I remember the day the last leaf fell. It was a chilly autumn afternoon, the kind that whispered of the coming winter. Apart from one obstinate leaf clinging to an ancient oak tree, the park, which had once been a vibrant symphony of reds, oranges, and yellows, had become a muted backdrop.

I sat on a weathered bench, my gaze fixed on that solitary leaf. It felt like a kindred spirit, holding on when all else had let go. The wind was gentle but insistent, a hushed lullaby urging it to join its fallen companions.

As a child, I'd always been fascinated by the autumn leaves. Their transformation seemed like magic. But that day, it was different. That day, the leaf was more than a fragment of nature; it was a symbol of resilience, of the beauty in holding on, and the courage in finally letting go.

People passed by, some alone, some with others, but none seemed to notice the leaf. It was just a small part of a larger scene, a detail in a bigger story. Yet, to me, it was the story.

A gust of wind, stronger than the rest, swept through the park. I held my breath, watching as the leaf quivered, clung, and then, with a grace that felt almost intentional, let go.

As it danced its way to the ground, twirling and fluttering in the air, I felt a strange sense of peace. It was as if the leaf was teaching me a lesson — about the beauty of endings, about the inevitable cycle of life, and about how letting go can be the ultimate act of strength.

I stood up, ready to leave, but not before I looked at where the leaf had landed. It lay there, amidst its peers, indistinguishable yet exceptional. In that moment, I realized that sometimes, the most significant stories are the ones that seem the smallest. The ones about a single leaf in a vast, unending autumn.

Chapter 1

I spoke with my first ghost when I was eight-years-old. It was a warm spring morning in Northern Oklahoma. I was playing outside with my young boxer puppy when she began to bark at the neighboring yard. I looked up to see what she was barking at and my life changed forever.

I saw a man standing near the fence but something was different about him. He looked like a hologram. It reminded me of when Princess Leia sent the message through R2-D2 in Star Wars. I didn't understand how it was happening, but I knew I was talking to a ghost.

"Kelsey, can you see me?" He asked astoundedly.

"Mr. JR? I-is that you? Are you really there?" I questioned as I rubbed my eyes. "You passed away. How are you here?"

"Please don't be scared. I know my grumpy disposition in life made you feel like I didn't like children, but in reality I was upset with myself because seeing you kids play reminded me of how much I missed when my own children were small. I'm sorry it made you uncomfortable." His voice was soft and sincere; a noticeable difference from the gruff words he uttered in life. "Would you be willing to help a tired old soul?"

"Don't be sad. My dad told me that sometimes old men are just grumpy because they can't really do fun stuff anymore." I said reassuringly. "What can I do to help you? I'm only 8."

"Can you get my dear Betty baking again? My heart is so heavy knowing that in losing me she also lost her first love. Her life's passion." He pleaded.

Mrs. Betty was his loving wife of many years. She was a soft and caring elderly woman. She would care for my siblings and I when our parents were at work, and she always had fresh and tasty sweets. She was an excellent baker, but hadn't felt up to baking since her husband passed shortly before Thanksgiving.

"I can try. Dad and I got some brownie mix at the store earlier. He said he was going to teach me how to make them, but maybe he would let me see if Mrs. Betty will teach me instead. Her brownies are the best, and maybe baking will be easier if she is thinking more about helping me." I felt wise beyond my years for coming up with that idea.

"You've always been a smart young lady. I think that just might work."

I immediately went inside to find my dad sitting on the couch reading his book.

"Hey dad, I know you wanted to teach me how to make the brownies tonight, but do you think I could go ask Mrs. Betty to teach me instead? She makes the best brownies, and baking used to make her happy before her husband died." I rocked back and forth gently, my hands behind my back with fingers crossed.

"That sounds like a nice idea dear. Let me give you the egg and oil too just in case." Dad sounded rather proud of my idea, and headed straight for the kitchen to get the things I need. "Let her know she's welcome to come over for lasagna tonight" he said as he sent me out the door.

"Okay" I shouted back as I headed down the sidewalk. To the steps of the small blue house.

I was a little nervous knocking on her door that morning. She had become like an extra grandmother to me and I didn't want to make her sad, but I held my head high, and asked her late husband to help me say the right things.

"Hi Mrs. Betty." I smiled as the lanky gray haired woman opened the door.

"Well good morning dear. What do you have there?" She cooed back in her typical soft and welcoming tone.

"I have some brownies. I was wondering if you could help me learn to make them." I answered. "I know baking makes you think of your husband, but maybe baking with someone else would make it easier. I feel like he would be sad if he knew that you had a hard time enjoying your favorite thing just because he isn't here anymore."

