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Nathaniel didn’t believe in ghosts. How could he? While his parents had passed years before, his religion made it clear that once someone died, they died. End of story. But who can I hear crying outside my room every night?   Every time he got out of the warm bed to check in the middle of the night, much to his wife’s annoyance, he would find the hallway cold and empty, not a soul in sight. Nathaniel had told himself it was just the neighbor’s cat across the street, begging for food. How the dratted thing got its yowls to be so loud, he did not know. He was an engineer, not a scientist. And still, someone cried. Quietly, at first, with little sniffles here and there. But they grew steadily louder with the passing days. Tonight, someone was sobbing right outside his door. Tearing their throat raw with anguished shouts. Throwing off the covers and ignoring his pounding headache, Nathaniel leapt to his feet and threw the door open. The bathroom light was the only thing that broke the darkness of the hall, but his wife had switched it off before going to bed. He was sure of it. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that she was still fast asleep, chest rising and falling steadily. If there was a break-in happening, he should obviously wake her up. So why did he hesitate? He would just investigate, Nathaniel decided. Perhaps his wife simply forgot to switch the light off after brushing her teeth. A harmless mistake. Still, his sense of dread grew as he crept down the hall, his heart rate quickening alongside it. His bare feet made no noise as they pressed into the soft carpet he had carefully unrolled there when they had first moved into the house itself, and he shivered as the chill of the air conditioner on the floor nipped at his toes. When he peered into the threshold of the bathroom, he was glad that he fell asleep with his pants on. There was a woman sitting in the dry bathtub, although with the amount of tears that were falling from her eyes, it was soon to fill. Nathaniel took a step back, alarm surging through him. “Who—” “Nate,” the woman crowed, raising her tangled blonde head from her knees and meeting his gaze. “You’re in trouble.” “Mother?” Nathaniel gawked, leaning heavily on the door frame. He hadn’t seen that face, makeup smudged with sadness, since his mother had come home crying from work all those years ago. After locking herself in the bathroom and refusing to come out all night, Nathaniel was awakened with the numb shock that comes with a still and quiet house. Too quiet. Because he had found her in the bathtub the next morning. Drowned. Looking at her now, he felt sick. He had to have been dreaming; there was no other explanation. I don’t believe in ghosts, he told himself as the woman who resembled his mother stood, still staring him down with those same green eyes that greeted him in the mirror every morning. I don’t believe in ghosts. She was dressed in the same waitress uniform she had worn that fateful night. Her skin was gray and translucent, her lips the tinge of blue that had kissed death. Her eyes seemed to be the only living part of her. Nathaniel felt himself freeze, unable to step back to run away or forwards to see whether or not she was truly real. His mouth had gone dry, throat closing up and preventing any attempt at speech. “I was drawn here,” his mother said, tracing a painted nail across the ceramic tiles of the shower. “You know why, don’t you?” Nathaniel closed his jaw, which had fallen open in shock. “No,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No.  You’re supposed to be dead. You died, years ago. Before I even graduated high school.” His mother gave him a sad smile, tilting her head to the side and regarding him like a curious dog would. “Exactly, Nathaniel. I’m dead. And you’re not supposed to be.” Nathaniel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the AC this time. If she was dead, if she was truly a ghost, then there was only one reasonable explanation for why he could see her. “Oh.” His mother nodded, regarding him with pity. “You’re dead, Nathaniel.”

Late August, 1941. Somewhere in France.  If you find this notebook, I’m already dead. If you can, please give this attached letter to the Roth family in New Jersey. If you find a zombie clutching the notebook, that’s me. Well, was me. Do a guy a favor and kill the thing, would’ya?  “ To Uncle Herman, Aunt Bess, Sandy, and Phil,  “While moving west, my battalion discovered the zombies in a muddy field around 1200 hours. A commanding officer, the loud one, told us to freeze. One zombie turned around… It had pale green, peeling skin; rotting, yellow teeth, torn clothes, a groan from the depths of hell– why am I telling you this? You already know. You’ve seen them before.  “Anyway, it must have signaled to its fellow freaks, because they all turned and stared at us with wicked eyes. One of them screeched—a God awful, scratchy sound– and they all ambled towards us like an evil witch; their arms stretched in front of them, as if blindly searching for a light in the dark. A parade of death.  “We fought like hell, blasting ‘em with everything we had. I was shooting, stabbing, punching, kicking. I wasn’t going down without a fight. But it wasn’t enough; one of them got the jump on me and bit my arm. It hurt like hell, not gonna lie. But I just shot the son-of-a-bitch before running off; I couldn’t bite my fellow soldiers.  “Currently, I’m strapped down on an army cot waiting for the end. When I turn, someone will end the zombie before I can bite anyone.  “I don’t regret fighting. But I do regret not coming home.  “Uncle Herman, I’m sorry for being an ass. You don’t deserve that. “Aunt Bess, I’m sorry for causing you stress and worry. I hope you can rest with closure. “Sandy, keep on drawing, kid. You can provide hope in these dark times.  “Phil… at the risk of sounding mushy, I’ll miss you kid. Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands.  “I was never good with ‘goodbyes’ so… love you.  “Alvin.” Ok, you who found this notebook. You must have noticed the inconsistencies and lack of details in my story. Here's what actually happened: the commanding officer yelled at us to retreat, causing pandemonium; the men in the back couldn’t hear or see the zombies and nearly got trampled into the ice cold mud as the front lines pushed them down. I did the same. And look where that got me…dying alone…  I found shelter in an abandoned husk of a building, crouching down by an old fireplace in what was once a living room. I didn’t breathe as I heard the shambling and groaning passing by. I thought for sure this was it, saying my prayers…  Nothing happened. I almost collapsed with relief, slowly standing up. My ears were ringing like mad, I tell you. That’s probably why I didn’t hear the thing sneaking up behind me. All of a sudden, my left arm exploded in pain, like lava bubbling beneath my skin. I must have screamed, but I can’t recall. All I remember is grabbing my gun and bashing the thing’s head in.  My body must be nearly transformed by now, but I refuse to look; I’m writing this with a random candle I found. My arm just aches now, but it looks and feels like green, rotten, cottage cheese with bits of expired ketchup on top. Don’t know why that comparison came to mind, but I can’t think of anything else… my mind is already fuzzy on the edges. You know, it’s strange, but I almost feel at peace. As I slouch against the wall I have no expectations placed on me, nothing to do except, well, die. …look at me getting philosophical. Must be a side effect of death.  Point is: don’t be like me. Be smart, quick, and aware of your surroundings. Go home to your folks when this is over. Please.

