The Award

I'm not sure if it still exists today, but my elementary and middle schools (first Mountain Gap, then Challenger) had an advanced academics program called SPACE*. The so-called gifted kids in the program spent about a fifth of their class time with special teachers doing fun and educational projects while learning at an accelerated rate. In high school, these students would be automatic candidates for advanced placement classes, earning college credit before even stepping foot on a university campus.

I didn't actually know any of this stuff when my 2nd grade teacher recommended that I be tested to see if I qualified for SPACE. But like much of my adult life, I was eager to be accepted regardless of the consequences. There's something extremely attractive about exclusivity. However, the test proved to be too difficult and my teacher notified my mother that I wasn't right for the program. This was a huge disappointment at the time, though my mom consoled me with the fact that the recommendation itself was an intrinsic honor.

The next year, I was recommended by another teacher to take the 3rd grade version of the test. The ideas behind the questions and challenges were basically the same: spacial reasoning, problem solving, etc. Even though this was decades ago, I can still remember one puzzle from it now, and only because I'm certain that I got it wrong. I was asked to piece together silhouetted sections of a cardboard horse in a set amount of time, but I placed a part of its body where the horse's neck should have gone. Poor little pony. Regardless, I apparently did better than I had the first time and was given the SPACE seal of approval, which was a note to my teacher and a phone call to my mom. Soon after that, I was ushered into a gleaming world of magic and wonder.

Well, not exactly.

Twice a week, the other SPACE kids and I would go to a classroom with a special teacher and spend the full second part of the day there. The teacher, Mrs. K, was a fun and slightly eccentric woman in her thirties. She kept us busy for much of the time with logic problems, the kind where you have to figure out what fictional characters did and had based on given clues. For instance one of the clues might be "Bobby hates sledding and one of the girls brought a baseball glove." So, then we'd go to the grid and mark an X at the cross section of "Bobby" and "sledding", along with all of the boys and "baseball glove". You can imagine how quickly the charm of these little gems faded.

But there was one large, month-long project that I'll never forget. One day Mrs. K announced to the class that we'd be divided into teams and tasked with building model bridges out of toothpicks. Even the thought of it now fills me with an existential dread. Mrs. K told us that each team would present their model after four weeks and she would judge the results based on certain qualities, the most important naturally being how much weight the bridges could carry. But she hinted that other attributes like best design and most creative features would also be considered. It sounded like fun at the time and, more importantly, a long break from the world of stupid logic problems.

I was placed in a normal team (that qualifier, "normal", will make sense soon) and we began talking about ideas for structure and the benefits of glue over other binding agents, such as Scotch tape or bubble gum. I wasn't as much interested in these conversations as I was interested in doodling on graph paper and making jokes, which Mrs. K took notice of pretty quickly. This lack of focus continued and, at the end of the second week, I found myself heading up a new team. Mrs. K had rounded up all of the "dead weight kids" from each team, put us all in a group, and named me their leader.

I was a little offended to be singled out as a shiftless layabout at first, but I quickly embraced my role as king of the too-cool-for-bridges squad and announced to my lazy cohorts, Mrs. K, and all of the normal teams that we would continue goofing off. I reasoned that we'd only need a couple of days at most to build the toothpick bridges. After all, these weren't real bridges and no lives were at risk if our bridge was the worst. And yes, our team was destined to lose by the very nature of our origin story - this inherent limitation was not lost on me at the time.

As the following days and weeks went by, Mrs. K would occasionally check in on my group's progress. Having nothing to show in terms of actual work, I would shield from her whatever funny cartoon I was working on and report that we were still in the planning stage, but that everything was perfectly on schedule. Then she'd walk off and I would nervously look around the room to the normal teams, all of them hard at work on mostly-completed, perfect little toothpick bridges. Then I'd shrug and go back to my hilarious doodles.

Reality set in on the day before the competition. I'd practically trained the rest of my team to blow off any notion of work, so I found myself alone on an island of panic. I quickly learned that toothpicks are a tricky building material and my very rudimentary sketch of a bridge was a poor blueprint. I spent the last hours of class time in failure mode, but I held my brave smile anytime Mrs. K walked by with her left eyebrow arched. I told her that I'd be finishing the model myself at home that night.

I don't remember much from that evening. I probably begged my mom and sister for help, but I think I was left to go at it solo, one glue-drenched toothpick at a time. I stayed up past my bedtime constructing the world's worst model bridge. It was the kind of work that's both sloppy and slow, done neither fast nor correctly. At the end of the night, I sat back and marveled at the slight, precarious embodiment of procrastination that I had created. It couldn't support an ant. Right now you might be thinking two things: 1) that building a bridge out of toothpicks doesn't sound so hard (you're wrong and probably not a nine-year-old kid), and 2) that my bridge probably wasn't as bad as I'm describing it (you're right - it was much worse).

The next day's grand finale competition went about as well as anybody could have expected. Mrs. K elected my team to go first, just to get us out of the way, really. She added a series of floppy disks suspended by string to test the strength of the bridge and, surprisingly, my sad model didn't break or fall apart. It just kind of leaned in until it touched its cardboard base...and stayed leaned in once Mrs. K removed the weights. Regardless, I counted the weak demonstration as a major victory, though any bravado that I might have exhibited that day was there purely to mask embarrassment. I'll spare you the details of the awesome designs and constructions that the other teams presented, as their victory is not what this story is about.

After each of the bridges was tested and judged, Mrs. K began handing out awards. They were certificates that she had created and printed out herself, each with 1980's-era clip art and titles such as "Strongest Design" and "Best Teamwork". I clapped along with the others, occasionally pretending to be shocked when we failed to win a category. After all of the awards had been handed out, Mrs. K gave a short speech about the importance of leadership. I sunk in my chair, thinking that the hammer would surely fall my way once the moral of the story kicked in.

She looked at me and smiled; I cringed. Then Mrs. K surprised me. She told everyone that I had shown a special quality in leadership and that I deserved a special award for what I had done. Her smile grew as she handed me - not my group, but just me - a certificate with my name on it. The picture displayed a man treading water, so that only his head was visible. Surrounding him, fins peaked through the surface of the water, alluding to the deadly sharks circling him below. Atop the certificate read, "Coolness Under Pressure". It was my very own award, and believe me when I tell you that I earned it.


* For the life of me, I can't remember what the SPACE acronym stood for. I've tried searching for mentions of it online to no avail, which leads me to believe that it was a local program for Huntsville, AL. It makes perfect sense that the powers-that-were would choose a term to reflect our civic Rocket City, USA identity. However, the fact that I also couldn't remember what SPACE stood for when I was still in the program tells me that I probably wasn't the best candidate for it.

Counterfeit Captivity

Kirby Bresling had almost served his first year at Belew Correctional before he pieced together that he wasn't being held in a real prison. His first hint was that he hadn't received any visitors since he'd arrived, nor did any of his phone calls ever reach friends or family. The guards, wearing their mismatched uniforms - perhaps another clue that the prison wasn't official - would tell Kirby that nobody loved a convict and that he should just stop thinking about the outside world. The other 27 inmates at Belew seemed to have accepted this sad philosophy, though Kirby never stopped thinking that the outside world cared...and also that 28 total inmates was a shockingly low population for a prison.

Meals consisted of either name brand microwaveable dinners or takeout food from one of the neighboring town's many chain restaurants. On holidays, the prisoners were treated to home-cooked meals courtesy of the warden's wife, Erika Eleniak of Baywatch fame. However, Kirby detected a certain ingredient in everything they were served, regardless of the meal's origin. Mozzarella Geoff, a large inmate known for his love of stuffed crust pizza, told Kirby that the kitchen staff added elderberry to every food item so that specially-bred dogs could easily locate convicts if they tried to escape.