I saw tears begin to fill her eyes as she invited me into her small home. "I dare to say you may be on to something. JR always said that the only thing better than my sweet treats was the smile I had while making them. I know he always seemed grumpy to you, but he truly was an amazing man. My daughter told me just yesterday that he would want me to continue living and finding joy in the things that remind me of him." I could hear both pain and an oncoming peace in her voice as I followed her into the kitchen.

She turned on a small radio, and began playing one of her beautiful jazz CDs as she retrieved a pan, mixing bowl, and measuring cup from her cabinets. She also took out a bag of chopped walnuts to add to the mix.

She explained each step to me as we prepared those brownies, and by the time we put them in the oven I noticed a smile returning to her thin fragile face.

While waiting for them to bake, I made sure to help her clean up the mixing bowl and utensils. That was the best part of baking after all.

"You can have the bowl dear, but I get the beaters." She chuckled.

"Deal!" I agreed as I sat to make sure no mix went to waste.

"Thank you." I heard JR whisper.

The light in the room seemed brighter for just a moment, and then he disappeared. It took me a few years to realize that I had witnessed him crossing over to the next life.

As we placed the finished brownies on a large blue plate Mrs. Betty gave me a look I had not seen before. It was like she was looking into my heart. Like we were connecting on a level I didn't know was possible. There were tears in her eyes but no sadness in her expression.

"Thank you sweet girl." She said with a smile. "This is the first time I've been able to bake without bursting into tears since he passed. Somehow I get a feeling that he is truly at rest now. Do you think your parents would mind if we enjoyed a brownie together before you take the rest home?"

My face lit up with the biggest smile possible. "I think it will he okay as long as I still eat my lasagna. Dad said you could come over for dinner too if you'd like."

"I would love that." She smiled.

We took the plate of brownies and walked back across the yard to enjoy lasagna, laughter, and the most delicious walnut brownies I've ever had.

From that day on, I was an aid to those who found difficulty crossing over. I did my best to pass messages without revealing my gift, but it wasn't always an option. For some people it was too much of a shock. Others, my own mother included, refused to believe in ghosts and accused me of speaking with demons. For most, however, it was a welcome blessing. Occasionally I was even asked to sit and translate a conversation between the living and the deceased.

Not all of the messages were happy or filled with love though. I once had to tell a woman that her husband knew she had been having an affair with his brother for quite some time before he fell ill. That was one of the few times I refused to be a spirit translator. I simply wrote her a letter saying I was an acquaintance of her deceased husband, and that he had informed me of the affair prior to his passing. I told her how awful it was of her to have an affair in the first place. The fact that it was his brother made it twice as disgraceful. Thankfully she never replied, and he was still able to pass to the next life.

I did get personal messages from time to time, but they were different from the others. When my great-grandmother passed she came to me in a dream and told me how much she loves me. A few other families came to me in this way as well. These dream communications were the only personal messages I had ever received.

That changed about a week before my twenty-first birthday. I was in the kitchen of my apartment making a small batch of spaghetti and listening to a playlist of sea shanties when a stocky elderly woman made herself known to me.

She had long gray hair, and frail looking features. I could tell that she had been sick for some time prior to leaving this life behind.

"Are you Kelsey Shaw?" she inquired hopefully.

"I sure am," I replied. "Do you have someone you need me to get a message to?" I was expecting her to ask me to tell someone how much she loved them, or to remind them that she no longer feels the pain of whatever illness she had. Those were the usual requests from spirits like her.

I never could have expected the conversation that followed.

"In a way." She answered crypticly. "I know of someone you likely want to speak to."

"I don't understand. Why would I want to speak to someone from your life? I've never seen you before."

"I know you haven't, but you've thought about me. Mostly you think about my son, but I know you have also wondered what his family would be like."

Suddenly it clicked in my mind who she must be. The painful realization nearly brought me to my knees.

"Y-you can't mean. . ." I stammered. "Are you my my grandmother? How did you find me?"

"I am dear. Many things are made known once you make it to this side of existence. I know you have many questions, but they may be better left for your father, to answer."

I didn't know what to say. I had dreamt my whole life of meeting my father. I wanted to ask him why he left my mother and I before I was even born. I wanted to know why I wasn't good enough for him. I wanted to hit him for not being their to protect me. I wanted his side of the story. Tears filled my eyes, and I began to cry uncontrollably.

