PROLOGUE

There are times when telling a difficult story could be likened to the peeling away of skin or a scab, but some go deeper—like sawing into scar tissue; these stories are accompanied by a sense of unease and unwillingness. For some, that unwillingness had little to do with much else than they’d rather leave it buried—like a bullet too close to an artery. They would rather not delve too deeply into the connotations, for theirs is a simple life unaffected by the ramifications this far. The difficult pieces were merely that—a single stone in an otherwise smooth path.

For me, I followed the path I first set foot on, growing used to stepping from one perilous occurrence to another. So many stones did I encounter, that it would appear that my journey were paved with cutting realities; and it’s not for pain or weariness that I’ve failed to record it until now, but for not knowing how to disclose it.

Where pain brings clarity, the feelings that I had during these times are not the same feelings that I carry now, and even that can warp certainty.

For that reason, I’ve sat with them—trying them out in different lights, wearing them about like a cloak to see how they fit at different times. Occasionally, I would peddle these stories to an interested audience only to find that the full weight of the truth… isn’t always best…isn’t always welcome even—it’s too heavy for those not prepared for its overwhelming weight.

I then curtailed the edges of fact or redacted some entirely to avoid unwanted penalties to my own character as well as those of others. I made the stories more bearable for you.

So, I am going to tell my story the only way that I can at this point: as an amalgamation of truths from others along with my own, compiled by a fearing and imaginative child; through the filter of a resourceful and knowledge-hungry young woman; through the teeth of a seething and angry dog of destruction; and as a recovering human, seeking the end of it all.

You will find no real names in this book. Some scenarios will be watered down, while others embellished to mislead for the sake of those who could be tarnished by its pages.

Why tell this story at all, then? Ultimately—to be clean of it. To be emptied. Having carried the various versions over the years, it has been as a blight keeping those parts of my past alive and writhing beneath the surface. I’ve come to realize that I could never be totally free without finally cutting it out and abandoning it forever to the ether; which brings me here:

Out of all the stories that I know, this one just might be mine…

Chapter 1

My Life as a Dog

It would’ve been a beautiful sight: softly swelling and golden against a blue sky. The wind was warm as it abruptly pushed dry grasses one way then suddenly the other, changing the color-tone of the hills like they were fabric, velvet. Again, it would’ve been a beautiful sight, except for the vast auto graveyard filling the valley; a spectacle in and of itself—stunning, in its own way.

To a small child, the steel monoliths seemed to stretch endlessly, but as these things go, a little vantage would dispel any such notion. Say, if you crawled carefully atop one of the rusted demigods, you would see the necropolis spanned only to the base of the next ridge—a quarter mile away.

There were flecks of paint, dark blue, stuck in the baby skin of my palms and knees. My shins were brown and orange with rust, scrapes, and blood as Kimo laid sphinxlike beside me, licking the bits of iron from me then his own massive paws. I tied my tiny fingers into the thick fur of the shepherd. The pungent smell of him filled my nostrils, but it wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was reassuring. Even as an adult, I still find the reek of dogs ‘comforting’. If there’s a dog in your life, for me, that’s synonymous with a life being lived well.

Kimo had been the only pup sired by Jack, that King kept; an old black shepherd with keen, bright orange eyes—not unlike the rust on my chubby, child’s legs. Jack was now too old to be running around with the pack and stayed close to King at the wrecking yard office. Kimo was larger than his father—he was the largest shepherd most visitors to the junkyard claimed to have seen. King was offered money for him on several occasion, but he turned all bids down. Not because he loved the dog, but simply because he didn’t want other man to have what was his. He’d soon as shoot the dog himself than let another man take him.

The wrecking yard now had a dozen such German Shepherd dogs at any given time. Even now, several of Kimo’s own half-grown pups sniffed about and inside the doorless vehicle below us while others surveyed those surrounding. One pup gave a low, throaty warning; suddenly, the entire group of them raced passed us like sharks on the scent of blood. They emerged, juggling a rattlesnake and, incidentally, their lives before tugging it apart. Such was life here on the fringes. Wild. Brutal. Beautiful. Forgotten.