Escape. The word kept circling in Kirby's mind. The prison's many oddities, coupled with the fact that he hadn't committed a crime or faced any sort of trial, convinced Kirby that he needed to escape if he was ever going to breathe free air again. He asked around and was told to seek the help of Greater Than James, a medium-sized inmate known for his love of comparison symbols. Greater Than James told Kirby that he'd need to hide out for a few weeks in one of the many unused cell blocks, staying out of sight there until any search parties or "find 'em soirees" would pass. He'd also need to avoid any food laced with elderberry, since the dog kennel was right next to the shortest fence in the prison yard. If Kirby could pull this off, Greater Than James assured him, he'd get his real chance to leave Belew Correctional for good.

And, well, that's what Kirby did.

After the final search had come back empty-handed, the dogs' heads lowered in shameful defeat, Kirby waited until prisoner nap time and took off on foot. He crawled right past three guards who were playing poker with some of the we're-not-sleepy inmates. Avoiding the dog kennel completely (even though he'd heard that one of the females had just had puppies), Kirby scaled the second tallest fence surrounding the fake prison and he skipped off into the late evening. Unfortunately, skipping caused him to twist an ankle so he limped the rest of the way to town, making it to a bus stop just in time to catch a bus without having to wait another ten minutes for the next one. He took the bus all the way to the end of its line in north Cincinnati, where he stole a car and drove it to his home in nearby Columbus.

In the years that followed, Kirby anonymously stayed in touch with his friends still held in counterfeit captivity through social media and disguised personal visits. He would regale them with tales of his life in the free world, which they would pretend to be impressed to hear about. Kirby also became a fan of Baywatch re-runs, and had to resist the urge to send fan letters to the warden's wife. And even though it wasn't something he ever would have imagined that he'd do in freedom back in the days when he was still holed up at Belew Correctional, Kirby added elderberry to every meal that he ate for the rest of his life.

Roller Coaster

Clyde awoke at dawn and went to the refrigerator. He felt compelled to check on a turkey sandwich that he had made the previous night. Due to the elongated surface area of the bread he had bought the week before, the sandwich was very large, too big to fit into one Ziploc bag. Clyde had been forced to seal the two halves separately.

Sitting side-by-side on the top shelf, Clyde saw that both halves were still sealed in their separate zipper storage baggies, but only one half of the sandwich had been preserved. The other half, the part laying on the right-hand side of the shelf, had visibly spoiled overnight. He began to think of what possible variables could have caused the strange inconsistency when he heard Gresham and Nell take their posts at the roller coaster next door.

"Hey, Nell!" Gresham called out to the tall, surly girl across the platform. "What'd you get into last night? I heard you let Shawn Decker get to home plate." Gresham wheezed out a harsh laugh as he crossed his thin, pale arms. He was wearing another punk-looking, sleeveless shirt. Clyde had never heard of anybody named Gresham before, but knew his name from overhearing many conversations between the two college dropouts during their daily shifts at the roller coaster.

Nell lowered her sunglasses and extended a middle finger in Gresham's direction. Still holding it up, she walked over to a large, lectern-sized control panel and pressed the offending finger onto a red button. Grinding clicks and mechanical groans sounded as the roller coaster roared to life. Nell flipped her hair from one side of her head to the other. Clyde had observed that, on weekends, she liked to dye it dark red and spike it up, Mohawk-style. However, it hung in a pinkish blonde, limp cascade on this Tuesday morning, the red not entirely washed out from the previous weekend.

Clyde stared at the vulgar young people through his kitchen window and thought back to the days when the lot next to his house was nothing more than a pile of wreckage. He missed the chirping of birds and the gentle spraying sounds of lawn sprinklers the most. All of his neighbors had moved away once they heard that a single-standing roller coaster would take the place of the demolished Blockbuster Video, but Clyde had opted to stick around and see just how bad it would be before deciding if he would leave or not.

Three short months later, he had to admit that it was pretty bad. The kinetic vibrations from the coaster's first large drop tended to rattle Clyde's wine glasses and often knocked picture frames off of the walls. Also, the loop-the-loop was right next to his bedroom, so the screams of elated passengers would keep him up until the roller coaster closed for the night, usually around midnight.

Taking a deep breath, Clyde lifted the window and called out to the lone-ride carnival employees.

"Morning, gang!" he called to them in his most chipper voice. The ornery teens glared up at him. Clyde cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Hi. I'm not sure if you got my letter last week, but would it be possible for you to ask your guests to not litter or, you know, urinate upon my lawn?"

"I'm sorry?" Nell asked him, cupping her ear. She was standing further away from his house than Gresham, but Clyde suspected that she had heard him just fine.

"It's just...the noise is bad enough, but the litter and, you know, urine smell is just getting intolerable."

Nell locked eyes with Clyde and began to walk toward his kitchen window. One of the long roller coaster trains rushed along the rails, grinding to a halt in the platform's passenger loading station. Without stopping or even looking down, Nell skipped up onto one of the cars and glided across it, glided as if it had been there for her all along. She pushed by Gresham, passing by him without taking her eyes off of Clyde. She then stopped and rested her forearms on the platform's railing, which stood less than three feet away from Clyde's window.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you," she said to Clyde. Her voice was low and sexy. Clyde knew it wasn't genuine, but it gave him a chill all the same. She batted her eyes. "Is there some sort of problem, Clyde Brinkman?"

"Well, it's just..." Clyde looked to Gresham, who now was wearing a merciless smirk across his pimply face. The punk had thrown his arms around a metal rod that was resting on his shoulders and Clyde could see reddish underarm hair sprouting from the sleeveless section of his shirt. Nell reached over the railing and grabbed Clyde by the chin, forcing his lips into a sloppy pucker. He sputtered a bit and finally said, "No, it's just...I was just saying 'good morning'."

Nell leaned in close to Clyde, close enough so that he could smell her passion fruit lip gloss. "Well, good morning, neighbor." She quickly released his chin and smacked his forehead hard, pushing him back into his kitchen a bit. Gresham howled with laughter as Nell sauntered back to her post at the control panel.

From over a block away, Clyde could hear the first wave of thrill seekers arriving. Just like any other day, their yells and cries would attempt to dominate the the noise of the roller coaster, eventually settling for second place. A deafeningly close second place.

"Time for a test run," Nell announced. Gresham hopped into the first car of the train as Nell started the ride. As the roller coaster rose up into meet its first summit, Gresham pumped both of his middle fingers into the air and sneered at the world. Clyde could only stand and watch.

Flashing a smile at their reluctant voyeur, Nell called out, "Let us know if you ever want a ride, Clyde!" She then laughed at the rhyme as though it was the funniest thing she'd ever said or heard.

Clyde closed the window, along with the blinds. He backed up into the darkness of his kitchen, listening to the swooshing noise of the roller coaster outside. His fists clenched, he walked back to the refrigerator and peered into it again. Clyde saw that one half of the sandwich was still good and the other was still bad. However, the spoiled one, its elongated bread covered in a thin layer of blue-green mold, was now on the left-hand side.

"How about that," he said to himself, loud enough so that he could hear his voice over the noise of the roller coaster next door.

9pm - ?

According to the invitation, 9pm was the official start time of Dave and Sally's annual Halloween party. However, Ben immediately felt foolish for arriving right on time when Dave answered the door wearing plain jeans and a t-shirt. He looked at Ben, confused.

"Oh. Hey, Ben. Wow, I didn't think people would start showing up until around ten or so."

"I guess I'm a little early," Ben muttered. Dave's porch was still dark, but Ben had thought it was a part of the decor. Now he realized that 9pm meant...well, not 9pm. "So, uh. Need any help setting up?"