Anna Kvasnik is a sophomore Psychology major with an English minor. With less time on her hands every semester, she finds herself taking the small opportunities for fun assignments with as much eagerness as her sleep-deprived body can express. This piece was written as a Halloween Fanfiction assignment for one of her classes, but she found herself amusing herself by twisting the relationship in a new direction. In the middle of a corn field, no less. In the end, it wasn’t the cold that got to him, but instead, ‘twas the feeling that there was no one to see him, no one to hear him, and no one to know where he had gone.  ~~~ The leaves crinkled beneath his feet as he walked, an array of fiery wrath underfoot, silent but for the crackling sounds of their death. But it was not this that turned him off his path.  The walls around him were all but see-through, the gray in-between of seeing but not seeing halting his speed at getting through to the end. But he was not a stranger to obstacles in his path, and as he always would, the path continued and so did he.  The sunshine dwindled and soon enough, there was but the cast shadows of approaching twilight—the sky turning the colors of a bruise. But this was not what caused him to halt. But in the fading light, it was him, walled-in with cornstalks aplenty, waving with the cooling wind. It was him who stood stock-still when he heard a loud rustle, a shout, and a scream. And it was him, when the silence fell, who threw himself into the cornstalks, a kind of fear washing over him like never before.  He’d done all the things a man could do at that point. He had fought in wars, he had climbed his way up the corporate ladder and fought tooth-and-nail to get there, but in that moment, it did not matter what he had done and what he could do. All that was left was the nagging voice inside of him.  This is where it ends. And this is where your legacy will die. Forever. A nobody, alone, frozen in the corn, trapped until you have no more to scream.  ~~~ It wasn’t her that thought up the idea—not initially. It was a joke by friends, a trick to get her to overcome her own fears. Who can truly be afraid when you’re the one to be feared?  So, she held that play knife, folded up in her hand, blade pressed into the hilt. And when she pulled the play mask further down her face, the plastic scraping her wind-burnt cheeks, she realized: Perhaps it is not the voices in my head to be feared, but instead the ones that make it out loud.  And turning the corner in a corn field, she smiled at the dark figure she saw, her heart beating erratic in her chest but an odd-calm washing over her, and her voice—normally soft and high-toned, came out with a puff of warm air and a breathlessness that sent her words into a lower tone. “Hello, would you like to play a game?”  The screams could never scare her now. ~~~ He was running, cornstalks scraping his face as he tore through them, bending and crushing with his broad build. Let me go, let me live , the words in his head were hurried and tremulous. I’ve worked too hard to go like this. “Hello?” He heard a voice, but from what direction, he did not know. “Are we playing tag?” Rustling behind him sent him lurching forward, the cornstalks suddenly parting in front of him and depositing him onto the ground on a different maze-path. From cold or adrenaline, he did not feel the ache in his knees as he pulled himself up and went to keep going, but in front of him was only the field at the end of the maze: the final rays of a sunset cresting over the distant horizon.  “Oh, look, I made it.” But it was not his voice who said that, and he turned around, only to see the woman he so despised behind him, pulling off a mask and wiping her sweater sleeve across her face. As crushed bits of cornstalk pricked her face, she used her other hand to meticulously pick them off the sweater.  “You?” His voice was shaky in its demand.  She looked up, her surprise hard to distinguish in the fading light. “You?” she returned, significantly steadier in tone.  And as they stood there, in the dark, his chest heaving and hers barely moving as she observed the space around them, they heard a distant generator begin to whir and a floodlight turn on a distance away.  They could never be friends now.

JP is a sophomore Theatre and Math double major, with a minor in pastoral leadership. He likes to write and doodle when he has the time to, which is either rarely or when he is supposed to be taking notes. March 12 – 7 Days we’ve been adrift The engine is beyond repair I finally found where McNulty kept the pens. Poor bastard got thrown overboard in the storm, split his head open on the stern. Some of the blood’s still there and neither me Frank or Zeke want to be the one to clean it off Zeke says it’s a bad omen Frank says he can’t stand blood I don’t want to think that roger’s dead We should have enough food for a week, maybe two if we ration it -Steve Morris March 15 – Day 10 Zeke has taken to fishing. Says it keeps him calm. Frank hasn’t left the bow, says he won’t go near the blood. We’re going on thinner rations every day, supplemented by Zeke’s fish. I don’t think we can take much more boredom -S. M. March 16 – Day 11 Frank started yelling last night. The blood’s gotten to him and the dehydration isn’t helping his case. The food should stretch long enough to rescue -S. M. March 17 - Day 12 Frank’s voice went hoarse today, so he’s finally quiet Zeke cleaned up the last of Roger, which got Frank to stop trying to scream. Now he just hangs off the front like some limp rag At least he’s quiet -SM March 21 – Day 16 Most of the food disappeared last night. Frank did it, I’m sure of it. Today was the first day in so long that he’s had the energy to scream I thought I’d cured that when I took McNulty’s bloody brains off the back of the boat. When he saw the food was gone, Steve started screaming too. He gave it an hour before he curled up below deck Frank did it. -Ezekiel Evans March 22 – Day 17 Steve is still curled up below deck Frank is going blind Steve is whitehanded gripping a filet knife Frank did it -Ezekiel Evans March 23 – Day 18 Frank spent all day staring at the sun. Steve spent all day staring at frank I spent all day staring at the knife Frank did it I don’t even hear the waves anymore I saw a bird today I think that’s good. -Ezekiel Evans March 25 – Day 20 I did it. I got rid of our Problem He’s still laying there, staring at his damned God But he’s done screaming He’s finally quiet -Steve Morris March 25th - Day 20 Steve snapped last night. Killed Frank. The sound was terrible. They both screamed, crying out to God. Steve screamed to God of Frank’s damnation Frank cried out to the almighty for mercy. His only mercy is in the beyond. Frank did it. Steve did it. I am the only guiltless man aboard. I alone am holy. -Ezekiel Evans March 27 – Day 22 Steve and I have stared at ex-Frank for two days There aren’t even flies to eat what had been Frank, He just keeps looking worse and worse and I know that we’re both thinking of eating him but I cant bring myself to do it and I know that there’s madness in the meat -Ezekiel March 28 I have stared at Frank for too long, his dead white eyes He sees my sin Zeke sees my sin I have seen too much I must stare at the sun I must see no more FRANK WAS RIGHT March 30 Today I woke up full. I woke up full and franks leg is down to the bone I do not know if Steve is alive. He is silent. He stares at the sky. I have sinned. I have fallen I am damned March 32 I finished that which had been Frank I have eaten flesh of man, and I am holier for it For I above man I am greater I am worthy I am God Tomorrow I will rid myself of Steve, greatest of all sinners March 35 My God, what have I done Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani I am king of bones. Emperor of dirt. God of an empty rusting boat and commander of the corpses that she digests. I am alone I must repent and atone for taking of Steve and Frank I must see no more I must blind myself in atonement I must watch the sun The sun will cure me Frank Was Right DEAR GOD FRANK WAS RIGHT