"I know this is a lot to take in, and you likely have more emotions regarding your father that even I can understand. Please know that he does love you. Each year on the first of July, he goes back to the place he and your mother went on their first date. They met in November, but he goes at the beginning of July, because he knows it is your birth month. He will be at Stables in Guthrie around noon in just a few days. It would be everything to this old soul if you would meet him there." I could feel her desperation nearly as strongly as I felt my own.

"How will I know it's him? How will he know its me?" I asked.

"I will be there to guide you to him. He will know you by your eyes. They are a bit of a familial feature. It is the symbol of sight." As she said this, I noticed her eyes. I stared in awe as I looked into eyes much like mine; including the gold ring which separated the pupils from the blue of her irises.

"I thought my central heterochromia was a birth defect." I protested in shock. "That's what my biology teacher told me when I was in school. She said it was fairly rare."

"All will be understood in time my dear. I must go now, but I hope to see you on July first." With that she was gone.

I no longer felt hungry. I stood barefoot unable to move for what felt like an eternity. Was I hallucinating? Perhaps I had smoked more than I had intended, and this was just a bad high. My hands were shaking.

Part of me wanted to call my mother to confirm the location of her first date with my father. The more rational part of me knew it would be useless. I had spent most of my life trying to get her to talk about him, and never got her to even tell me his name. All that I knew was that they had gotten into a horrible fight when she was about six months pregnant, and she decided it wasn't safe for us to stay.

I forced myself to eat. Firstly because I had only eaten a ham and cheese sandwich that day, and secondly because I did not want perfectly good food to go to waste. I tried to watch a movie while I ate hoping that sticking to my normal routine would help ease my mind, but I hardly noticed it playing behind my racing thoughts. Had she said that my unique eyes were a familial trait as well as being the symbol of sight? Could my father communicate between realms as well? Was that what caused the fight that severed his relationship with my mother?

The next few days were a blur. I lived my life like normal, but it was like I was on autopilot. I drifted through my routine without giving anything much thought. I mindlessly stocked shelves at work, and avoided conversation as much as I could. My nights were restless as different scenarios and possible conversations raced through my mind.

My biggest fear was that I wouldn't be the daughter he wanted. I mean, what if he was super religious or something? He may not be able to accept the fact that his daughter was a bisexual college drop-out with gauged ears, a half shaved head, a habit of wearing too much black, and a growing cigarette addiction.

On the other hand, there was the chance that he would expect a father daughter bond right away. What if he wanted me to call him dad? That was not going to happen. It was going to take time and he would just have to accept that.

All I could do was hope that he would be somewhere between these two extremes. Willing to build our relationship over time, and able to accept me for everything I was. If he could do that, I could find a way to let him into my life.

One of my strongest desires in life was finally being fulfilled and I somehow did not know if I was ready. I had an ominous feeling that knowing my father was going to change a core part of my identity, but I never would have imagined how extensive that change would be.

Orange leaves gently swayed in a light breeze as twelve-year-old Chris Weaver walked down the dirt road. He kicked up dust as he moseyed. The house at the end of the dirt road was red. It had a quaint porch, being swept by Granny Bloch. She wore simple attire: blue jeans and an ankle-length skirt. The orange sun was starting to set as Chris stepped onto the porch. ‘’Where am I?’’ Chris asked.

She spoke into a voice sweeter than honey dipped in sugar. ‘’This is Autumn House.’’

‘’What is that?’’ Chris asked. ‘’How did I get here?’’

‘’You slipped through the tiny rift between your world and mine,’’ Granny Bloch said. ‘’It’s invisible, as you most likely have deduced. Your love for the season and Halloween enlarged the gateway enough to slip through.’’

Her gray eyes watched Chris; a gleam ever-present in her kind eyes. ‘’Care for some cider or a pumpkin muffin?’’ Granny said.

Chris rubbed his chin. ‘’Not hungry or thirsty.’’

Granny Bloch chuckled. ‘’No problem.’’

‘’How do I get back to my world?’’ Chris asked.

She whistled and out came a goblin, maybe two feet tall. He wore blue and had a shaggy red beard. His eyes were green, and he stared up at Chris. ‘’Pinch him,’’ Granny Bloch said.

‘’What?’’ Chris asked.

‘’You want to go home?’’ Granny Bloch said. ‘’Pinch the gnome. It’s the only way.’’

Chris reached out and the gnome ran away. Chris chased after the gnome. He ran inside the home and Chris followed closely behind. A quaint fire roared in the fireplace. It made a lovely crackling sound as it warmed anyone nearby. ‘’It’s a nice place isn’t it?’’ The gnome asked.