"Nah, it's cool. Come on in. Sally's still getting ready and I haven't even started." As he led Ben into his living room, Dave could better see Ben's homemade costume, which included a Medieval-looking tunic with red markings. Dave studied it for two seconds before asking, "What are you supposed to be anyway, some sorta Star Wars thing?"

"Nope. Not even close," Ben replied. "I have a prize for whoever guesses it correctly." He patted a leather satchel that was strapped to his belt.

As the couple finished getting ready upstairs, Ben sat in the living room, sipping on pumpkin ale and watching some horror movie scenes that someone had edited together. He didn't know most of the films, but the visuals went well with the spooky ambient music playing over it.

Eventually, other guests started arriving. Dave and Sally's small house and backyard was soon filled with brooding vampires, sexy witches, and movie monsters galore. Sally instructed all zombies to keep their fake dirt and blood off of her furniture. There were also a few guests in pun-related costumes, as well as the expected assortment of cultural references from the year.

"My roommate is Wander Woman, like, as in 'wandering the desert', and I'm Molasses Cat," a fur-clad girl informed Ben as she held up an emptied mason jar that was affixed to her hand. Ben nodded and decided he would need stronger inebriation than pumpkin ale could offer. He excused himself to get some hunch punch, Sally's diabolical specialty, from the back porch. That's where he met Kimberly.

"I know who you are," she said from behind him. Ben turned toward her voice and almost spilled hunch punch on himself. Even through her creepy banshee costume, he could tell that she was the most beautiful girl at the party, maybe any party ever.

"Really?" he said. "That can't be possible. I'd remember you." He was smiling, but completely serious and beyond confused.

"No," Kimberly said, laughing. "I know who you're dressed as. You're Darek Alger from the Signal Dagger series."

Ben was taken aback. "You know the Signal Dagger books?"

"Please. I practically turned my whole dorm onto them back in college."

"That's awesome. And impressive. The only think I turned my dorm onto was the idea to wear shower shoes in the bathroom."

She smiled and Ben took a deep sip of hunch punch. As the night and party progressed, they continued talking and flirting. Ben looked around and saw Dave, now dressed as a hippie, pull his peace symbol sunglasses down to wink at him. He walked by Ben and joked, "Don't worry, buddy. I'm sure you'll find a pretty girl somewhere around here." Ben blushed and smiled at Kimberly, who smiled back.

There were plenty of other guests, but Ben and Kimberly might as well have been alone together. They only wanted to talk to each other and ignored the other guests, except when the conversation would lull a bit and they needed something to joke about.

"What about this guy?" Ben said, gesturing toward a large man in a plaid shirt and wool cap who was double-fisting hunch punch and a beer. He had tucked a plastic chainsaw under one of his arms as he loudly talked to a girl dressed as Snow White about the Denver Broncos. "He gets my vote for drunkest lumberjack I've seen all week."

"Yeah," Kimberly said, giggling as she shot off, "Someone should be around to yell 'timber' when he goes down."

Eventually, the party got quieter as guests began to filter out. Sally had begun blowing out candles and turning on some normal lights. Dave had taken his hippie costume to heart and was smoking a joint with a small group of friends in the backyard. Ben knew that meant Dave would be kicking people out soon so that he could go to bed.

"I guess we've hit 'question mark', huh?" Ben said to Kimberly.

"Question mark?" she asked.

"Like on the invitation."

"Oh, right." Kimberly nodded and looked around Dave and Sally's empty living room. "Wow, I can't remember the last time I stayed up till question mark."

"Well, can I walk you to your car?"

"I actually grabbed a ride here with friends."

"Oh, okay..." Ben said. He looked around.

"They're gone."

"They left you? That sucks."

"Yeah. You know, it kinda does."

"I mean," Ben started with a mock grim expression. "Don't they realize that banshees are legendary for getting revenge?"

"You're right," Kimberly said, a smile spreading across her face. "I guess they decided to risk it."

"Well, I could...you know, give you a lift home," Ben said, hoping to sound more helpful than lecherous.

"That'd be great!" Kimberly said, nearly jumping in excitement.

They left without even thinking to say goodbye to their hosts. The few remaining guests exited soon after Ben and Kimberly had gone.

After ushering out the last of them, Sally turned the porch light off. Dave stood in the living room, visibly high and barely standing. Sally was no more sober than he was, but she handled it better.

"Something about tie-dye and bell bottoms turns you into an idiot every time you wear them," Sally said as she downed the last of her punch and walked toward the kitchen.

"C'mon, I thought all you vampires loved hippies." Dave wrapped his arms around Sally's waist. "We taste like pot and junk food."

"Whatever. You should go as a caveman next year. It's an evolutionary step up from a hippie." She smirked and gave Dave a kiss, then looked around. "God, this place is a mess."

Dave dragged the garbage can into the living room and began tossing in empty cups and bottles. Sally plucked a red scarf that she had draped over a lampshade and switched off the light.

"Hey, what was with your weird friend?" Sally asked.

"Ben? Yeah, I don't know."

"He was just standing off to the side by himself, talking to nobody."

"Maybe it was part of his costume." Dave sat on the couch and turned on the TV. "Game of Thrones?"

"Okay." Still dressed in her red cape and tight black dress, Sally cuddled next to Dave on the couch and put her head on his shoulder. "Well, I think Ben is one creepy guy."

"I know. I hoped he would be more social and maybe meet a girl or something. I really don't get him." He hit play on the HBO Go menu.

Sally yawned. "Okay, just one episode and then bedtime," she said.

A few miles away, Ben drove up to Kimberly's apartment. They had talked and laughed most of the ride to her neighborhood, but had gotten quiet as they neared the end of the ride. Ben was unsure if he should turn off the car or if he was just dropping Kimberly off. He pulled up to her curb and let the car idle. He started to say something, but Kimberly cut him off.

"I'm glad you're not presumptuous," she said. "However, I'm totally going to ask you to come in. I mean, if you want."

"Yeah, yeah," Ben said. "I mean...yeah." He smiled crookedly and shook his head. Kimberly laughed.

Kimberly's apartment was on the second floor. They both giggled as they climbed the stairs, trying - and failing - to be quiet. Kimberly opened her door and let Ben in. Before she could even turn on a light, he leaned in to kiss her. She backed away.

"Hold on," she said. "Let me put some music on or something. Do you want a drink?"

"No, I'm good," he said, his eyes still adjusting to the dark room.

"Okay," she said. And then softly, she leaned in and whispered, "Hey, Ben. Do you want to see my body?"

A rush of heat leaped to his face. "Um, yeah. Sure."

Through the faint light coming in through the windows, Ben could barely see Kimberly. But he could see that she was smiling.

"Give me one minute," she said. She disappeared into a hallway. Nervous excitement flooded over Ben. He heard her voice one more time. "Hey, could you get the light?"

"Sure," Ben called to her. He turned to find the switch and then remembered. "Oh, hey - I almost forgot! I have something for you. A prize for guessing my costume."

Ben reached into the leather satchel on his belt and pulled out a glass key with "S.D." engraved on it, a trinket from the Signal Dagger books. It felt like a piece of it had broken off.

"Oh, c'mon," he muttered to himself.

He grazed his hand across the wall and found the light switch. When he turned and saw the illuminated room, Ben's heart dropped into his stomach and the glass key fell to the floor.

The apartment looked like it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned. Torn books and broken dishes littered the floor. Kimberly's picture frames had been ripped from the walls and smashed. Her television was lying face down in front of a coffee table, which was littered with cigarette butts and food so rotted that Ben couldn't tell what it had once been.

"Oh, my god," he said. The smell had finally registered, a disgustingly stale odor of ash and decay. "Kimberly? I think somebody broke in."

He waited for a response. Nothing.