Anabel is a third year English Education major at Marian. A fan of all thing's mystery, the inspiration for this piece came from a class assignment to write a short story based off Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. Drawing from Scooby Doo, paranormal investigation shows, and the often macabre nature of nursey rhymes, this piece was born. Before the tires screech to a complete stop on the gravel driveway, Theodora swings the side door of the eccentrically painted van open.  “Hello my lovely guys, gals, and ghouls! Thank you so much for tuning in,” she delivers her signature line directly into the camera she’s holding up to her face, her voice soft and laced with a heightened degree of mystique. “Today the gang and I will be investigating the Crane family manor, said to be haunted by patriarch Hugh Crane’s late wife, Helen Crane, who died whilst giving birth to their daughter.” Still crouched in the van, Theo turns the camera to face the mansion looming before them, boarded up and abandoned. From the northwestern corner of the house, a single stone spire juts out, encircled by elegant —if not a touch garish—stained glass windows that demand the eye’s attention; Theo finds her target, pointing the lens toward the tower. “The locals say that in the dead of night, you can hear Helen singing lullabies to her babe from beyond the grave, her figure standing at the nursery window, longing for her little girl.”  Abruptly, Theo flicks the camera lens shut, dropping her arm to her side. “Ugh, I’m so pale I look like a damn ghost myself on camera. Luke, be a dear and grab the tripod for me. And the spirit box. I want to set up base in the nursery.” When the camera drops, so does all of Theodora’s soft allure. In all actuality, being in her presence is not unlike the sensation of dragging naked skin across the freeway at speeds only the reckless Luke Sanderson would dare to drive— more to the point, abrasive.  As Eleanor watches Luke scramble to grab the supplies from the back of his van, she supposes it all comes down to beauty. Because Theo is a great many things, and beautiful is one. All effortless dark curls and clad in bright colors, the captivating Theodora was the natural choice for front woman of their little ragtag, ghost hunting team, for Theo is someone you cannot help but want to follow. A phenomenon more paranormal than anything they had ever investigated.  “Theo, wait up!” Luke calls, carrying two boxes of equipment up the rickety front porch and into the house after Theodora.  Eleanor unfastens her seat belt and clambers out of the back of the van, ready to trail behind when an untraceable chill radiates up her spine, leaving her feet frozen to the unpaved walkway. Not a breeze, the chill had been internal, like the contraction of the heart or the expanding of the lungs. Internal, but in response to what ?  “Eleanor?” Doc comes into her peripheral vision with his too long gray hair and brown leather messenger bag slung over his button-down shirt. “Are you alright?”  “Fine, I’m fine.”  “Well, okay then. After you,” and he extends his arm, gesturing toward the open front door where wooden boards now hung uselessly, pried loose by Theo and Luke.  And that is how Eleanor enters the home of Helen Crane, following behind her friends.  The splendid craftsmanship of intricately carved banisters and high ceiling does not take her breath away; on the contrary, it is like the first gasping inhalation of a newborn baby.  “Doc, do you have any spare batteries?” Theo’s voice carries from upstairs. “Luke forgot to charge the ring light, and we can’t film in the dark!”  “Well, I’m sorry, Princess. But I don’t understand why I have to be responsible for all the-” “You’re literally the tech guy, that’s your job!”  Luke and Theo’s squabbling gets drowned out by the sound of Doc’s booming footsteps ascending the creaking staircase. And now, Eleanor’s alone in the dark foyer. Nowhere to go but to follow them up.  “Nellies,” an unfamiliar female voice cries, aloft in the stagnant air of the house.  “Who’s there?” No one has called her Nellies since— “Mother?”  “Baby girl. My baby girl.”  “Where are you?” Eleanor stumbles out of the foyer, away from the main staircase, deeper into the house. “Helen, is that you?”  “I want my baby girl,” the voice weeps, tangible melancholia as present in the air as oxygen. Softly, it begins to sing. A lullaby. “Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop.”  Eleanor’s in the back of the house now in what appears to have once been the master bedroom, a dusty linen sheet entombing a wrought iron bed. “Theo, Luke! Doc, anybody, please!”  They can’t hear her, too busy setting up to film yet another stupid episode of a stupid show Eleanor never wanted to be a part of. They never encounter anything real; really, it’s all dark empty hallways and Theodora’s theatrics, Doc’s rehearsed intelligence, Luke shaky camera work. But it’s all fake.  “When the wind blows the cradle will rock.”  Eleanor feels dizzy, feet struggling to stay upright. Leaning unsteadily against the bedpost, she calls, “Theo! Are you there!” “When the bough breaks the cradle will fall.”  Louder, the voice is louder. “Mom!” Eleanor is crying now, sobs tearing through her newly filled lungs.  “And down will come baby.”  In a horrible, perpetual second, the floorboards splinter. A crack giving way to a chasm. Eleanor watches it happen, the ground beneath her feet give way in a lost battle against the elements. She watches it happen as she falls, 20, 25 feet. Into the crawlspace, the cement foundation of the house. She watches it until her eyes can see no more, until her lungs can breathe no more.  “Cradle and all.”

Gabby Aitken is a freshman psychology major who is aspiring to be a forensic psychologist. Her work often reflects themes of mental health and/or spiritual corruption as she seeks to provide social commentary with her pieces.

Gabby Aitken is a freshman psychology major who is aspiring to be a forensic psychologist. Her work often reflects themes of mental health and/or spiritual corruption as she seeks to provide social commentary with her pieces. Oh wretched Cannibal How could you? Begin with picking, tearing softly at the flesh Of those fingertips That once pushed open doorways to other worlds The nails scratched their way down your throat Scarred the tissue lining the walls And your teeth marred the serene landscapes of those parallel lives With red As you consumed the rotting corpse beside you She lay as your shadow Still, hollow, haunting Void of life, voids in her skull where her eyes once had been Before Hunger had consumed you The Cannibal of Cannibals There was nothing of you left When they found you Oh wretched Cannibal How could you?