‘’It seems nice enough, but I want to go home,’’ Chris admitted.

‘’Home, where you feel invisible?’’ The gnome asked.

Chris shook his head. He stared into the face of this tiny mythical creature and felt confused and embarrassed. ‘’How do you know that?’’ Chris asked.

He heard an unknown voice. ‘’ I see all in my crystal ball,’’ the wizard said.

Chris spun around and found the wizard glaring at him. He held a cup of piping hot cider in his hand and took a sip. ‘’Your father does not give you the attention you seek ever since your parents' divorce,’’ the wizard said.

Chris’ head started spinning. ‘’How long have you been spying on me?’’

‘’We observe all lovers of the fall and Halloween,’’ The wizard said. ‘’It is my job.’’

Chris lunged at the gnome and missed. He ran through the boy’s legs. ‘’What the heck does that mean?’’ Chris asked head cocked, mouth agape.

‘’You must be deemed worthy to pinch the gnome,’’ the wizard said.

‘’How do I know if I’m deemed worthy?’’ Chris asked.

The wizard reached into Chris’ chest and pulled out the boy’s heart and weighed it, feeling the girth of it. ‘’You have a conflicted heart,’’ the wizard said. ‘’You want to leave this place, but you don’t necessarily want to go home.’’

‘’Come catch me, boy,’’ the gnome said, bending over and wiggling his butt at Chris. He chased the gnome into the kitchen. The gnome danced as he climbed up onto the table and Chris was able to grab the little guy by the back of his shirt and pinched the gnome’s cheek. He found himself back at his own home, the house with green paneling and the giant oak tree in the front yard. He grabbed the door handle and knew his father would be waiting inside, but that did not fill him with as much dread as it once would have.

Upon the fridge was pinned a note

In hurried hand it had been wrote

It said exactly this, I quote

'I'm joining Johnny on his boat'

No further message there was penned

My poor heart, oh it did rend

That man was far more foe than friend

I fretted how it all might end

My girl was hardly more than lass

Although she could be bold as brass

And on occasion rather crass

She had no business with that ass

I'd heard stories 'bout that man

About his off-white panel van

My face went pale, I turned and ran

Mind scrambling to make a plan

My feet flew down towards the dock

As chimes emitted from the clock

Those schemes of his, I planned to block

That boat of his would surely rock

When I arrived, the dock was bare

Neither he nor she were there

I almost wilted with despair

He'd lured her right into their lair

See Johnny was a simple fool

Passing handsome, never cruel

He often hung around the pool

Making the young women drool

But I knew where he'd take his date

A place where bad men lay in wait

Their stone-cold eyes filled up with hate

I hoped I wouldn't be too late

There was at river's mouth a place

Perched atop the high rock face

These cloaked men had made their base

That was where my feet did race

I donned a cloak and grabbed a gun

I planned to kill them one by one

Oh they'd regret what they had done

They'd not live to see the sun

The trip took longer than I'd like

The cult's lair was quite a hike

I hid in bushes, poised, catlike

Waiting for the time to strike

What I witnessed shocked me raw

Rocked my foundations to the core

My girl was there, feet on the floor

I'd never seen her look so sure

A knife in hand, she faced the men

She sliced and then she sliced again

Til blood was thick in that bullpen

She slaughtered them from one to ten

I'd never seen her move so quick

Their bodies did she nick and prick

The scarlet ground became quite slick

The last man gave a death throe kick

She turned to where I hid close-by

As if she knew my eyes did spy

'You read the note?' her voice was shy

'T'was time for these bad men to die'

I stood up and smiled at her

'My girl, of course I do concur,

I wanted these deaths to occur

I wished we'd had time to confer'

'I tried to tell you once or twice

But what's done, it should suffice'

Her eyes were hard as winter ice

'I've ended virgin sacrifice'

The blades of emerald and juniper grass whisper songs of summers gone. Gone with the gentle wind of halcyon days lost to solitary years. Songs of blush lemondes and flushed cheeks from runs to distant hills. The hills nestle against the twilight blues of the crisp lakes we swam in on brutal nights. Our mothers would come searching the grassy shoreline with flashlights, waiting until we resurfaced, giggling until we were shivering from night breezes and stern threats of taking away our bedroom doors. The water is the same twilight blue of the shutters that covered the dining room windows that I would sit below, staring up at the peeling paint exposing the wooden frame. Waiting for Ms. Fields mother to swing the shutters and curtain open and tell me Ginny would be done with breakfast in 5 minutes; she would toss me an orange and warn me not to take her past the far hillside of the lake. Tiny waves break the blue and reveal distant periwinkle skies, the same color as Ginny's old lacey Sunday school dress. The comforting color I would seek out in the church classroom behind the stairs when Mrs. Langston would separate us to stop our giggling at the imagined smell of Noah’s Ark. Slow rolling clouds smell like the rainy days that wouldn't end.

