top of that, if they don’t fit in that category then they must be “odd”, “strange” and “different”.  So in a world where no one is the same, where do we get off pointing out certain things about people and calling them out as different?  While they are different, how are they more different than anyone else?  We all say hello differently, laugh uniquely, have a smile that is all our own, yet in some people we choose to point out their uniqueness as something to be frowned upon.  Where did this standard come from in which we all seem to hold “other people” to?

    The thought is saddening but at the same time strikes in me a conviction for I myself suffer from the same ill thinking.  How often do I treat someone differently because they do not fit in the same “box” I alone find acceptable?  What is to be gained from this except that it lessens the work of having to be considerate?  If I decide a person, based on their actions or just plain existence, is not in tune with my way of thinking, how easy is it for me to write them off as being “different” and unworthy of the effort of understanding?  I shut them off from my world and I from theirs and in that I close my mind from learning something new.  The danger lies in more than mistreating someone, but also in limiting ourselves.  With each person holding certain ideas, goals, views, and unique walks in life, to deny even the opportunity of experiencing life in their eyes by simply talking with them, is to cheat oneself out of the chance to grow.

How can we justify judging those we deem different?  Even those who can effectively pull off an air of “normalcy” suffer for their actions.  It takes so much more work to hide those differences in ourselves than it would just to walk proudly and accept that we are not just like everyone else.

    The only being with the right to judge anyone created us just the way we are.  Does it make any sense for Him to condemn us for being exactly how He made us?  What makes even less sense is for anyone to think he or she alone holds the standard for which all others must be measured up to.  How can a toy with equal standing with all the other toys in the toy box possibly contain the one element out of all of them that makes it the one they must all look to?  Would it not make better sense for the Creator of the toy to be that standard?

    The judgment we inflict on each other for the mere act of not being the way we would so desire the other to be seems about as ridiculous as one fussing at the color blue for not being the color green.  I hope that I can learn to stifle my own ill thoughts when it comes to the placement of people in my mind.  Just because the color blue is not the color green, it does not make it any less of a color, just one that is its own.

A Page

Mind is blank

Claw the air

Gasp for depth

Nothing’s there

Feel the void

See the white

Stretch for words

Out of sight

Close the eyes

Stop the heart

There it is

Now to start

Smile intact

Looking down

What once was lost

My page has found

Halloween 2012

I’ve had cause to wonder this year why it is that Halloween means so much to me.  After being asked many times, I decided that I needed an answer.  I never had given the reason behind it much thought.  Things that happen gradually tend to leave a strong mark but a silent trail that is difficult to back track.  This morning I woke up with the tracks fresh in my mind. 

            I suppose it would have to begin when I was too young to even dress myself.  My parents, who were always taking pictures, have efficiently recorded every Halloween costume through film.  Vivid memories still visit me of trick or treating in my grandparent’s neighborhood dressed as a Disney princess or even a Ninja Turtle.  One house will always stand out due to the fact that it served king sized candy bars on a silver platter.  That was every kid’s dream.  One year my mom made mine and my sister’s costumes.  She was Catwoman and I, Batgirl.  They were simple, but we wore them with pride because our mom took time to create them for us.  Probably the most memorable Halloween of my childhood was the one where my little brother was due to be born.  My mom, on her fourth child, was more than ready for him to come.  That night we walked an uncharacteristically long time trying to encourage Ethan grace us with his presence.  My mom wanted him to be born on Halloween so she could call him her little goblin.  Sadly, he chose to come two days later instead.

            Many Halloweens involved our close friends, the Wardens.  I remember when I was twelve years old I began to feel like I was out growing Halloween.  Maybe it was just a day for little kids.  I emailed my Aunt Shelley, sharing my worries with her.  Her reply was one that etched its way into my brain.  She told me a story of how on Halloween, when she was twenty, she invited some of her closest friends over for dinner.  At each place mat on the table there was a spooky mask and a bag for candy.  They ate dinner and then went out trick or treating.  She said it was a wonderful night filled with good fun that she would never forget.  She said they didn’t feel silly, and actually the people passing out candy thought it was great.  Her words to me were that I would only be too old for Halloween when I decided I was.  I didn’t have to let it be just for little kids, I could enjoy it as an adult too.  Those words meant a lot.  Coincidently, the last time I went trick or treating was just before my twentieth birthday.  I went with my siblings and a close friend.  We all dressed up and had a great time.  It was a memorable night.

