Her heel snagged on the grass laced gravel that led up to the castle brought extinct by a dreadful outbreak of tuberculosis, no mercy shown to the royalty or servants who once dwelled here.

She swung the iron keys from left to right, glancing back to tell me stories of how the remaining officials turned the palace into a hospital for the ill.

“No patients survived.” She said.

“Mmmm.” I nodded.

The last key on the ring unlocked the worn and rusted gate, allowing us entry.

“You really want to purchase this eyesore, sir?” She said.

“Aren’t you a realtor?” Common sense should’ve been visible from the mind of an elegant businesswoman dressed in Armani.

“Sure.” She shrugged.

Feeling a breeze from overhead, I observed eight ghastly vultures swooping down to catch her sent. The day darkened, bringing a beautiful pastel sky into view, signaling their approval of the prey I had chosen. A generational task passed down, to feed our ancestors having died here of the plague, whose tormented souls had taken the shape of the only living creatures around, the birds. They’ve since haunted every ward.

She rushed to the foyer, the shattered glass ceiling allowed light to shine upon the healthy, vibrant indoor garden. “How is this possible?” She bent down to sniff a beautiful red rose, quickly returning to a standing position once the sound of wailing echoed within the walls.

She hadn’t been here before.

“Miss, your imagination is wild.” I snatched her backwards into my chest, wrapping my arm around her pearl choker, I snapped her neck.

“Feast.” I offered her to my kin. The air thickened, a translucent film hovered and the vultures reappeared. They ripped into her flesh, devouring every morsel except for the bits needed to fertilize the inviting and necessary garden.

The invitation list included everyone enrolled to live and learn at this place. I found little pleasure in anything here but looking at Rora Jinson. She was the prettiest girl in school. 

I would’ve given my right arm, okay… left arm, to take her to this year’s dance. Unfortunately, administration had other plans, a goal to boost the self-esteem of the girls. They were to wear their all-black hooded gowns that flowed to the ankles, inched up the neckline and covered their wrists. The males were instructed to sport the same tux as always, our hair slicked back, a tie, and the hideous cummerbund.

It was creepy when they introduced the charade mask for the females, making it next to impossible to locate Rora.

The ugliest girl in school could end up twirling the night away with the most popular boy around, that was the idea, and to make things worse, the guys had to choose the girl. 

 

“Hello.” Rora answered the phone, first ring. 

I swallowed hard. “Rora, George Flin here.” I spoke fast. “I had every intention on asking you to this year’s ball, until those in charge made other plans.” 

Rora sighed. 

I imagined her twirling her hair around her pointer finger, knowing why I called.

“I will draw a red triangle on my neck, George. Be first in line.” Rora said before abruptly hanging up. 

I fought Tommy Hughes for line leader. “Yeah, what? Boyyyyy!” My superpowered push sent him flying to the ground.

I straightened my jacket, strutted in, and stared blankly at the line of girls against the wall, all of whom had red triangles on their necks. 

“Let this be a lesson to all!” Principal Ferrier yelled through a megaphone. “You never know what you’re getting, look for beauty on the inside!”  

Her long white gown trailed across the forest floor as she quickly moved forward in desperation. The fallen wet twigs crunched underneath her bare feet, pressing into her soles. The pain, more bearable than his evil insults. His words hurt more than any punch he could throw.

She was a prisoner in her own home. 

Her tear-soaked hair followed her. She turned to make sure she was still alone. 

“He’s gone.”  She whispered.

“He’s gone?” She questioned herself.

“Please………” She no longer had a choice.

She pressed her back against the last tree before the clearing. She slid down and pulled her knees under her chin – covering her eyes, she wept. 

Dinner and a movie, that’s how it began. Years later, he was still there. He invaded her home, taking from her everything she worked for.  She couldn’t breathe. He sucked up every inch of her air. 

She had to go back and fight for what was hers.

She sat and waited, purposely flooding herself with memories of a stronger, more diligent woman, a fierce and powerful warrior for all of mankind. She refused to be destroyed by a squirrel of a human, a nibbler of the heart.

“A nibbler of the heart?” She laughed. Her spoken thought provoked a more satisfying resolution to her living situation.

“If he’s not gone. I’ll rid myself of him.” Her conversation heard only by the giant, naked trees.

She rushed back.

With all her might, she unwedged the ax from winter’s wood stump.

Fearless, she approached the back door of her home.  

Slowly turning the knob, she watched her muddied feet contact the hardwood floor. She dragged the ax behind her. 

 

“Uhhhhhhhh…..” She gasped, sat up in her bed and looked around, relieved, realizing he’d been gone for well over a decade. 

“Gather around, my little Ransackadias. It’s time that we make our appearance.” The fearless leader sang to the billions of his now emerged brood. He stood a half inch tall and about an inch in length, a couple of millimeters larger than his minions who replied by rubbing their wings together. Their color, tawny, changed to turquoise before every flight. 

     It had been seventeen years since their last attack upon humanity. The nymphs hatched from their eggs many moons ago, attached to the calcium carbonate of the highest mountain and grew stronger and stronger. 

     “Now!” The leader transformed before the many. 

     Their wings expanded as they set off to seek and destroy every thing suburbia. 

     Photographers in the land of Calcar snapped pictures when the tiny pests swarmed from their perch. A deafening noise emerged as parts of the mountain top crumbled, shaken by their fierce movement. 

     Finally, they blended in with the clear sky. They were on a suicide mission. 

     “Ransackadia!” Their song became louder.

     They broke off into groups and invaded every town known to man, crashing into cars, homes, landing in children’s hair, splattering themselves purposely on all surfaces.

     Screams could be heard around the world.  

     BREAKING NEWS interrupted every program.

     “We’re here at the Super Mart Supermarket, where the Ransackadia’s made their first landing. Excuse me, sir.” The reporter approached an unsuspecting patron carrying several bags.

     “Sir, how do you feel about this year’s invasion?” The reporter asked just as a group of Ransackadia dove in towards the man’s head. He dropped his groceries and sprinted towards his vehicle.

     “THEY’VE RANSACKED EVERYTHING!” He yelled back.

     “There you have it! This place is one of many – RANSACKED! This is Michael Strausser reporting live from Ransackadiaville.” The reporter laughed, standing securely under an umbrella. 

 

 

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.