The summer days were scorching hot, no breeze, the trees offered little shade, their leaves swallowed up by the sun. The creek would’ve cooled me, but momma forbid me, said the stagnant water would send one of them ameba things swimming up my nose and it’d kill me.  

None-the-less, me and my friends rode our bikes there daily.

“Don’t get near that creek, boys!” Our mothers hollered from their separate kitchen windows.

“Yes ma’am’s!” We said, laughing. 

We dropped our bikes in the dirt and ventured out on foot.

“Git!” We all screamed, surprised when Lester Montgomery, slurring his speech and fumbling his whiskey bottle started wobbling towards us. He normally did his drinking in front of the post office. 

We picked up sticks, swatted at him and kept moving. 

Not Johnny though, he had a temper, he hit Lester, knocking him backwards, sent him flying into that creek. He floated there on his back, eyes wide open, we’d killed him. 

We forgot our bikes, ran all the way home and pinky promised at the stop sign, not to tell a soul. 

After supper, I slipped on my pajamas, laid down and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’m coming for you, boys!” I knew Lester’s gruff voice anywhere.

I got up, pulled my curtain back a little and watched the ghost of Lester Montgomery walk right down our street, his torn suitcoat and ripped slacks drenched the asphalt with creek water. 

I slid to the floor, covered my face, and cried. 

It wasn’t long before I heard Johnny calling my name. “Billy!”

I peeked out again, Lester stood grinning while Johnny’s dad beat him in circles right there in his own front-yard. 

Lester pointed straight towards me. 

I was next. 

I wished for a minute that Johnny had killed Lester!

 

“You’ll be famous!” She kissed my forehead before running through the sand. Her tan legs led way to the cut-off blue jean shorts she wore. Her long sun-kissed hair blew in the wind, she turned back and smiled before letting her feet hit the ocean.

I sat my guitar down and sprinted after her. The waves roughly bounced around nearly knocking us over. We were young and in love.

“I’ll marry you!” I promised as we returned to shore.

“Not me.” She laughed. “Life will take you many places that I will no longer exist.”

“Oh, but I will!” I placed my lips gently against hers.

The weight of her hands against my chest reversed my steps. “Some promises you can’t keep!” She exhaled.

She took the rose-gold chain from her neck and let the heart shaped pendant fall into her hand. It held a damaged emerald with a story.

“My aunt gave this to me before she walked away – into the deep.” Her hair, still captured by the wind, followed her eyes back towards the glistening water.

“Take it. Strum your guitar. It’ll bring you luck.” She jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist. We fell backwards into the sand and locked eyes. “Remember me when you’re on stage.”

“I love you, Missy.” I whispered.

“For always.” She said.

I stood behind the curtain, staring at the emerald. The crowd chanted my name.

I did go back for her. And just as she said, she no longer existed.

I perform my hit single, For Always, at the end of every show in memory of Missy and all the others who couldn’t bear life.

The sea, once peaceful, became a weapon for the desolate. My one true love rests way down below the ocean.

Been sick this week but I wanted to participate.

“Did you tumble the paint in stone to give it this look?” Ralph Sizemore asked about the house as he gathered his long, stringy, dirty blonde hair into a ponytail. He stepped out of his limo and adjusted his ear piece.

The brown leather front doors to the mansion swung open. “That’s an original idea, Ralphie.” A tiny man with a boisterous laugh exited onto the marble porch.

“I haven’t been called Ralphie since we were boys.” Ralph’s boot bent sideways as it became lodged in the concretes only flaw. “I nearly twisted my ankle. I have a good lawyer, you know?” He laughed once he realized no damage to his physicality had been done.

“You were always a danger to yourself.” His friend reached his hand out to shake Ralph’s. “So much so, you gave me the blues.”

“I don’t suppose it was the 501 blues?” Ralph said.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you? The name was catchy, perfect for my blue Jean line. I’m trying to make it up to you now!” The man took Ralph by the wrist and pulled him towards the house. He waved his arm out and around. “This, my old friend is all for you, payment for the idea I borrowed!” He said. The two walked towards the palace.

“But, you stamped your name into the door! Levi, must you make everything about you?” Ralph said.

“Why do you think the house is perfectly colored in stone wash.” Levi gave his old friend Ralphie a wink.

The festival brought many people. Everything in bloom; beautiful foliage covered the mountain-top resort. Triangular cabins were built to suit the name given by original dwellers; Three-Corner-Crown had a meaning oblivious to most.

Shops filled with patrons, women laughed while swiping their husband’s credit cards, children ran amuck, and men sat on fish banks weighing in Trout. But in the dwelling closest to the forest, the triangle experience was underway.

Dr. Schwan invited his sickest patients to visit, offering them a cure. The trip was rarely refused.

He greeted his guests with a cup of calming tea and then showed them to their room for rest, allowing their minds and bodies to refresh from the journey.

At nightfall, he explained the treatment, with the lights dimmed, he brought fire to incense as subtle music played.