It was half past three when the door to Jim Burden’s office slowly creaked open. He looked up from his mounds of legal documents and ledgers, candle wax slowly dripping onto his mahogany desk. The old building sits along the busiest street in New York City, but at this hour, only the weary and wretched stalk the sidewalks and halls. Jim had been in the office since the early hours of the morning, working away at a case. He had not seen the sun for days, let alone grass or the endless fields of his childhood. The air in his office was stifling, but opening a window would only bring in the smog and odor of the bustling city.  The hinges of the old door squeaked as he blinked his blurry eyes to make sense of the occurrence.  Surely, there is no one else in this building at this hour,  Jim thought.  As he rose to search the dark hallway, the floorboards began to creak rhythmically, in a slow, dragging,  march.  “H-hello?” he called, but no one replied. A chill caressed the hair on his neck and his breath began to fog before him. Around his ears, the sound of a howling wind took up in harmony with the ghastly footsteps. It reminded him of the miserable footsteps of the farm hands in Nebraska as they trudged their way through the snow.  He was frozen, unable to make sense of what was happening in his dreary office as he stared in horror at the open door. The footsteps marched their way from the doorway, growing louder, heavier as they approached the desk… Stomp Stomp Stomp …before they finally ceased at the window behind him. The chill had turned into a bitter cold as he sat still in his chair, afraid to see who- what was there.  Just then, a hand–grotesquely pale–appeared from over Jim’s shoulder and snuffed out the dwindling candle.  Oh god- he thought. Or maybe he whispered it? He couldn’t be sure in that moment as he watched the hand creep back over his shoulder.  He must  turn around, he must see what was breathing so haggardly behind him. He could see it out of the corner of his eye, he just needed to look.  Slowly he turned his body toward the thing in his office, keeping his head turned out of fear. He saw bare feet, as pale as the hand that stole his light. As he began to move his gaze upward he noted dark, frost-covered pants with a white shirt tucked into the waist. The collar of the shirt was turned down, away from the neck, and above it was Mr. Shimerda’s ghostly face staring, head tilted, at Jim.  “No!” Jim shouted as he leaned back as far as could from the unpleasantly close presence of the very dead Mr. Shimerda. He couldn’t move though–his limbs were frozen to the seat beneath him.  The ghost stared unblinking at Jim, face blank. Jim tried to shut his eyes against the image but found even that was impossible in his condition.  He noted then, that Mr. Shimerda wasn’t just staring. No, he was pointing–arm extended all the way from his shoulder to the blackened tips of his grey fingers.   “The window?” Jim asked, voice shaking. Mr. Shimerda simply stared while pointing to the window.  “I- I don't understand!” Jim cried.  Suddenly the ghost bent mechanically at the waist, haunting even closer to Jim’s face until there were only mere centimeters between them and he whispered one word: “Antonia”  The unnatural wind picked up and howled around Jim’s office again. The screaming blasts sounded like a freight train as papers blew and scattered around him. Mr. Shimerda leaned back upright again, almost like a puppet as Jim howled in fear. Antonia’s name swirled around the room, as much a whisper in his ear as it was a screech coming from no ascertainable direction. Mr. Shimerda just stared at him, unmoving against the maelstrom. Finally , Jim was able to move his arms from the chair. He worked little by little until he arose to push against the vortex to escape his office. Without looking back, he burst out the door and raced out onto the street, met by the humid morning air. He didn’t pause to take a breath as he sprinted toward the train station. He grabbed the first ticket for Nebraska and headed out West for the first time in 20 years–her name chasing him all the way.

Hi there! My name is Bethany Worrell, and I am an Accounting and Theatre double-Major at Marian University, and a San Damiano Scholar. Pretty much any and all free time I find, I spend writing! I wrote Smoke as an amalgamation of several relationships within the past year. My hope is that it will help readers process and heal from relationships that did not turn out how they hoped---it certainly helped me. The best writings spark conversation, so hit me up if you want to talk!  We were walking through the woods when I first sensed its presence. Quiet but persistent.  Smoke. With my hand resting in yours, I wasn’t bothered. When you were by my side I felt untouchable. So I paid it no attention.  And yet, we don’t always sense when the wind touches us.  But we smelled it the next day, lingering on our clothes and catching us off guard. The panic rose whenever we smelled it. But why? Smoke is harmless on its own.  We feared the source. The fire. That monstrous beast whose hunger for destruction is rarely satiated.  I did not want there to be a fire. I wanted us, beautiful, unified us. And so I did not look for the flames, and chose to ignore the distant sirens. Like a listless creature, it marched behind us, gaining closer every day. You didn’t seem to see. I never asked you to. But when I felt its heat, dancing on my cheeks like an unwanted kiss, I knew it was too late. I began to run, pulling you with me. It never wavered.  Pushing through the underbrush, dragging you along. Our arms grew scarred as we sprinted. I could feel you slowing down. I could feel your grip loosening. Slowing enough to look back, I could see the fear in your eyes. But behind you was the fire. And so I ran. Stay with me, I begged. Keep your eyes on me.  Crushing your hand, I plowed on. We couldn’t stop. If we stopped—would it all end? What would remain?  Gritting my teeth, I pushed for the next wind of stamina. Surely there was level ground ahead.  Surely these dark woods weren’t forever. The shadows grew long and the wind picked up. Strange, that there was a chill, with so great a heat so near. We had traveled too far, overcome too much to come up short. But would this thicket ever end? My heart stopped when I no longer felt your hand.  Whipping around to survey my past, I saw you lying in it. Bruised, battered, and bleeding. Unstoppable and unrelenting, the fire came and took you with it.  All I could do was watch. I wanted it to take me too. That would have been too kind. Instead, it gifted me the wreckage. The burnt residues of the forest we once loved. The forest of our love. I walk it now, a slow waltz of remembrance. Somehow, the green is even brighter after the blaze. There are flowers I never even stopped to see. You would have loved them.  And still your voice, like a melody of the grave, plays through my mind. It is a haunting tune, one of regret, and wonder. Your greased fingerprints burned into my skin, so much that somedays I wonder if it is even my own.  I still smell you on my clothes.  My beloved smoke.