            There are other factors, too, that contribute to this attraction for Halloween.  My youth group growing up had its part.  Our youth minister, Mark, recognized the holiday as day for grown-ups to have fun as well.  He shared the spirit of Halloween throughout the year with his famous “Stupid Scary Movie Nights”.  The youth group would gather at his house, after earning entrance inside by performing silly acts, and watch a black and white classic scary movie.  The Ghost and Mr. Chicken being a favorite.  This was yet another point where I realized that adults can enjoy Halloween as well. 

            The TV show Home Improvement also left its mark.  Every season would have a Halloween episode where the family would throw a party and even play pranks on each other.  My family loved this show and always looked forward to those episodes.  This was probably a strong inspiration for the first Halloween party my family threw back in 2008.  Money was tight and we couldn’t go Halloween Horror Nights like we had for the past few years.  It was actually my parents’ idea for us to throw a party.  My siblings and I had meetings in the summer to plan.  Our collective excitement bubbled over and into our friends who came and helped by bringing food.  It was such a success that we had two more the consecutive years, each year growing by 20 attendees.  Our excitement for Halloween was rising and spreading and inspiring others to see that it was not just a holiday for children, but for anyone who wasn’t too grown up to have fun. 

            So if someone were to ask me again why I enjoy Halloween as much as I do, I would have to attribute it to several unique people, special memories, and solid encouragement.  An idea is a powerful seed and when watered often can grow and spread.  There are many things that inspire us and fasten into our lives to help shape us.  I wouldn’t say that Halloween is necessarily what shaped me, but the idea that good fun is not exclusive to children but universal for everyone.  To this day, seeing my parents dress up in costumes, decorate the yard and display pure giddiness about bringing wonder to kids’ faces, that’s what makes me smile. 

            You decide when you’re too old for Halloween.  As for me, I don’t plan on ever getting old.  

Time

Time

That’s a very complex word

We have to take it seriously

We have to make it last

We have to make it count

We have to treat it like we will never have it again

Because we won’t

We have to have fun with it

We have to love it

We have to take care of our share

We have to treat it with respect

We have to share it

We have to spend it with others

We have to take it

Because it’s ours

It’s our gift from God

So shouldn’t we give him some of it?

Untitled from 2006

It began with a new day, or at least what I thought was a new day.  How was I to know that this particular day would harbor the familiarity of one of my most terrifying nightmares? 

            I awoke to a scream as always.  Anything other than that would have alarmed me.  I rolled out of bed and stood firmly on the hard wooden floor.  I felt the uneven planks beneath my feet and it comforted me, preparing me for the day ahead.  I dressed quickly, knowing breakfast would be served soon.  Every meal was something of a competition; first come, first serve.  I was never the last to a meal.  Our house was very spacious.  The living and dining rooms were the largest while our bedrooms were almost too small, but then, we were never in them for very long.  I sat down at the long table, smiling, as I was the first to arrive.  The others would come soon, so I folded my hands and waited.  The ceiling was high but I could see every detail in it’s workings.  A fly, oddly enough, was buzzing along the top, desperately in search of a way out.  No visitor ever stayed long, even bugs.  Having no watch, I couldn’t very well know how long I had been sitting, waiting for the others, but I knew it had been too long.  I listened, honing in on the sounds around me.  Nothing.  The only thing I could hear was the fly that had finally found a crack in a window.  I stood quickly, still concentrating on my surroundings.  I heard a snap and my head whipped towards the double doors that led into the living room. 

            In a breath I was outside.  The sun had fallen behind the trees and left the sky an eerie glow where it had been.  No one was in sight.  This troubled me.  How often had anyone left just before nightfall?  The rule was to wait until the earth had succumbed to darkness before we headed out.  A sudden thought struck me.  If I was alone, then where had the scream come from that woke me?  Could they have made it, or someone else?

            I darted towards the iron gates that enclosed the grounds, stepping lightly over the overgrown roots that pierced through the dirt.  The gates swung open for me to pass through and closed quietly behind me.  They knew their masters.