“There now.” He guided his patient to a customized chair, a comfort described as blissful.

His touch and voice, sympathetic. “I cannot heal you.” Dr. Schwan retrieved a syringe from his drawer. “I can introduce you to the triangle.”

He opened the window to his top floor office. “For your soul to escape.” He said.

“I live to live, not to die. If it’s the trinity you intend to introduce me to, I’m aware that I cannot enter heaven’s gates by suicide, assisted or otherwise.” His final client was on a mission of his own.

Dr. Schwan sat stunned as his patient pulled a small leatherbound Bible from his pocket. “Let me introduce you to The Father, Son and Holy-Ghost.” 

Dr. Schwan’s window slammed shut as he reluctantly agreed to prayer. IT IS FINISHED formed in blood across the glass as he fell to his knees and repented of murder.

“Were you sent by him?” Dr. Schwan said having known Christ but refused him all along.

She skipped at least seven pages of her notebook before each writing in hopes no one would ever read her thoughts. The average person wouldn’t thumb through a journal titled Algebra II should it become lost.

She sat in the center of her Holly Hobbie covered twin bed, crossed her legs, unzipped her backpack, and pulled from it the spiral pad she secretly recorded nearly everything in. She placed the tip of her number two pencil against the paper.

Today she chose make-believe because some things were never okay to write about. 

Seven beautiful butterflies. “No!” She ripped the paper in half, balled it up and tossed it to the floor. 

Four neon pink mushrooms stood silent and alone, one taller than the rest tried her best to protect the others. For she knew if they were to be removed from their habitat they would surely whither and die, no matter how harsh the elements in their current place. Aware of the seven who came in uniform, disguised as beautiful butterfly angels, she knew their intentions were to separate them from their own.

She erased the first line three times, wiping rubbery shavings from her work. She sighed and stared at what she had written.

Her bedroom door creaked open. 

“Please knock before entering my room!” She snipped. 

“I put a roof over your head, food on the table, clothes on your back, I deal with your nagging mother, and those three little whiny sisters of yours. Do you think I do all of this because I want to be here? No! I do it for you.”

The springs on the mattress squealed when he sat down beside her and began to run his fingers through her hair.

She sometimes wished for the butterflies. 

Born on St. Patrick’s Day, my cousin Benny was cursed, he became socially awkward, and it wasn’t his fault.

Every March 17^th, momma made us attend the dreaded birthday celebration in his honor.

My Aunt Trina would place green Irish caps on our heads as soon as we walked through the door. Shamrocks hung from the ceiling, small black plastic pots of foil covered, off brand chocolates were given as party favors. The cake, a hideous rainbow color had sparkling flakes of sugary gold on each end of the multi-colored promise.

The worst part of it all was the annual game of Place the Leprechaun at his doorstep. A tradition started on Benny’s third birthday. He was now eleven.

The partygoers received a tiny leprechaun sticker, were blindfolded with a green bandana, and spun around three times by an adult tightly gripping their shoulders. I’ll never forget Aunt Trina waving her hands in front of every child’s face to make sure they couldn’t see.

We foolishly rubbed our hands over the jumbo plastic scene taped to the wall. The picture was of a lonely cottage placed neatly in a forest with a giant rainbow covering the sky. I never got my leprechaun anywhere near the front door. Johnny Crews won every year, momma said it was because he had no morals, was raised wrong and could see through the blindfold.

The crowd diminished as years passed as did Benny’s smile. The shamrock shenanigans ended when Aunt Trina drank a little too much of that green colored beer, fell face forward into the punch bowl and ripped the contest from the wall. She cried in hysterics.

Benny cheered, finally released from the grips of Saint Patrick. “Maybe now we can try Pin the Tail on the Donkey!”

Benny’s reputation NEVER improved.

A Moment in Love

Elizabeth opened the tiny wooden music box, a present from her husband on a birthday she wouldn’t remember. “Who would’ve thought we would make eighty-seven.” He said, having himself hit the milestone a month ago.

His wrinkled hand slowly turned the metal crank attached to the device. The swollen redness around his knuckles hinted at years of hard work. A soothing hymn emerged. Lizzy, as he called her, hummed along, swaying from side to side in her rose-colored house coat. She abruptly stopped and stared brazenly at her husband.

“No, come back to me, Lizzy.” He picked the box up and held it tightly in his hands. “Look at the picture.” He pointed to the lid, there embedded in the wood, the bluest of skies, a hitching post and the oldest of buildings outlined by sparse trees. She returned to the present. A smile took the place of confusion.

“Frank.” She whispered.

“I’ve always been a sucker for love. You were just a sucker to marry me.” Frank’s deep laugh was familiar.

“Our honeymoon in Texas, remember the ghost town you insisted we visit?” He held the personalized gift a fraction closer to her. “There wasn’t anything paranormal about it. I just wanted you to be happy.”