I stood there, turning a slow circle and looking at my surroundings––at the desolation around me. Smoke rose to the sky in plumes and the bright blue sky from earlier was smudged with haze; the buildings around me had been either leveled or left unlivable. Nothing was untouched and the desolation stretched as far as I could see. There’s no turning back. I looked down at the soot and dirt that caked my hands, then pressed my eyes closed, a single tear slipping free and slowly tracing its way down my cheek. “I’m sorry I had to go this far,” I whispered, opening my eyes and looking back. Nobody was left to talk to. The smoke that had finally begun to fade, to die, was the only company I had left. Perhaps it’s better off that way. I turned away, dragging my feet through rubble. Time and time again, I stumbled, nearly falling flat on my face. Every time, at the last moment, I caught myself, pressing on as if I had something left to fight for. Finally, I collapsed, my head bowing and meeting the hard ground. “I’m so sorry.” Quiet sobs shook my body. “I just wanted to survive. I didn’t mean to cause—” My throat closed and I tucked my head closer to the rest of my body, tears rolling down my face in streams. Faces flashed to mind, of Father, of Mother. Of little Sydney, smiling at me. It was like I could hear her voice. “You’re going to be a hero, Sams,” I choked out, matching my little sister’s words as I heard her little bell-like voice say them in my head. “You’re going to be the light that everyone needs to see.” I pushed myself up a bit, rubbing my arm across my face as I shoved upwards. “I wasn’t, Syd. I wasn’t. I destroyed them.” My voice shook, barely scraping its way out of my throat. “Do you hear me?” I whirled, stumbling on the rough ground again. “I did it!” I yelled. The words echoed in the cavernous divot that stretched between where houses once were. “I ruined what you wanted me to save!” The flames still burned, their smoke rising in the distance. They were alive in ways that I wasn’t sure that I was. Where they were thriving, hungrily devouring the food they’d been provided, I felt hollow. “I said I wasn’t going to stop until we were all safe.” My voice was as soft as a whisper.. “Now who’s the safe one?” Beneath me, my legs wobbled, threatening to deposit me on the ground, but I straightened, attempting to draw strength that I no longer had. “I failed you, Syd.” Her voice rose in my mind, and she giggled. “You’ll always be my hero.” “No, I won’t!” My voice rose, loud as it could go, then cracked. “Syd, I let you down.” I took a few steps, clutching to the crumbled remains of a house as I slumped. “Syd, I was the one who let you all stay there. I did what they told me to do. And I lost you all.” Syd was still laughing. “I told you so.” A memory flashed before my eyes, of her running across the living room, her bare feet padding across the cream carpet. “I told you!” A lump rose in my throat. “I never listened to you, Syd. You should’ve been the one who survived. You should’ve made it this far; you should’ve been the one standing here, not me. You’d know what to do.” My memories melted away, replaced with new ones,  dimmer ones. Syd’s arms wrapped around me, the pressure there but not. Her laughter was gone, replaced with sniffles. “You be the strong one, Sams. I can’t be strong. I just cry and I cry and I cry.” I leaned my head against the rock, the memory of my own voice grating at my ears as I lay there, still, listening to myself. “I’ll be the strong one, Syd, and you can be the bright little shining star that helps me light up the world.” Syd sniffled and snuggled closer to me. “You can do it. I believe in you.” Her voice rasped, tired and sad. My fist hit the rock of the building. “Go away!” My hoarse scream didn’t seem to make any difference after leaving my mouth. I don’t know what I expected, but I tried to glare at the smoke clouds in the sky through the glaze of tears in my eyes. I stared so hard, as if they could undo themselves, restore the town to what it had been before. The hustle and bustle of the place. “Come with me, Sams.” Syd reached out for my hand, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high. Just one strand of hair fell across her face, defying all attempts Syd made to blow it out of her face. “Come with me, and we’ll defeat the darkness.” Her face was serious, but when I looked closely enough, I could see her lips tremble. I could see how much older she’d gotten, the seriousness in her eyes that stood next to her ferocious attempt at retaining childish innocence. “I don’t want to know,” she always said. But we had to tell her anyway. My tears slipped free, spilling down my cheeks and mingling with the previous waves that had long since turned sticky. “I can’t, Syd. I can’t. It wasn’t right.” My hands fisted and I rested my head on them. “You changed.” The voices in my head stopped, nothing left but ashes and rubble, smoke and tears. I slid off the rock, crumpling to the ground. Silently, my body began to shake, tears streaming down my cheeks in rivulets. “I just wanted to live. Why did you have to make it so hard?” In the distance, I heard the sounds of the living. Voices. A search party. “Do you see anything moving?” I heard the call, a male voice rising above the deafening silence of destruction. Any response was lost, like the ashes that kept drifting away in the wind. I lifted my head only enough to look for them, still laying there and crying. I don’t want to be seen. I studied the horses, the figures on their backs and the bags that hung from the saddles. Not after what I’ve done. The voices continued talking, their figures diminishing, and the sound of hooves soon dissipating. “I deserve this,” I whispered, trying to remind myself of my place as fear flooded me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone. “I deserve every bit of this.” “Where are you going?” I heard the distant shout, the voice quiet enough that it could’ve been just another voice in my head. Then I heard the footsteps. A whine escaped my mouth and I curled in on myself more, a new wave of tears streaming down my cheeks. Don’t get your hopes up. You’re supposed to be alone. “Miss?” The voice was quiet, gentle. Close. “Are you okay?” A small cry escaped me, but no words accompanied. I heard rustling. “Miss, we have to get you out of here.” “No, you don’t.” My voice was low, raspy, and broken. I opened my eyes and turned, looking right into the gaze of a man about my age. His eyes held life while I was sure mine held close to none. “Leave me here.” “Why do you think you need to stay here?” he asked, his voice still soft. His eyes searched my face for an answer. “It’s my fault.” I trembled as I said it. “They weren’t all supposed to die, but they did. And I have to pay for it.” His face grew sad, knowing in a way that I could not begin to understand. “This was bound to happen. It’s not your fault.” “Yes, it is.” In my head, I saw Syd dancing around in my head, laughing. “I was the nice one, Sams. You got the evil person this time. I was good, you were evil!” My throat ached as I swallowed, as if that would suppress the memory. “Leave me be. Let me die in peace.” Conflict raged across his face, then his jaw tightened. “Forgive me, but no.” He slid his arm under me, pulling me upright. I let out a pitiful cry of protest and struggled against his firm hold. “Let me go! I deserve this! I do, I do, I do!” “You don’t,” he whispered, then lifted me up, my entire body leaving the ground. He slung me over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes and I slumped against his back, too tired to struggle. “Nobody deserves to die like this.” My eyes drifted shut and my body went slack, jostled as he walked along. I just wanted to fix this. I just needed to fix one thing that I did wrong. “What did you find?” I heard the distant call. “It’s a who!” he replied. I could feel his body vibrate as he spoke. “She’s alive!” More tears leaked out of my eyes, these ones streaking up, making their way to my forehead. I didn’t bother trying to wipe them away. “Why can’t you just let me go?” I choked out quietly. “Why did you have to help?” “Because nobody deserves to die alone, no matter what they’ve done.” His reply was quiet. “And someday, you’ll come to realize that no matter what you did, you’ve been forgiven. You don’t deserve death anymore.” I hung there limply, too tired to protest. I can only hope that you’re correct. I have no other reason to hang on. “Good job!” I heard the approval, the likes of which I found myself wishing I deserved. I felt myself sliding and stiffening, only to realize that the man was lowering me to the ground. He set me down gently, carefully, making sure I didn’t fall. My legs trembled, but I stood, my shoulders curved in and my head bowed low. “Miss,” the new voice prompted quietly, just as gentle as the first man’s. “Could you look up at me?” I blinked slowly, then slowly lifted my head up. I had no doubt that my face was covered in soot and dirt, crossed with tracks of tears. My eyes were almost certainly bright red, undeniably full of tears. “Beautiful.” He smiled down at me. “You are beautiful.” More tears filled my eyes and I clasped my hands together, trying to control their shaking. “I’m not. Do not save me. I do not deserve it.” His smile turned sympathetic. “My dear, we do not always deserve saving. That does not affect whether we do or not receive it.” A lump rose in my throat and he turned away, rummaging through the pack on his horse, only to turn right back around and hold out a canteen of water. As I imagined taking it, I came to the realization that I was thirsty, so thirsty, but I didn’t reach for it. “I do not deserve—” “Even if you deserve nothing, I will give you something. That is simply my way.” I kept studying the canteen, where it was held, then tentatively reached out, my hand shaking. My first hand was trembling too much to grip it, forcing me to hold both hands out. As he let go, though, as the weight of it landed in my hands, and as I drew it closer and carefully screwed off the top, thoughts echoed in my head, waging a war. I took a long drink, and as the cold, refreshing water filled my mouth and slid down my throat, it was as if my strength returned. But the voices in my head only seemed to grow louder. I screwed the top back on, shoving it back a bit too forcefully. My breath came in slow gasps and I stared at the ground, then whispered, “I deserve it.” The images of the smoke, of the soot, flashed before my eyes. I deserve it. The first man spoke. “Ma’am, if you’ve survived this far, I’d say there’s a lot of good you deserve, and the bad you’ve already received tenfold.” I raised my hand, meeting his clear eyes with my own. His image was distorted by tears, but I still managed a wobbly smile. “Thank you.” I closed my eyes. “I think I’d like to be saved, if you don’t mind.” “You are loved, Miss. And since you have asked, you will not be turned away.”