"Kimberly? Are you alright?"

Nothing. Then fear arose, hitting him in the gut. Maybe whoever had wrecked the place was still in the apartment.

"Kimberly, we need to get out of here!"

Ben stood there, dumbly. Something was obviously wrong, but he was afraid to go look for her. He looked at the door behind him. Black and dark brown smudges covered it, but Ben didn't really see the filth. He just saw a way out. His feet felt like they were glued to the floor. He couldn't leave. He had to find Kimberly. She was... Well, she was...

Gone. Ben closed his eyes. He knew where Kimberly was. There wasn't an intruder. Whatever had happened in this apartment had happened weeks, maybe months ago. Slowly, he turned toward the dismantled room and walked down the shadowy hallway. From the light in the living room he could only register more filth, more chaos along the walls and on the floor. There was a door at the end of the hallway. He slowly opened it and walked into Kimberly's bedroom.

There she was. His posture slumped, but Ben wasn't surprised to find that he didn't have the energy to yell out or even gasp. Kimberly's dead body was on the bed. Much of the skin on her face had been rotted off to reveal sections of skull underneath. Her clothes looked to be covered in mold, spread there from her decaying body.

Ben wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He saw several pill bottles on the bed next to her and on the nightstand. The story was becoming clearer, but he didn't know why she had come to him. Nothing in the room would answer that. Kimberly's head was tilted toward him, staring with two empty eye sockets. Her cheekbones jutted out from around her distended jaw. To Ben, it looked like she was smiling at him.

"Happy Halloween," he said to her, just before losing consciousness.

Underworld Callers

"Hey, che diavolo! Turn off the overheads, Rory." Angelo said, rubbing his already bloodshot eyes. Rory noted that the oldest Boticello brother's Sicilian accent was getting thicker, and that meant bad times awaited. Angelo continued, "We gotta do this thing in candlelight or is no gonna work."

Standing tall behind Villa Palermo’s oak bar counter, big Rory Sears sighed and flipped the switch by the daily specials chalkboard. The dining room went dark, save for some light spilling in from Huntington’s Main Street, which glowed soft and pink through the restaurant’s dirty front window.

Angelo struck a match and began to light the red glass candles on the two-tops, which were positioned at the five points of the pentagram he’d drawn on the ground. His younger brother, Maximillian Boticello, sat on a booth tabletop in the corner of the dining room, his short legs dangling off the edge as he combed his hair

"Hey, you know those ain't real candles, Angie," Max said. "They's the refillable kind, I think. Whatcha call 'em?"

"Sterno," Rory answered in his low, flat voice.

Max nodded. "Yeah, that."

"Don’t matter," Angelo said, dipping the match into a red globe. "Bright overhead lights are no good, a capisce?" He blew out the match and lit another.

"I just don't wanna piss off whatever we got coming, alright?" Max said, running his comb through his hair once more before returning the cheap piece of plastic to his inside coat pocket. The ancient book, its leather binding cracked and dusty, laid on the tabletop beside him.

Rory poured himself a shot of warm grappa. Being associated with the Boticello family used to hold clout in Long Island circles, but the past year had been one bad beat after another. He had been at their side through it all, especially during the kicker of it all - Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello's grand larceny trial. Rory had done his best to help keep the head of the family out of the slammer, had even attempted to bribe two jurors who later went mysteriously missing (though they were replaced by assholes of equal morality). However, nothing seemed to stick, meaning that everything did. All done, Knuckles ended up with a 25-year sentence at Fishkill Correctional, leaving a power vacuum wide open for certain interested parties around the neighborhood.

However, Rory felt that the Angelo and Max’s new tactic was faced entirely in the wrong direction, somewhere south of desperation.

Angelo finished lighting the points around the pentagram. Rory shook his head for the hundredth time that day and slammed the grappa into his mouth. If the liquor was supposed to have a numbing effect, Rory didn’t feel it.

Angelo surveyed the space around the pentagram, craning his neck around the room to make sure no detail was botched. According to the old book, the lights had to allow shadows and the room had to be mostly quiet, which is why they were starting after midnight. Most importantly, the ancient text specified that the circle outlining the star of the pentagram must be unbroken. However, the piece of chalk he'd used to draw it on the floor was just a nub, left over from when Villa Palermo’s was still open for business and had daily specials to advertise.

"Hey, Maxie," Angelo said, squinting to see if he’d missed a section. "Get down. Wanna you make sure this outside line is no smudged and it’s got to be no gaps."

Max hopped down from the corner booth, grabbing the ancient book. When he got to the circle on the ground, he gingerly stepped over the outside line. The balletic maneuver caused Rory to roll his eyes. Max carefully laid the book down on the makeshift, three-sided altar at the center of the pentagram and inspected Angelo’s chalk lines.

"Okay, now Rory," Angelo said. "Need you to bring over some of that salt. And quit being such a stronzo, tu mi capisci?"

Rory understood the message, if not the exact translation. He grabbed the large cylindrical container with the umbrella girl logo and suppressed the urge to mock Max’s awkward grace as he walked inside the pentagram. Rory handed Angelo the salt.

"Lines look good, Angie," Max said. "Just like the book said. You want I should find the words now?"

"Yeah, do that." Angelo sprinkled some salt into his hands and tossed it on the floor inside and out the chalky circle of the pentagram.

The binding of the ancient book creaked as Max opened it to the section he and Angelo had bookmarked the previous week. They had grown up with the old tome, a winking gift by way of a great aunt from the old country, but never had it been more than a curious joke until the past year. Now it was the Boticello's secret weapon, maybe the only weapon left in their arsenal. Max carefully ran his finger down a partially-rotted page until he found the passage in question.

"Yeah, this is it. You ready?"

Angelo nodded. Max turned to Rory who signaled with a slight nod. They each took their place standing around the altar.

"Do we gotta hold hands or something?" Rory asked.

"Nah, nah. We only gotta stay inside the circle," Angelo said. He lifted his shoulders a couple of times and rolled his head in a circular motion, like a boxer who had just stepped into the ring. Closing his eyes and nodding feverishly, he said, "Okay. Hit it, Maxie."

Max removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. The evening street noise had subsided for the night and every creak on the floor beneath them was audible in the echo of the dining room. Phonetically, Max began to read aloud the strange, foreign words from the ancient text.

"Flavus ama ferox...tracto aevum gusto..."

Max continued as Angelo impatiently bounced on the front balls of his feet, though his eyes were still closed tight. Rory saw that the dark circles had returned to their familiar home on his face. He couldn't say for sure that Angelo had started using again just yet, but he made a note to sweep the older Boticello's coat pockets later for dope. Angelo’s head tilted forward a bit as Max carried on, syllable by syllable.

"...suavis terni orior..."

Rory's thoughts wandered to the first time he had met the brothers, years earlier at a beach party in Montauk. They seemed like royalty to him then, holding court in a lush cabana, surrounded by beautiful women - not girls from the neighborhood, but real women. To Rory, the Boticellos lent the entire evening a feeling of importance, just by simply being present. Their confidence then, along with their solid leadership later, carried Rory through nearly a decade of loyal service.

However, those young princes were gone, replaced by two desperate primates that stood before Rory now. Of all the lines they had asked him to cross over the years, he never imagined the unsteady, chalky lines that outlined the pentagram at his feet. He looked at the rickety altar between himself and the brothers and imagined the discarded wooden crates from the alley behind the restaurant that they must have scavenged to build it. How could a royal family stoop so low so fast?

"...precor osculum linea tracto..."

Rory saw Angelo open one bloodshot eye to peer into the restaurant's shadowy dining room. His eyebrows furrowed in disappointment, as though he had expected the ceiling to be ripped off, or perhaps the floor to open up beneath them. Getting more agitated, Angelo opened both eyes and looked to his brother as Max finished reading the final words of the incantation.