            I had to find the others.  My concern was not in that they would be harmed, but that they would be found.  Secrecy had kept us safe for many years.  The wind picked up, whistling past my ears.  My eyes narrowed on the path that led to town.  Surely they would not have taken that route?  I closed my eyes for a brief moment, remembering the stories that accompanied this path.  I was always told to never go alone, even more so, to wait for night to truly fall, when darkness would be our ally.  This was no time to be safe.  If I waited, I might lose all the time it could take to help the others.  With this resolve, I took off down the beaten path.  I stayed close to the trees, using them for cover.  My ears still heard nothing, for my feet made no sound as they raced over the earth.

            Time passed quickly and I found myself in the woods just outside town.  Something was different.   The moon had risen and cast a beam over the townspeople who were in an uproar.  Their cries and shouts were only mirroring the fury in their actions.  Most carried guns, shovels, and pitchforks.  The leaders were holding lanterns high into the air.

            I stayed out of sight, hidden in the dark of the trees, but I could see everything very clearly.  In the town square, where the mass had gathered, were the remnants of clothes I knew only too well, scattered on the ground.  The cloak that had once covered my head from suspicious eyes was now torn.  A cape that had spared me from the rain, covered in mud.  Glasses that had been used to disguise my face, broken.  Many more articles lay tattered in the heap, their owners no where to be seen.

            My only thoughts to explain this were almost too terrible to speak aloud.  Our cover had been revealed, we were no longer safe.  I, at least, could escape.  The others, it seemed, had had another fate in store for them.  The mob would certainly find their way to our home.  They would use the very path I was hiding in.

            A smell wafted into my nose and I knew I had very little time.  The townspeople would not stop.  My eyes quickly scoped my surroundings and found a bunch of bushes that would make for decent escape until the crowd had dispersed.  I wanted to wait and see if there were any details I could obtain while they were passing.  I needed to know how I could find the others or at least how they met their demise.

            I sunk lower in the brush and froze in my position.  They would never find me.  It seemed like hours had passed before the last person had made their way through the woods leaving the town a silent tomb.  When my ears heard no sound I broke free and almost ran to the town square.  I gasped, rather fruitless, but the gesture meant the same.  I was standing in the middle of the heap of clothes, but my attention was focused on the seared mound just ahead of me.  Smoke was still rising with the ash that danced through the air, almost teasing me of my loss.

            I felt a stab of anger but fought to control my screams.  Simple people with simple minds, so afraid of what they don’t understand.  What had we ever done to them to deserve this?  We had always been careful of our tracks.  We never harmed them, the ones that didn’t deserve it.  Our hunger was for the vile ones alone.  For that the townspeople should be thankful for us ridding them of such filth.

            I whipped around, surveying the damage.  But how was this done?  How did they know of our existence?  Even more, how did the others let this happen?  Surely this could have been avoided?

            A branch cracked in the distance.  I vanished from sight.  Once again I must restart my life.  At least, what I called life.  

Unseen Disaster

I wrote this awhile back and never finished.  One day it will be an awesome story!

I thought that when the alarm went off that morning it was merely the start of a new day.  I would wake up to the sound of the morning radio show chatter and dress quickly to the incoherent ramblings of a rap song.  My breakfast would be next, the usual bowl of Rice Crispies which would have to be in my least favorite color dish due to the fact that I had never gotten around to pushing the button on the dishwasher.  The brushing of teeth and applying of makeup would follow immediately.   All this would ultimately end with my arrival in my beetle which would eventually, with several pep talks and often a good beg, take me to work.

            It seemed, though, that this day was different from the very moment I opened my eyes.

            I awoke at the usual time to the same voices I heard every morning.  It took only a few seconds for my mind to register the panic.  Only a second more for me to hear what they said.

            “…was reported east of downtown at 7:15 this morning.  Another sighted only a half hour later.  We don’t have any city officials’ statements just yet, but we hope to-” and the radio went dead.

            Slightly dazed, I reached over and pushed the power button on the remote.  Nothing happened.  I crawled out of bed and, holding my breath, tapped the ON button for the TV.  Silence.  Looking around, I realized the ceiling fan was slowing to a stop.  I stumbled to the window and pulled the curtains.  It was dark outside.  It should have been sunny.  I could not see any streetlights or porch lights.  After closing the blinds rather abruptly, I felt my way through the house, and with a sense of urgency, searched for my phone.

The Cinema

The rush of cold air hit her face and the door swung slowly shut behind.  It was opened twice more in the few short moments it took her to reach the man with the striped, collared shirt. He gave a quick smile as he tore the paper she had gotten for free, handing her a small stub. 