A faded film scene, gold faded into blue when Ginny stopped coming for the summer. The puzzle piece trees don't interlock and catch me. Untouchable skies are too close to the ground, pressing down on my head and refusing to let go until I crumple into the earth to fossilize and become the oil that they're drilling for beyond the hills. The lake is shallow. I can reach the bottom in the middle, but I’m more at risk of drowning now that she's gone. From early June to late August, Ginny and I lived in the lake. Those all too short summers when she stayed with her grandmother, who demanded to be called “Great Fields.” From September to May, Great Fields lived alone in the wilting house with only my mother and I next door to keep her company. Ginny stopped coming after Great Fields died and left the house to her. No one came back for the house; nothing lives there anymore.

It means my words

Are building up

Inside me

My world

Crashing down

Around me

And I don't have the time

To run it through my mind

And out my fingertips

When I'm not writing

I'm not speaking

I'm not sharing

I'm not sharing

Because I'm misbehaving

(More than usual)

I'm not speaking

Because my words

Are backed up

Waiting for the dam to break

Hating the damn breakage

Loving the release

When my words cease

My mind spins

My body follows

I wake-up hollow

I don't cry for help

I cease to exist

Until someone says

Where did you go

And I finally decide

To answer

I've been thinking about mortality. Not recently, but for some time.  I've no idea what amount we might be talking. I'm not sure how much a person might be fronted on having a novel published-- I've never made an inquiry.

I'm looking it up now--Says the "average advance for a debut author is $57,000!".

*whistle*

(-damn-)

I was thinking maybe it was something like 10% of that, no slight chunk in my estimation.

$5,700 I would lock up into Remy Niko's savings account as bonus.

I have this plan (Remy's Papa says we are never to speak of it), to "secretly" set aside a thousand dollars a year until he turns 21. At that point Remy will have a nice nest egg. If he's wise, as we hope to raise him, he'll have a frugal couple of years of existence secured, so he can do creative work; maybe opt for a camper, travel, see something of the world.

(I fear we won't be there for him, in person, as older parents-- when Remy will be 21, I'll be 61, and while that seems ok, I note my father died at 65. Which again, means nothing, and to be sure Bunny and I plan to live to 99.)

In any case, an extra five grand would serve the boy nicely.

But if we're talking 57 Grand then the calculation is quite different. It is an opportunity for Now, not Someday. Most definitely, I quit my day job. Stop moonlighting in a position to which I am mostly unsuited. Start breathing again. I imagine there'd be taxes involved. There are always taxes, right? After the cuts I suspect it would level out to about the same 40K gross I currently pull. Seems almost horrifyingly selfish to make this leap. Yet I know that many people would benefit if I got out from the death of my daily stressors.

I would (by necessity of personality) dive into more work. I'd pursue my own creative projects, help others with theirs. I'd publish and illustrate works. I'd still teach, but at the right level---meaning college adjuncting-- which pays a pittance and has no benefits save intrinsic value of free mental-exchange of higher-level-thinking, and reward of helping others realize their visions. Sure, I'd do some art classes for children. Short. Maybe summer sessions. An hour at a time is about the right limit for everyone involved at that stage.

I'd reorganize our work and living space (our environment is very much a reflection of our mental state!). Remy unfortunately would still have to go to daycare for a little longer as I cleanup our surroundings. But then, once done, he could spend more time at home-- more quality attention time. And I'd set to work on the next winning-ticket-project so that we could make my husband's big dream come true. He works at a record store, and he'd like to have his own one day-- So, the next advance, would go towards making that a Reality.

Daylight lingers as

Dusk bleeds

Languorous in parting

Like lovers, stalling

He plants one last kiss upon

Her violet bruised horizon

His supplicant gesture

Goes unanswered

As she silently slips away

Umbilical cords

Laid end-to-end to my start

Spawn me from the stars

Two of us-in-one

With one of we-two in tow

Weave a tangled web

Life is to live large:

Be, love, thrill, laugh, cry... repeat

Effloresce the web

Crossing strands will stick

With only those, worth unto

Two-in-one, again

Till dust do us part

Outliving even ourselves

Thence back to the stars

***

Inspired by a previous submission, "Tethered Haiku."