"...ab perca gravis."

Max tensed as he stumbled to the end of the spell, like a marathon runner reaching an uncertain finish line. He tensed his shoulders, as though bracing for a cataclysmic event. But nothing changed and nothing arrived. After a moment, he relaxed and looked around. He popped the toothpick back into the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, well." he said, shrugging. "We had to give it a shot, ya know?"

"Yeah," Rory said. "Yeah, sure."

Angelo spun as he surveyed the room around them. He got on his hands and knees to inspect the pentagram's lines beneath them.

"No, no, no!" His voice cracked into a higher octave. "This ain't gonna do! We gotta get this right, guys." He stood up and Rory could see Angelo's eyes begging for a second attempt, perhaps a third and a fourth after that. But Max just yawned.

"I dunno, Angie," he said. "Maybe we've been looking at this thing from the wrong side of it, ya know? Maybe we need to reach out to the old country or something." Max took out his comb and ran it through his hair. He shrugged again and stepped away from the altar. "I could use a drink," he said and began walking toward the bar.

"Hey, Maxie," Rory said. "Hold on a second."

"Huh?" Max said, surprised to hear Rory call him Maxie. He was about to correct the misplaced familiarity as his foot crossed over the edge of the pentagram's outer circle. But before any of them could register the moment, Max was ripped from Villa Palermo’s, New York, and the dimension he had called home for thirty six years.

"Holy hell!" Rory screamed as he lost his footing and knocked over the altar. He quickly steadied himself and, in his mind, the boundaries of the pentagram became as concrete as prison walls.

"Maxie?" Angelo said. He walked to the edge of the circle where Max had last been Max. "Where'd you go, paisano?"

"Careful," Rory warned, his stomach fighting a violent wave of nausea "It got him. It got Max."

"Whatta you mean 'it'?" Angelo's eyes narrowed.

"Something took Max. We gotta stay in the circle now."

Angelo digested this information slowly. He walked along the borders of their symbolic cage. Finally, the corners of his mouth bent upwards into a nasty grin. He looked up to the restaurant's ceiling.

"You think you got Maxie, eh pally?" he asked the thing in the restaurant. "Well, listen up! You can give him back now, or give him back later, eh? But we got some things to discuss, you and me."

The world outside the circle did not respond.

"I said, capisce?" Angelo spun around to face all sides of the threat, letting it know that he wasn’t used to backing down. Rory, as frightened as he was, was almost inspired by Angelo’s defiant attitude. He’d seen a thousand tiny retreats over the past year, including the closure of the very building in which they were standing. It was almost nice to see the Boticello fire burning again. Almost.

Despite the token return of his general, Rory lowered himself onto the ground, fearful that Angelo might try to shove him outside the circle, Sumo-style, to prove some kind of point to their demon visitor. As Angelo shouted, the room outside the pentagram began to look less like itself and more like a suggestion of an Italian restaurant, and Rory shifted as close to the center of the circle as he could.

"First, we gotta get some rules going. I ain't gonna live inside this, what you call it, this thing on the floor, so first thing is that you no gonna grab me if I walk outside it."

Rory saw that Villa Palermo’s had completely faded away, and that they were surrounded by pitch black emptiness now. The cylinder of salt rolled back and forth on the ground, as if they were adrift on a dark ocean. As if to underline the sensation, Rory saw that the little umbrella girl on the logo had disposed of her umbrella and was now aiming a jagged harpoon at a severed foot. She smiled at Rory with shark’s teeth. He looked to Angelo, who seemed to not notice any of this as he ticked off more demands.

"Now, we get down to business. The Boticellos run Huntington, we run the northside of the island. Che diavolo? We run the whole damn thing from now on. Capos grande, that be us!" Angelo was now pacing, though he seemed very aware of his path. "Them other families are gonna stop harassing me and Maxie. And they gonna pay for not keeping papa out the joint – that’s the place from where you gonna bust him out."

Rory watched as Angelo continued to threaten the thing they had summoned, his accent becoming even thicker as his voice went shrill. Rory figured that Angelo might have lost his mind, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn't gone off the deep end himself.

If I am, he thought, at least I'm aware of it.

In this clarity, Rory stood up, grabbing the altar as he steadied his feet.

"Hey, Angie," he said. Angelo turned to face him. Rory shook his head. "This was a terrible plan."

He threw the wooden structure hard at Angelo, completed the move with a hard, clumsy kick to the chest, which caused Angelo to crash through the invisible wall of the circle.

In the inky ether around the pentagram's boarders, Rory saw Angelo land on what appeared to be solid ground. He tried to crawl back in, but his body blurred and distorted when he pressed himself against the invisible edge. He began to scream.

Behind Angelo, Max emerged from the dark. The skin on his face sagged unevenly around his eyes, which were now a putrid cream color. The old toothpick was back in his mouth, but his teeth were much sharper. Angelo turned to see his new baby brother. After that, his screams turned into short shrieking bursts.

Rory closed his eyes and covered his ears as he again lowered himself onto the safety of the pentagram. He kept his eyes closed for a very long time, even after a dull white noise had replaced Angelo’s screaming inside his skull.

He opened them much later, after he realized that he might miss an opportunity for escape if he kept them shut any longer.

When Rory did open his eyes, the restaurant was back. Everything seemed normal, albeit wrecked from weeks of disuse and the Boticellos last ditch attempt to reach out for help. The altar Rory had thrown at Angelo had knocked over one of the two-tops, but was very much still there. He even saw Max's plastic comb on the floor by the bar. He knew Angelo and Max were gone for good though, changed forever by the thing they’d called.

Rory stood up, walked to the edge of the circle, and stopped. Sunshine pressed firm against the dirt on Villa Palermo’s front window. It was daytime on Main Street, though the caked filth on the outside glass obscured all but shadows of street lamps and a pair of city-planned sidewalk trees.

That can’t be right, Rory thought. Max read those words from the book maybe five or six minutes ago, and…

"Where's the book?" Rory asked the empty restaurant.

And then something else occurred to him, there in the silence of the morning.

Rory remembered the first time he every walked inside Villa Palermo’s. It was ten in the morning and Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello was sitting in the corner booth. Angelo and Max were behind the bar arguing about the restaurant's location. Max said it was great for foot traffic, but Angelo countered that there was never any peace from dawn till dusk on Main Street, that if it wasn't the big trucks roaring by, it was all the assholes shouting at each other. And Angelo was right. Both brothers had to yell at each other to fight the street noise.

So, why is it that don't I hear one person, one car, some trace of anything on Main Street now?

"You won’t hear until after you see," a dissonant group of voices said behind Rory, easing their way into the circle.

Tahiti

Nobody seemed to notice, but Jonah had a gift. When he concentrated on certain things, he could make his own heart stop. However, that was only the beginning of what he could do. The consequences of this gift took Jonah to all sorts of places, sometimes not by choice, but it never took him to Tahiti. Jonah was determined to never end up there, even as he sent many, many other people there.

Some people might have liked it. The security guard seemed to enjoy the trip, but Jonah looked around and figured anywhere would be preferable to the frenetic backstage at the science expo. The organizers hadn’t coordinate the schedule properly and too many scientists at once ended up shoved into the wings of the auditorium. Crowded and nervous, they all were waiting to go onstage so that they could share their separate innovations.
 

The scientists tried to be respectful of the woman currently onstage as she enthusiastically presented an energy conservation breakthrough to the journalists and curious financial backers in the audience. However, the scientists couldn’t help their lips from whispering technical specs or their fingers from tinkering with displays and invention mockups. These actions, multiplied by thirty or so perpetrators, caused the waves of clicks and pops to become an ocean of disruption.