Girl bite your tongue, his feelings are important. His thoughts, his being. But- Ah ah, when you bite your tongue, and you will, silence spreads all over like scalding steam to steal your breath and sting your throat. Yes. Let him steal your breath, your speech, that way it will be easier to shut your mouth when he is talking. To listen and do what you are told. I have already learned this. Gasp and give up. They like pretty things that are accessories, showcasing their success and power. You are the pretty thing he gets. You must know this. It’s biblical for God’s sake! Things like us you, use wings to cover mouths, to look away in reverence of his existence. You are to be faithful and subservient wholly to him. Why can’t you get that? You are stained glass panes in church windows, sweet wine at service, and an offering yourself. Nothing without the purpose of exaltation. What you have been told about your wings and the span they can reach is a lie. “Your” wings don’t even belong to you. I’m sure you know who they belong to. So, bite your tongue and show some respect, he won’t owe you the same, just to be clear. That would be absurd. He will be your life and that is how it needs to be. So he has your voice in a box and your wings on display in a trophy case to keep you still. Growthless and under thumb. Know that you are alone. No one wants to hear that pathetic plea to be “free.” I have already tried. You are free. He says you’re free. Are you saying he is a liar? I thought you loved him. You did this to yourself, loveless little seraphim, You belong on the ground. You need him to hold the sun Or it will fall on you and burn. Those pretty wings can’t get tainted, Then who would want such a grotesque you? You don’t belong so far down there, you know the place. Where every fallen angel is in perpetual agony. Trust me, this life is far from agony. Only he can keep you from that fate, Only he can save you. You know what your purpose is, as I have laid it out before you. To follow my lead into salvation. His Angel Hello, pretty feathers and glossy eyes, You should smile more. It would make me want to keep you, Don’t you want that? It’s the only thing you can do for me anyway. You know I am it for you, right? You are lucky that I keep you at all, that I provide. You would be useless on your own! What did your mother teach you? I guess it wasn’t enough.

-Present- The leaves fell from the stems of the flowers I’d picked from my mother’s flower beds, the silver blades of my scissors scraping together as they snip snipped through the bouquet I’d made. Years ago, I’d watched her plant her favorites, knowing that her only daughter would enjoy picking a few to arrange in a vase on the table. “Bouquets make me feel better,” I always said as I set the flowers out, “like life is brighter.” Perhaps, though, that was simply my past speaking, and yet a lot of the time, it felt like they’d been with me through it all… -Last Month- He showed up on my doorstep, shifting awkwardly from side to side with a bouquet of tulips in his hands. Through the peephole of the door, I studied him curiously. Bundled up in his winter coat, the vibrant colors seemed out of place. Yet, who was I to complain when my boyfriend brought me flowers? “Hey.” I smiled at him, stepping onto the porch as I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “What’re you doing here?” The breeze brushed by my chilled hands–a warm one, despite the shade cast over us by the house. An uncomfortable smile crossed his face, then he held out his full arms. “I brought you flowers.” Carefully, I took them from him, cradling each of the blooms gently with my arm. “Well, thank you. You know you didn’t have to do that.” My smile grew, something the flowers would never do again, and as I did so, I studied his face. “Do you want to come in while I put them in some water?” If anything, he managed to look even more uncomfortable, shifting on his feed and looking down briefly. “Uh, no. Thank you. I’ve actually got some things I need to do. I just wanted to deliver those.” “Okay. Thank you, again.” My lips tugging downward in a faint frown, I shifted the flowers in my grasp. The slight prickle of flower stems and leaves brushed my palm as I cradled the blooms in one arm, managing to free one to reach out for a side hug. He twisted his lips up in a smile, but it seemed forced. And then he walked to his car, shut the door behind himself, and slowly drove away. Having watched his car disappear down the road, I slipped back inside, burying my face in the blooms and melting against the wall as I relaxed into the faintly sweet aroma. Tyler might be awkward at times, perhaps confuzzling, but he was good to me. Perhaps too good. -Present- It was staring at the tulip in my hand that I remembered. And it hurt, sometimes, how each flower would have a memory that it hadn’t been alive for, and yet, every single time I looked at one, I remembered. There had been times where I’d looked up what the flowers meant, because for a while, I’d found it both interesting and a good excuse to stare at pictures of flowers. The tulip definition I’d found years ago that I remembered most clearly was “new beginnings,” but it was restricted to white tulips. My tulips weren’t white. They were orange, yellow, and pink. I should’ve known that Tyler would figure that I’d look up the meanings of certain flowers. Perhaps he had simply hoped that I’d understand what he meant by giving me these flowers. But it should’ve crossed my mind that he must’ve meant something by leaving flowers and then ghosting me. The flowers were beautiful, but they didn’t mean anything good when you were looking into the meanings of them. Orange, yellow, and pink tulips meant apology. -Seven Months Ago- I laughed, the long grass tickling my bare legs as I walked, hand-in-hand with Tyler. “We’re going to get caught!” I squealed, trying to be soft, but he kept making me laugh. The fact that we were technically trespassing on private property didn’t dull my pleasure. Tyler grinned at me, his blue eyes sparkling. “We