The small children in line behind her were giddy and loud, but it wasn’t a bother.  The parents handed the man their tickets and they rushed off, children in tow, no doubt late for their show.  She, on the other hand, took her time.  She chose the longest of the concessions lines and stood, drinking in her surroundings.  The couple before her stood closely to each other.  Her eyes on him; his eyes on the menu.

“I heard this one is so much better than the first,” the girl said excitedly.

The young man, holding her hand, smiled with his eyes, “Well I hope so, ‘cause the first one sucked.”

The couple grew quiet and her attention was caught by the gentlemen standing to her left in another line.  His phone was in his ear and his voice was loud.  “I know!  It’s amazing!  Have you seen it yet?  The critics have no idea what they’re talking about.  I smell Oscars. . . . I’m in line for more popcorn.  My kids are like ravenous beasts, you have no idea. . . . This is the third time I’ve filled it, too. . . . . Oh, I know, if I hadn’t already seen this movie twice. . . .”  The man stepped forward in line.

She looked down at her feet, seeing the kernel covered floor.  No doubt it had been cleaned that morning but with the flood of people bustling about, one could hardly tell.

The line was getting shorter and she finally made her way to the front counter.  A Coke and small popcorn was all she required. She collected another smile from the lady in stripes and then made her way towards the butter.  A little girl was standing where she needed to be.  Her Dora the Explorer jacket was shining with the substance meant only for popcorn.  Her mother rushed to her side, grabbing frantically at the napkins container and begging her daughter to stop rubbing her fingers on the greasy counter.

A moment later the mother scooped her little one up and hurried away, the little girl’s smile glistening with butter stained cheeks.

The boy beside her drenched his hot dog in ketchup and stalked away satisfied, showing no interest in the napkins he would most likely be missing.  She globbed just the right amount of butter on the popcorn then began on her way, traveling much slower than the general flow of traffic.  A breeze flew past, hauling four preteen boys.  They crossed her path and raced through the double doors to her left, raucous laughter accompanying them.  This was not her stop.

Two little girls were skipping towards her with an arm around the other’s shoulder, singing softly.  They were captured by a set of doors and their giggling faded away.   This wasn’t her stop either.

An older man pushed a grey haired woman in a wheelchair.  Atop the blanket in her lap, she held an icee.  The man leaned over and kissed her whispy hair and the woman smiled and promptly took a sip of her drink.  They disappeared through a pair of large doors to the right, their gate slow and smooth.

She paused, but for just a moment.  She had not yet reached her stop.

The halls had grown quiet but the thunder from behind closed doors betrayed their secret.  A bench caught her eye and she sat down.  The soda took a seat beside her, the popcorn resting in her lap.  She rested her head on the wall behind her and closed her eyes.  Rumbles from the neighboring theater massaged her mind and she felt herself drifting. . .

“She’s back today.”

He smiled, “I know. She came in same time as before.”

“I don’t see the point.  Why does she bother?”

“You really don’t know?”

His coworker shook her head.

He led her over to a quiet corner, away from the bustle of movie goers, but still in sight of the concessions.  “Every week she and her husband would come in and see a movie.  You’d think they would only see quiet dramas, but no.  If it was out, they saw it.  At first I thought this was strange.  Why would a seventy year old couple be interested in a horror movie or kid’s cartoon?  But then, over time, as I watched them, I knew.”

The girl widened her eyes, waiting for the answer.

“It wasn’t the movie that drew them here each week.  It was their love of going to the theater together.  I never heard them complain about a movie, not once.  I only saw smiles.  They loved being with each other, no matter where they were.”

He saw the girl’s eyes glisten for a moment before she sniffed and said, “Then what happened?”  The tone in her voice said she already knew.

“Then one week it was just her.”

She looked down.  “And she still comes every week?”

“Every week, but she doesn’t see the movies now.  She just comes.”

“Because she misses him…”

He nodded.

            The doors opened and a mob of people spilled out, each talking animatedly about the story they had seen on screen.  On their way towards the exits, most didn’t notice the elderly woman asleep on the bench, untouched popcorn in her lap.  The pounding of feet on carpet awakened her and she looked around, a small smile on her lips.  The food in her lap, now cold, she clutched as she stood.  The drink she gathered, untouched and waited for the mass to disperse.  Two theater employees stood across the hall, watching as she hobbled out the exit doors and into the night.  After a moment, they returned to work, knowing they would see her again soon.

the end