Jonah cracked a smile, thinking of all the backstage nervous energy around him. For all of their high I.Q.’s, the geniuses couldn’t just relax and wait their turn. Jonah didn't have a display to tinker with, or notes of any kind to recite. He wasn't a scientist or anything of the sort. He was a trespasser, but he knew he had nothing to be nervous about.

He took a deep breath anyway. It just felt like the right thing to do in the cluster of so much tiny, hushed activity swirling around him.

Through this, Jonah could still hear the woman in front of the audience. He didn't understand a lot of the scientific jargon that she used, but he hoped she was doing a good job and maybe even having fun. He had seen her prepping before she went on, a tall woman with curly hair that the expo's host had introduced to the crowd as Dr. Barbara Fowler from Cornell. She reminded Jonah of the college professors that never accepted excuses for being late or missing a test.

A serious-looking man with silver hair approached Jonah. The man carried a clipboard and wore a dark suit. His black tie was camouflaged on top of a black shirt. Jonah figured that the man was some kind of coordinator or stage manager.

"Excuse me. I don't believe that we've met," the man said, keeping his volume low, but his diction curt. He had an uptight air that made Jonah feel like the man could use a vacation.

"I'm Jonah. Uh, how's it going?" Jonah stuck out his hand to shake, but the silver-haired man didn't seem to notice it.

"Dr. Jonaaah...," he said to himself as he began scanning a list of names on his clipboard.

Jonah rolled his eyes at the man's theatrics. "Sorry, no. I’m not a doctor."

The stage manager briefly glanced up at Jonah as he flipped to the second page of the list, and then he continued the pageantry of searching for the name. Jonah smiled, thinking this might be the time to get nervous, if he were capable of the sensation.

"I don't think you'll find me on that list," he said.

"Why, are you just here with someone? Dropping off a delivery?"

Jonah began to second guess his choice to wear jeans and a t-shirt. Perhaps a suit and tie would have garnered less suspicion. He briefly considered going with the delivery guy story, but realized the issue would come up again anyway. Jonah considered the crowd of scientists milling around. They were all very smart, but all very nervous. Their big brains were on the funding they needed to complete projects, maybe already picturing their faces in future textbooks.

It didn't matter much, Jonah supposed. They wouldn’t see what they wouldn’t see.

"Okay, maestro. You got me," Jonah said, keeping his voice quiet. "I'm not supposed to be here. I read about this science conference and I’ve got an experiment I want to try out."

During this, the silver-haired man's eyes darted to the wall by the backstage entrance door.

"I already did the security guard," Jonah assured him. He reached out to touch the man's hand, the one still gripping the clipboard. "He's in Tahiti now. He went like this..."

Jonah made his heart stop and he grazed the stage manager's hand. The serious man’s face was forced into a smile as his skin tightened. His eyes opened so wide that the muscles around them became visible. Then he simply hollowed out, leaving the science expo completely. There was no flash of light or explosion, not that it would have mattered if there was. By the time Jonah's hand was touching nothing, the stage manager was in Tahiti, where they all went as far as Jonah was concerned.

Jonah caught the clipboard before it hit the ground. He paused as he crouched near the group of scientists, waiting for a gasp, for a response of any kind. But, as always, it never arrived. He sighed and studied the scientists’ faces around him. People around him never saw the moment Jonah sent his travelers on their way. In the past, he’d tried to not question it, but Jonah had started questioning a lot of things recently. And the curiosity had made him social.

Applause erupted from the audience in the auditorium. Jonah turned to the brightness of the stage and saw Dr. Barbara Fowler smiling to the crowd. Her enthusiasm inspired Jonah as he walked onto the stage. He reached out for her hand to congratulate her on a wonderful presentation, to congratulate her with a trip to Tahiti.

Jonah wasn’t a scientist, but he had an experiment to perform. He wanted to find out if a captive audience could see what bystanders never did.

After Dark in Edgewood Park

I used to believe that there wasn't anything strange about Edgewood Park. After all, it looks like any typical neighborhood park, complete with all the normal features: a mid-sized community pool, an outdoor basketball blacktop, two Little League baseball fields. There's a small rec center in the middle which houses the changing rooms and showers for the pool, restrooms, and an office for the usual staff of one or two volunteers to hang out in. For young children, there's the standard "ages 3-8" playground and a nearby concession stand where folks could buy a bag of chips or some corn syrup-laden candy. Edgewood Park always looked perfectly ordinary, as did the section of Spokane where it was located, in a neighborhood called Hillyard.

I moved to Spokane after I finally got sick of being broke as hell in San Francisco. I'd heard through someplace that Hillyard was a nice spot, peaceful, and mostly comprised of families and old people. All that was fine by me; I'd slowed down a bit since arriving at my thirties. Still, I sometimes felt like the odd duck out in Hillyard, having never married or had kids. I'd had a few nice relationships since moving to Washington, but they all just seemed to run their natural course and die in a blaze of mutual appreciation. It wasn't a big deal. I was still young enough to start a family if the opportunity were to ever seriously present itself. I still am. At least, I hope I'll have that chance.

Regardless of my single status in Hillyard, I always enjoyed going to Edgewood Park. It reminded me of my own carefree childhood, although I also enjoyed spying on some of the more beleaguered parents that seemed to bring their kids to Edgewood just to ignore them. "It's like Disneyland without all the stuff," I joked perhaps too many times.

However, I quickly noticed that nobody went to Edgewood Park at night. There were utilities in place for it, great big floodlights all over, apparently triggered by automatic timers. But I'd not once seen a night game of baseball happening there. Even the teenagers avoided Edgewood after sunset, choosing other hangouts for their beer-sneaking and make-out sessions. It was kind of hilarious, watching all the parents stringently corral their kids into cars at the first hint of long shadows. It was as if they were all conditionally afraid of the dark.

I say this all lightly now, but I always went with the flow at the time, homeward-bound with the rest of the herd at dusk. First of all, I didn't want to be seen as some creepy adult who wanders the park alone at night. That's not very "Hillyard". But then there was also a part of me that felt, just as the others must have, this strong desire to leave before nightfall. It was almost like riding a current away from Edgewood Park. And I don't know how to put it, but it was also like I was being rewarded with a pleasant feeling as I walked back to my car and left with the sun still hanging low in the sky. My past has shockingly few drug experiences, but it was like I was getting a big dose of the goofy gas at the dentist's office. I floated away with the others, blissful and dazed.

But I must have messed up someplace. I was at Edgewood Park by myself again, got caught up watching one of the late afternoon Little League games. Afterward, everyone went in for their usual dusk mass exodus, which I followed dutifully. When I got back to my car, I realized that I had lost my wallet somewhere in the park. I thought back and realized I must have left it at the concession stand where I'd bought a bag of gummy bears. I started back into the park to retrieve the wallet, hoping above anything else that it would still be there.

As I made my way back across the parking lot, I passed by several families, each of them hurrying in the opposite direction. A few of the parents shot disapproving glances my way and many of the kids seemed confused that I'd even consider returning to Edgewood Park at that time. However, I just shrugged sheepishly at them and kept at a steady pace. Also, adding to my determined jaunt was this sickly feeling that had begun crawling over my skin. That goofy gas sensation was dissipating, replaced by a chilled, dull weight in my stomach that made my legs feel weak.

I cut through one of the baseball fields, making a direct beeline between myself and the concession stand. I even hopped a chain-link fence by one of the dugouts, as though the walk to the gate just ten steps away would have added more than a few seconds to my mission. But the sun was setting fast. A sharp spike of fear crawled up my spine and told me that those parents who rushed their kids from the park every evening weren't just being so hilarious after all.