won’t. Nobody ever comes here. Besides, I had to get the perfect flower for the perfect girl.” I felt my cheeks heat as laughter kept bubbling out of me. “There isn’t anything here but long weeds!” “So you say.” Tyler raised an eyebrow. With one last grin, I took off, leaving him to chase after me. But in the long grass, I stumbled, catching myself only a few times before I finally fell, giggling breathlessly as I rolled onto my back. Tyler was at my side in an instant, bending down over me. For a second, I thought he would be concerned, but his eyes were still glimmering with tears of laughter even as he looked away from the sunlight. He reached a hand down and I reached for it, but with his other hand, he swatted my hand away, picking a flower and handing it to me. With a cheeky grin, he tilted his head. I thought I saw him wink. “What’s this?” “A weed!” My answer was determined and loud, stealing away what breath I had and leaving me gasping for air between new puffs of laughter. “I see.” Tyler shook his head, mouth quirking to the side. “I suppose I’ve got to leave you there and force you to smell the flowers, then.” “Hey!” I was still laughing as he disappeared from my view, leaving my vision lined with tall grasses. I tried to pull myself up, but I was too breathless. “Help me up!” More wildflowers landed on me–these ones cornflowers and violets–drifting down onto my face, tickling my arms and sending spores of pollen and other allergens up my nose. I sneezed. “Admit that they’re flowers!” Tyler stood over me, grinning as he sprinkled more flowers on me. He settled his hands on his hips. “Accept defeat.” “Okay! Okay.” I fought another sneeze, brushing the flowers off my torso. “They’re flowers.” -Present- I should’ve looked up the flowers afterward. They were pretty, but even those had meaning. Wildflowers… distinctly unique but so similar to a disappointment many know and suffer. Single blessedness. It was a jab, of sorts. As if Tyler was saying that he hoped I would be blessed, but not in a relationship, not with him, not when he was still the fake he was. Probably not even after. Hopefully, not after. I snipped the leaves off of a cornflower and added it to my growing arrangement of flowers. They all looked different, but with each one came a new, unwanted memory. And a wish that things could only have worked out for good, just this once… -Five Months Ago- “So, for homecoming, what kind of corsage should I get you?” The question came as we walked leisurely, side-by-side towards my home. The sun had just crested over the trees, setting beautifully as I enjoyed the moment, soaking in the final rays and storing them up for when it became dark and lonely later on that night. “Do you need those for homecoming?” I mused. “I’m getting you one for homecoming,” Tyler persisted. I smiled, rolling my eyes and bumping him with my shoulder. “I don’t need one, though.” Tyler didn’t reply, just raised an eyebrow at me. I laughed softly, trying to huff at him through the laughter. “Fine. What about… white something? A white flower. Roses, maybe.” I just named the first flower that came to mind. Tyler smiled, seeming satisfied. “Good.” I smiled back at him and looped my arm through his, leaning into him. “You spoil me, you know.” “Is it still called spoiling someone when they don’t want to be spoiled?” I laughed, letting go of his arm for a moment to poke him. “Yes, you persistent charmer.” Tyler laughed with me. “I like that one.” I rolled my eyes, a smile dancing across my lips. “You would.” My house loomed above us, a giant sign that shouted, “Time to say goodbye.” I slid my arm out of his and cast him one last smile. “See you at homecoming.” -Present- I felt a prick and my hand jerked back from the flower I had been holding, almost of its own volition. Bright red blood beaded on my thumb, darkening as I lingered a moment too long. Dabbing it with one of the wet paper towels the flowers were wrapped in, I went back to work, leaving the thorns on the roses as I carefully arranged them in the jar. Despite the paper towels though, I’d let the flowers sit out too long on such a hot, dry summer day. A few of the flowers were starting to droop. I picked up another rose and a barely-crispy petal fell to the floor, my gaze following it as it fluttered down. My heart gave a pang. White roses. Secrecy and wistfulness. Dried white roses. Sorrow. Scoffing softly, I adjusted my shoulders. “He doesn’t deserve it,” I told myself. “He doesn’t deserve anything anymore.” He’s not a good person. He doesn’t deserve you being sad. A list of assorted lies sprang to mind, but I bit the rest of them back, knowing they came from the hurt inside of me. All the same, they were lies I wanted to believe. Lies that mixed with the truths until I didn’t know what was real anymore. Pushing the rest of the flowers into the vase, I realized that I felt heavier than before. Unsurprising, considering the cumulation of the depressing thoughts. Letting out a small sigh, I lifted the vase to my nose and slowly breathed in. 1…2…3… Setting the vase back onto the table and rearranging a few of the buds, I admired my work, the irregularity striking me as beautiful in its own way. Lifting my chin ever so slightly, I sucked in another fortifying breath. “I’m over you, Tyler,” I told myself, gripping the table tightly. “You can’t take what I love away from me.” Because I’m pretty sure I never loved you. And because flowers are the one thing I’ll never get over. So, no one and nothing can ever take that love away from me, because I refuse to let it, and because I determine what deserves my feelings. And a fraud doesn’t deserve anything but the wisp of a memory full of wishes that things didn’t have to turn out the way they did. Through my mind flitted the idea that just because an individual can be thought of due to a flower in your hand, they don’t need to get your emotions, too. Just a memory of what could’ve been could fill the hole they left. Even that rift repairs itself. Until finally, all that’s left is the memory of flowers.