A single tear exited her hazel eyes. He took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed away her sadness.

“Don’t cry, dear.” She allowed his gentle embrace.

A nurse tapped lightly at the door. “Mrs. Delgado, I brought you a cupcake to celebrate.” The glow from the candle sent a slight twinkle across the darkened room.

Frank respectfully waved the woman away. Without words, she quietly reversed her steps, knowing that a moment close to his wife was so much more than the commemoration of another lonesome year.

My SUV travelled over the bumpy deserted terrain….

I pulled up to find him caressing a wooden post with one leg straddling the wobbly pole of the rundown shack. He pretended to dance. I honked the horn and laughed, such a jokester. 

The glow from a meticulously carved Jack-O-Lantern caught my attention.

I was startled when he slid into the passenger seat next to me. He reached for my hand, blessing it with a kiss. I loved him with everything in me.

“This is where we’re spending our anniversary?” I asked, confused about the location.

“You love Halloween, hence the October 31^st nuptials back in 1973. Don’t get scared now, Lucy.” He chuckled, hopping back out of the car. “Wait there.”

I giggled when I realized he wore a black, flowing cape tied too tightly around the neck. 

He picked me up, followed a calculated path and carried me inside. “I’m too old for this.” He sighed, smiling. 

He laid me on the red velvet upholstered bed, surprisingly the only outdated thing in here. He held himself up by placing an arm on each side of me. 

“You’ll need a safe word.” He laughed. 

“Oh Jack, that’s ridiculous!” 

“That’s it, safe word, Jack-O-Lantern.” Wrinkles formed around his eyes when he smiled. I reached up, gently touched them, and let my finger follow each crease throughout his face. 

He flopped down next to me, rolled over, folded his arms across his waist, and began to snore.

“O-Jack.” I whispered.

He opened one eye. “It’s Jack-O-Lantern.” He muttered.

“How can you sleep?” I nudged him. “Where’d you find this place?” 

“Hauntedbnb.com.” He said as the front door creaked open and the lights diminished. 

“More bang for your buck!” He growled and hissed, now on top of me. 

“Jack-o-o-o-o-ooo-lantern.” I screamed. 

Jacob Cantrell was the first to class, never disruptive and could solve any equation I threw his way.

He sat in the back, closest to the window. He’d groan like an old man when he slid into the chair, and he didn’t as much as blink when the sun hit his eyes.

He’d stare out the double doors into the hall even though he couldn’t see anything but the grooved, rubber covered steps leading to the library. I left the doors open because of the uneasy feeling I got when the kids were eerily quiet while studying.

Before break, I handed out packets of worksheets to be done over summer. At dismissal, Jacob left his.

I walked to his desk and took a seat. No surprise, his work was completed and on it, he left a note.

Miss Kalman, you once told me great minds think alike, I believed you meant the love we shared for mathematics. But over the semester, I realized it was more. Your unhappiness and fear resembled mine. I wanted you to know that the sun brings me joy. My desk was imperfect and sometimes caused my legs to cramp but I appreciated its flaw and where it allowed me to be. I’ve learned great minds don’t think alike, great minds simply have the ability to think. All have great minds; some are just faulty. I hope you stop and look for your happy place, it’s out there, I promise. – Jacob

I never thought of Jacob as a guardian angel, but he saved the life I intended on ending, my own.

As I embark on a new career, I’ve heard my classroom is being used for storage. But the sun still shines and I now find the beauty in all minds, including mine.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

My mind steps out into the darkness, a downward path leading nowhere. The light shines just enough so I can see my feet before me. I take each step carefully, counting aloud as I go.

Uno.

Dos.

Tres.

Cuatro.

Wait…. I can’t remember how to say five in Spanish. How odd, I learned those numbers as a child sitting on my mother’s linoleum flooring in front of the television. I think the show was called Sesame Street. 

Mother.

Madre.

My mom blames herself for how my brain works. “I should’ve done this. I should’ve done that… …. Differently.” She says this all the time. I hate it, especially when she sighs after speaking.

I tread this ground alone, with caution, aware my surroundings calculate and sometimes add up against me. Okay, nearly always add against me. I’m not meant to amount to anything as a person. I rarely believe what I’m told but I wholeheartedly believe that…. I’m nothing. NADA!

Father.

Padre.

I can’t keep a father. I’m not son material, sounds kind of funny. People say mother can’t keep a husband. But it’s not her, it’s me. That makes me laugh a little. “It’s not you, it’s me.” How many times have I heard that one.

I keep telling myself to stop thinking but even the occasional self-inflicted punch to the dome doesn’t halt the thoughts.

………My voice echoes down here. I don’t like it. It frightens me. 

“Gerald, dear, are you stuck in that dark place again?” Mother opens my bedroom door without permission a lot. I don’t like that either, I’m a grownup.

“Cinco. That’s it, number five is cinco.” Something always holds me back from taking that fifth step. It’s reality, reality comes with my final move. I don’t like reality.