By that point, I could see the concession stand just ahead. The playground behind it was already awash with shadows. I'd noted that the floodlights had yet to come on, but I was just so glad in the moment that I was almost at my destination. If the stand had been any farther away, I probably would have given up by then, electing to return in the daylight-drenched safety of morning. The big plywood door on the stand's counter was pulled closed, but I knew it would be unlocked. Crime wasn't an issue in Hillyard and that was doubly true for Edgewood Park after sunset.

I opened the door and could only slightly see anything in the dark, tiny structure. Searching a bit, I finally spied my wallet, or rather its silhouette, sitting next to some sort of display. It was as though my eyes refused to adjust to the fading light. I reached over, putting much of my body weight onto the counter, and grabbed my wallet. Before I could retract myself, I saw something, or several somethings, crawling along the shadowy floor. Shocked, I launched myself backwards, away from concession stand and whatever it was that I'd seen in there.

That's when the giant floodlights of Edgewood Park came on. They blinded me for a moment and, during that time, I was surrounded by cruel, whispering taunts. Wild laughter arose from all four corners and the edges of the park, but some of the voices seemed only a few feet away from where I stood frozen. Abject fear made time difficult to gauge. I couldn't have been blinded more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Gradually, my vision returned to normal and the voices subsided. I was left standing alone in the now brightly-lit park. But beyond the florescent cocoon, I could see that a pitch black night had fallen over Edgewood Park.

I began to walk back to my car. The sickly feeling left me soon enough and I began to feel foolish. Under the floodlights, Edgewood was just a park like any other at night, albeit a little creepy - especially since I was walking alone. But the fear had been purely psychological, a suggestion by overbearing parents on their kids that had spread to me. However, I still checked several times along the way to make sure that I still had my wallet with me. Foolish or not, I was ready to go home. Before long, I was back at my car and navigating the streets of Hillyard home.

After I got back to my house, bigger and nicer than I ever could have afforded back in San Francisco, I immediately switched into my bedtime clothes and headed straight to bed. I probably could have used a shower to wipe away some of the fear sweat I'd been drenched in earlier, but I was exhausted. I lied down in bed and immediately fell asleep.

When I awoke, I was back in Edgewood Park. It was still night and I was standing where I had been frozen before, right in front of the concession stand. The voices shouted even louder. I tried to let out a weak cry as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights. The whispering taunts and wild laughter subsided again. I was colder than I'd been earlier, though I was dressed as I had been, not in my pajamas. The floodlights were all on, but they weren't nearly as bright as they had been when I had left.

I was scared, more scared than I've ever been. I stood there waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. No other choice, I returned to my car again. Only this time I ran.

I made it home, but didn't go back to sleep. Couldn't if I tried. It didn't matter though. I was pulled through the chasm again all the same.

That was some time ago. It's not yet morning now, but I'm not sure that I'll ever see morning again. I've been returned to Edgewood Park four more times: once more by the concession stand, twice near the pool, and I'm not sure where I was exactly the last time. It was like a strange, new field and it took me longer to find my way back to my car. The floodlights get dimmer with each...I don't know what to call them. Rotations? And with that growing darkness, the shadows consume more of the park each time I return. I've seen several more of those things crawling under the cover of the dark. I've determined that they aren't like any animal I've ever seen. Not from the natural world.

This night will eventually find an ending. Soon, the lights will darken completely. They're almost to that point now. Maybe at that point I'll finally be allowed to leave for good. Or maybe - and I pray this won't be the case - but maybe that will be when I'm not allowed to leave at all anymore, the moment when I will forever join the secret, nighttime voices of Edgewood Park.

Fresh Cut Grass

Jonica snapped awake, thrown from a deep sleep by yet another nightmare. It was still about an hour before dawn and it took her almost a minute to realize that she was in her chilly Manhattan studio apartment. She'd only been living there for a couple of months and wasn't used to the strange, new surroundings yet, especially at four thirty in the morning.

Partially because of the cold air outside her cocoon of blankets and partially from the nightmare, Jonica felt wide awake. However, rather than rising from her futon bed to begin her day, she rolled over toward her apartment's lone window. Through it, she could barely see the night sky above the building across the street. Listening to the dull hum of her building-controlled radiator, Jonica found a star and made a wish that things would get better, that the nightmares would stop.

Louisville was far behind her now, but much of Jonica still considered it home. Her marriage to Wallace had fallen apart so quickly that she didn't really have time to say goodbye, but she felt that she needed a fast change to keep from falling into a deep depression. She wasn't sure that depression hadn't found her anyway, as she'd yet to find a job or meet any new people that didn't scare her. But she was determined to move forward, however slowly.

Still, there was so much that she missed about her former home, like her older brother and sister. They'd lost their parents a year apart over a decade ago, but they all stayed close in touch. At least they had before Jonica decided Kentucky wasn't for her anymore. She also had many friend still there, most of which she'd known her whole life. It was a good life for a long time, but Wallace had taken that away and changed the way Jonica saw the world.

New York is your world now, she thought. She made a second wish, one for fun, new friends.

There was a sound outside her apartment door, something in the hallway. It thumped and rustled like a plastic bag full of clothes being tossed up the stairs or, impossibly, falling from a considerable height. Jonica lived on the top floor of her building and the only other person on the floor was an older woman, a shut-in type, that lived across the hall. Jonica thought she wasn't likely to be taking out the trash at this time of the morning. She supposed that the noise could have been a weird echo from garbage collectors on an early run, but there weren't any of the domineering garbage truck noises down below. In fact, it was strangely quiet outside.

Another bag fell in the hallway. She noticed that the peephole in her door was dark and that the hallway lights, usually always switched on in the common areas, were out. Then the aroma struck her, the smell of fresh cut grass. It was unmistakable, the bitingly sweet fragrance of newly-mowed summer lawns. Jonica pulled her blankets up to her chin.

Since moving to the city, Jonica would go to Central Park whenever she felt more homesick than usual. Pushing through layer after layer of busy New Yorkers was much of the life outside her apartment, but the park offered an oasis of nature and city dwellers at their most relaxed. It was one place that seemed to have the smells that she remembered from home. However, she had arrived in New York during October and it was now winter, a harsh one at that. The smell of grass filling her apartment would be difficult to find in the city at any time of year, but especially during the likely beginnings of a snowstorm.

Jonica tore herself from the cocoon of blankets and eased her feet onto the cold hardwood floor. She stood up and wrapped the topmost comforter around her body as she crossed to the apartment door. More thumps of more bags hit out in the hallway. She unlocked the door and made a third wish, one that she hoped would negate the first one. She wished that the noise and the stink were all a part of a new nightmare, that she'd wake up in sunlight, even if it was under a Kentucky sun.

But then the door rattled as more bags fell against it from the hallway. The smell of grass was so strong, a rancid stench of rotting chlorophyll and foul dirt. Jonica took a deep breath and threw open the door.

Her tiny apartment was almost immediately filled with a wave of dark, thick-lined garbage bags. They were stacked beyond the height of her door and had filled the entire hallway, quickly spilling over and past Jonica as she involuntarily screamed out. And as the heavy duty bags hit the floor and walls of the apartment, the bags tore open, exploding with heaps of fresh cut grass. The odor was overwhelming, sick and putrid. The green leaf volatiles stung Jonica's exposed skin as she tripped and fell into the mounting pile.

Wallace always mowed the yard back at their home in Louisville. He wasn't a very athletic type, but he hated the idea of paying somebody to do a job he could do himself. Jonica used to joke that one day their kids would take over the lawn care duties, but that was more or less just to needle him, Mr. Careful who never wanted children. One time, Wallace had responded by throwing a clump of the fresh cut grass into Jonica's face. She didn't blame him for the playful act, but some chemical that he'd added to make the grass grow thicker caused her skin to break out into a nasty rash that never entirely left her.