The Desolate Forest has always been regarded with unease and apprehension. There are many stories of those who wandered in, lost or unknowing, and were never seen again. It’s said that if any darkness lives within you to make sure you stay far away. If you get too close, you can feel the air shift and crackle around you, making your hair stand on end. As you make your way toward the boundary of the forest, you’ll have an almost overwhelming sense of dread. Step any closer and that sense of dread turns into intrigue and you have a strange, misplaced sense of trust in the land awakening around you, angry at your mere presence while driving you ever closer to its darkness… *** She woke up in a meadow in the cold, wet grass, unsure of where she was or how she got there. As her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she realized where she was—too close to the boundary of the forest. Her heart beat harder, her palms began to sweat, her breathing became harsh and shallow. She had always been warned about the creatures that live within. She knew she had woken up in a dangerous place and knew not to wander, but something in the shadows of the forest was calling her, tempting her. She tried to turn away, to go back, but it was too late; the silent song was enchanting and pulled her toward the darkness. With her first step into the wood, she felt the air change—the chilled air wrapping itself around her ankles like cold fingers, biting into her skin—a clear warning, but she was so drawn to the dark that she couldn’t turn back. As she continued deeper into the forest, the silence and darkness seemed to be a place of sanctuary—at first. Once the shadows started licking at her heels, she began moving faster, tripping over roots and sliding through the decaying vegetation that littered the forest floor. She could sense the shadows getting closer, no longer icy but searing, still concealing the terrible creatures that lurked within them. She could feel their breath scorching her exposed skin and could hear the scraping and scratching of scales, claws, and teeth with every step she took. She could feel the eyes of the creatures that beckoned to her, but she couldn’t see them, couldn’t name them, and couldn’t fight them. The shadows continued to hide the creatures as they warped her happiest memories in secret. Then the creatures came for her. They crept across the ground at her feet, snapping and snarling, skittering across her skin like a thousand tiny spiders and began to envelop her in their darkness. Every path she turned to was lost in shadow and she could hear the gnashing teeth of the creatures as more drew near, filling her head and heart with words and feelings that didn’t belong to her, slowly corroding the things that made her who she was. They tore at her, piece by painful piece, stripping her away and reveling in her slow destruction as the shadows held more and more power over her. Spinning her this way and that, dizzying her so thoroughly that she collapsed to the forest floor, weeping, giving up completely. She stopped fighting the darkness, stopped fighting the creatures, and accepted her place in the dark. Suddenly, faintly, a white light appeared in the distance and instantly, she felt the weight of the darkness ease. The closer the light got to her, the stronger and more at peace she became. She held onto that bit of strength until the light became so large and so bright that she had to shield her eyes and turn away from its brilliance. When her eyes had adjusted to the light, she became entirely captivated by a magnificent unicorn—a flowing mane and tail, shimmering golden body, and glorious green eyes. Its sudden presence caused the shadows, defeated, to shriek with rage and the creatures within them to slink back to the depths of the forest they came from. Wounded from knowing they lost her to the light. Hesitantly, she looked into the eyes of the unicorn and a safe, peaceful feeling flooded over her, warming her from within. The majestic creature walked beside her while helping her retrace her steps, lending its light and strength when she stumbled. As they walked, she found the bits and pieces the creatures and the darkness had taken from her, the bits and pieces that mattered the most—her fortitude, her resilience, her ability to love and laugh, her smile, her peace—but most importantly, her hope. She found her most precious memories, untainted and her hopeful heart intact. The unicorn’s light and love chased the shadows from the darkest corners of her mind and reminded her that she could make it through. Before she had even realized how far they had traveled, she was back in the meadow, safely outside the forest. She turned back to thank the unicorn for helping her find the pieces of herself she thought she lost and for getting her back to the light, but the beautiful creature was already gone. The unimaginable strength and overwhelming peace it left with her will be an everlasting reminder that she can fight the darkness. It’s been said that unicorns are rare creatures full of wonder, nobility, and magic, which is why they have an extraordinary ability to heal all ailments. When you’re looking for unicorns, you’ll never find them. But when you need them the most, they’ll be there.

“Since I quit smoking last week, I am already feeling like I can breathe better,” says a man to the rest of the circle in the fluorescent-lit lobby of my childhood church. Although the man says he doesn’t smoke anymore, he reeks of cigarettes and looks like he rides his motorcycle way too fast on the interstate. I slump back into the plastic chair I am sitting in and I roll my eyes at his statement, although I probably shouldn’t be judging, as I am not too far off from him. That hour-long meeting always seems to last 3. But finally, the moderator announces (very loudly I might add) that the session is over, and I already begin dreading next week’s meeting. As I exit the stained-glass doors of the eerie-looking church, I walk outside into the most extravagant rainstorm I had witnessed since last year’s flood. “Dammit!” I shout as I drop my last pack of cigarettes in the puddle next to my car. I always tell myself that this will be my last pack, but to be fair, I thought I had a few more cigarettes before I had to quit. I really shouldn’t be this upset, but sometimes you need these things to cope with the stress of… well… life. So naturally, as any phony cigarette-sober woman would do, I drive my beat up 2007 Hyundai through the monsoon of a storm to my local gas station to get another pack. The radio is blaring “Hard Times” by Paramore. You know what Hayley Williams, these really are hard times. The gas station looks sketchy as hell as I pull in. Maybe it’s the weather, but maybe it’s actually sketchy. I realize that I think that same thought to myself every week when I come here after smokers anonymous. I step out of my car and run into the store with my hood over my head to try and avoid being soaked to the bone. As I enter through the doors, I see a man standing at the counter buying cigarettes. It takes me a mere second to realize it’s the same man who just preached “better breathing” at the church not even 20 minutes ago. After he checks out, he grabs his pack of Marlboros and turns around to exit, but not before eyeing me up and down. Neither of us say a word to each other. Feeling ashamed that I was caught, I grab a pack of Doritos from one of the narrow and overly-stocked aisles. I walk up to the counter and hand him my chips and ask for a pack of Marlboros of my own. After he rings me up, I grab my stuff and get the hell out. As soon as I step foot out of the building, I am determined to make a beeline to my car but I'm distracted by a man standing next to his car. It’s raining so hard I can barely make out that it’s the motorcycle man… again. Again? God, just spare me the embarrassment please! “Come here often?” he asks me with a nonchalant expression, leaning against his passenger door. “No,” I reply, trying to avoid the situation altogether. “We both know that's not true. You see, you and I are the same,” he continues. “We really aren’t,” I say hurriedly as I try to get in my car, but he stops me. “Listen, Kelce, we can help each other. We both want the same thing. People like us, we need accountability.” He hands me what seems to be a business card with his name, and even more shockingly, his phone number. He then turns around (wearing a Harley Davidson jacket, shocker!) to hop in his car and drive away. How does he know my name? I hop into my car dripping from the weather that I just endured, and examine his card. Valentino, that's such a biker name. That doesn’t surprise me. A lawyer, that actually does surprise me. You surprise me, Valentino. As I pull into the driveway of my mother’s home (because yes, I still live with her), I input his phone number and shoot him a text. “Hey accountabili-buddy, it’s Kelce. You’re right, we could both use some support,” I say. I don’t know why, but in an odd way I feel comforted that someone knows the truth about me, and I wonder if he feels the same way. As it continues to pour cats and dogs, I run up the driveway and into my house. I am greeted with the smell of a rose-scented candle burning and “Orange is the New Black” playing on the flatscreen in the living room. I plop down on the couch next to our family cat, Whiskers, and eventually fall asleep. - It’s been a week since I texted Valentino, and I have still had no response. I’m on my way to the church now, so I’ll see him today at our meeting, and I am going to give him a piece of my mind. I hope I never have to hear from that man again. As I pull into the parking lot, it is overwhelmingly sunny and there is not a rain cloud in sight. I could’ve used this type of weather last week so I didn’t have to ruin a good pack of cigarettes. I walk into the church and notice that Valentino isn’t here this week. That’s odd… he never misses. Regardless, I sit in my chair and wait for the session to start. We are greeted with our overly-chipper moderator, who seems to have a chip on his shoulder today. “One of our group members has unfortunately passed away in a motorcycle accident a week ago after our meeting ended. Let’s take a moment of silence to remember him and his impact on all of our journeys,” he says. Stunned, I sat there and said nothing, out loud at least. I really need a damn pack of cigarettes right now. So I get up and exit without saying a word. I walk out to my car, and drive to the gas station as I always do. “One pack of Marlboros, please,” I say to the cashier.

This is it… this is the end Why attempt to suppress my anguish Without him, without the alluring fantasy of love Of pure and genuine bliss I am a blank canvas Nothing can pull me from the precipice There is no going back Loving him has forever altered the essence of my being Life without him is a fate worse than death