Now, Jonica struggled to pull herself up through the dark mounds of clippings that surrounded and covered her. The smothering grass filled her mouth, causing her to spit and cough. Jonica's skin burned as she clawed her way to her feet, wiping the leafy blades from her eyes.

It was still dark in her apartment, but reflected light bounced across the sticky grass that reached halfway up the walls. When Jonica reached the top, she found Wallace's body resting against a dense pile of grass. He was lying next to his whore, the girl that he had impregnated. They were positioned the same way that Jonica had left them in Kentucky, the girl with her hand raised to her slit throat and Wallace clutching the stab wound at his chest. They had tried to calmly explain their situation to Jonica back in Kentucky, but she hadn't listened for very long.

Seeing them again now these two chaotic months later, Jonica had to laugh, even as it caused her to inhale more clumps of decaying grass. Whatever demon had sent Wallace and his lover to her had been with Jonica for a long time and she finally felt ready to meet the damned beast. The jolt from her nightmare had subsided and she suddenly felt very sleepy. She nestled into the grass between Wallace and the girl, drifting asleep with greater ease than she had since leaving Louisville.

Bad Memory

I'm relying on my memory less and less these days, but I think this all started about three years ago. I had gone to some guy's 25th birthday party at the James Chicago Hotel with my friend Fiona and her boyfriend Johnny. It was in the penthouse and I'd never been to a party like that before, everybody was trashed. The way that I remember it, I had a Developmental Psych final the next morning, so I wasn't drinking. Maybe that's wrong. I guess when I think about it, I can't imagine being there and not having at least one drink.

A guy named Lewis, whom I'd gone on a couple of dates with when I first moved to Chicago, saw me and we started talking, just catching up a bit. The penthouse had roof access, so we went up there to escape some of the noise from the suite revelers. The only thing that I remember from that is us talking for maybe ten minutes. Lewis had just gotten some admin job at one of the colleges and was gushing about the benefits. Oh, and he had grabbed a bottle of champagne from the party, so yeah, I might have had part of a drink with him then. But it wasn't long at all before I said goodbye and went back to the penthouse to find Johnny or Fiona so that we could leave.

I didn't see Lewis again until recently, just a couple of months ago at Tippling Hall. I was there with some girlfriends from work. Lewis approached me and pulled me aside. I was beginning to get annoyed that I was going to have to catch up with this guy every two or three years for the rest of my life, but then he asked me if I remembered seeing something on the roof at the penthouse party, some sort of UFO.

I thought he was joking, but then he seemed to think that I was joking about not seeing it. When he realized I wasn't, his tone shifted to very serious and he demanded that I tell him what I remembered from the roof. I told him, that we'd had a drink and chatted for a few minutes, and then he seemed to get unreasonably agitated. I still thought he was just being an ass, so I shrugged and went back to my friends. I didn't see Lewis again that night.

A week after that, Fiona (Johnny was out of the picture by this point) told me that Lewis had been trying to contact her, asking her why I was lying about not having seen the UFO. I found Lewis on Facebook and IM'd him to leave my friends alone. He IM'd me back almost immediately to ask me why I was lying about what happened on the roof. He begged for me to meet up with him again to discuss it further in person, but I told him that wasn't going to happen. I wasn't worried about Brandon, my boyfriend for over a year by then, finding out - and it was obvious that Lewis was getting weird and obsessive - but I used Brandon as an excuse anyway. I wish I hadn't.

I became a bit paranoid after that and thought that I saw Lewis everywhere. Commuting to work or out to dinner with Brandon, there Lewis would be - watching and waiting for me to tell him what he wanted to hear. I also started dreaming about the UFO. In these nightmares, I'd be walking alone at night and a enormous spacecraft would suddenly appear over me, blocking out the night sky. The realization of its impossible size would knock the wind out of me. Then Lewis would appear beside me, grabbing my hand and mouthing words I couldn't hear. The only noise that got through to me were the slippery, hypnotic voices coming from inside the alien ship, calling my name in both my language and theirs. Alena...

I began to get in trouble at work. I had dropped out of UIC's nursing program and switched to a business degree, which led to a decent job. However after the dreams started, I began making mistakes at my company, memory-related mistakes. Before long, these little coworker jokes about my needing a vacation turned into tense, structured conversations about my performance. My supervisor asked if I would consider counseling, but I knew it had to be a more serious medical problem, some mental dysfunction I wasn't ready to face.

The following Friday, Brandon sent me a text asking me to meet him that night at a hotel restaurant downtown. I wasn't much in the mood at first, but I found myself getting more and more excited that maybe he wanted to propose. Or at least ask me to move in together. I didn't need a ring, but I was sure that Brandon was the man I wanted to be with. A ring would be something though.

I arrived at the restaurant and scanned the dining room for Brandon. However, it was Lewis's voice that grabbed my attention, suddenly standing beside me as he had in so many dreams. Unlike the dream, I could hear him quite clearly. He said that Brandon was fine, but that I needed to come to the roof with him. My memory really had faded because it took me until that moment to realized what hotel I was standing in. Welcome back to the James Chicago, Alena.

On the elevator ride up, I asked Lewis what he'd done with Brandon. He looked confused for a second and then, embarrassed, admitted that he'd used a phone hack to send the text message. Brandon didn't even know it had happened. I could have killed him then, I was certainly ready to go back home that minute. But the look on his face when I had accused him of abducting Brandon told me he was probably harmless. Beside, I thought maybe this could be the solution to my nightmare problems, as well as the restlessness that I was starting to feel creep into my waking hours. From the top floor, a stairway took us to the roof.

Once we were up there, nothing looked familiar to me. I thought there were several structural tiers and a view of Lake Michigan, but really the hotel's roof was flat with a couple of entrances and a view of several other tall buildings. It didn't scare me completely, after all it had been ten minutes three years ago, but it was disorienting.

Then Lewis began to set the scene and almost immediately began getting a bunch of details wrong. For one, he thought that it was Johnny's birthday party, that Fiona had rented the penthouse and we had all drank until very late. I told him about my UIC final, but he said that I had dropped out of nursing school much earlier than that. I told him the details weren't important, but he stressed that they were.

He then described the arrival of the UFO. Its structure and size seemed to match my nightmares. Apparently, it had hovered above us on that night, aiming a soft, hazy light upon us as we stood mesmerized for several minutes. I had then wordlessly left Lewis there alone to return to the party.

He pleaded for me to remember. There were tears in his eyes. This whole time, I had really thought Lewis was just unhappy in his life, that maybe his job at the college hadn't worked out and this alien thing was an escape from some other void. But after seeing the look in his eyes up on the rooftop, I was afraid for him. He really believed it happened and desperately needed someone to confirm his story, even if it was with a lie. So, that's what I did. I told him that I did remember the UFO, that I'd been to afraid to admit it, but he was right. A moment passed, then he quietly thanked me and I left him there alone.

I called Fiona the next morning to tell her about the whole thing, but she stopped me soon after I got to the part on the roof. She told me that she had, in fact, rented the penthouse three years ago for Johnny's birthday. She told me that I wasn't in nursing school at the time and that I'd been drinking pretty heavily that night, especially after I had returned from the roof with a mesmerized look in my eyes. She had thought that I had kissed Lewis up there, but all I would tell her was that I wanted to forget something. That's when I got scared.

I can't say that things are much better now that Lewis has left my life again, though I'm glad he's gone. I did end up losing my job, but Brandon insisted that he'd help out until I find something else. I hope that it's soon, because I know it's a strain on our relationship. I try not to look up at the night sky anymore, although if feels like I've been subconsciously avoiding it for years now. Also, I'm trying to pay closer attention to details and write more things down, out of fear of my bad memory.