Kimo sat here beside me now as a sort of mercy provided of this place. I believed that. Not King’s mercy, for it was King’s own inattention to blame for Kimo’s close call. But rather a mercy only shown to those who were conditioned to never show, never need—but thrived under when given.

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The rancher could hear them screaming as he ran from the house to the basin of the hill where a single, small shed stood. Pressing the rifle tight against his chest, he ran as fast as his failing hip would allow. As he grew closer, the voices grew fainter. One-by-one, they went silent until there were more. It was then that he stopped suddenly, still holding his rifle close to his chest. The beat of his heart shook his whole body as he slowly settled the wood butt against his shoulder in anticipation. Stepping lightly, he approached the shed. He could smell the iron in the air.

Still keeping space between himself and the doorway, currently obstructed by a dead ewe—he adjusted his eyes from the bright sun to the depths of the shed, and there he could clearly see the blood-soaked demon, illuminated by trespassing sunbeams from old damage to the tin roof. The shepherd stared directly at him and wagged his tail as if waiting for compliments. He’d done good. He had killed them. Every last one of them noisy sheep. And the Shetland pony.

The incensed hobby rancher shot into shed, grabbed the sun-bleached, carved wood handle of the door, and forcefully pulled it shut—heaving the heavy, dead ewe with it. Quickly he slat-locked the door and listened. After a moment, Kimo broke the silence with an escalating, long, painful bellow that made the farmer’s nape skin to prickle. The man turned and ran back toward the house. It was high time someone did something about those Liles’ dogs before they killed again. Maybe next time, a person.

When the authorities arrived to retrieve the dog, he was gone. The rookie and deputy looked for him amongst the dead ewes thinking the gun shot, if as severe as the farmer had indicated, would surely have put the animal down.

Most of the livestock had their throats ripped open. Few were missing anything except their lifeforce. It looked as though the dog had killed for the sake of killing. One ewe’s head was bent backwards with the top of the head resting on its hindquarters, as though it had been peeled back to that point; from the other end, you had an almost clean look into its esophagus. The younger officer pointed out the absurdity, trying to seem tough, until the animal unexpectedly expelled aloud, baritone and breathy crow which spouted gore. Postmortem movement. He had studied it in his classes to get the badge he wore, but knowing the terminology didn’t help the young officer keep his last meal…only pay for it.

His senior, the deputy, ignored this and called him over. He guided the peaked rookie’s attention to a small opening at the corner of the shed. The young man wiped spittle from his chin and asked what it was—indicating the strange buildup clinging to the top of the tin. The deputy pulled the alien entity and it sprung open extending like an accordion made of fresh flesh, hair, and blood obviously fileted from the dog’s body as he had chewed just enough of the tin to then push his massive frame through the opening. The young officer lost the rest of his lunch.

Twice in a day, the dog had evaded death, but it had been over the past few years that they had received many complaints of a huge dog attacking livestock. They were sure it came from the only place within miles with shepherds and shepherds, mind you, with a reputation for their vicious entourage. Locals were terrified to go anywhere near the place, which seemed bad for business in the public’s eye—but for King, the deputy knew for a long time now, it’s exactly what he wanted. So, when he and his rookie partner did not find the dog’s mangled body—not along the road, not on the hillsides—it was last straw to drive to King’s Wrecking Yard to see if, by some ungodly marvel or utter demonic will, that the animal made it home.

“Stay with the car.” The Deputy told him as he slammed his own door.

King heard a voice and peered out the dust-caked window of the repair shop. The deputy had already made it halfway through the dirt parking lot before King flipped the switch from tormented, guilty, paranoid to self-possessed, indignant, and foreboding. He exited the building, shutting the door with a heavy swing.

“Afternoon, Officer,” he acknowledged.

“King.” The deputy nodded, watching his disfigured reflection get longer in King’s sunglasses.

A staple of his. Truth was though, King was an anxious mess most of the time, but his puffed-up bravado, dark tanned, muscular appearance, and sunglasses…they hid much of that…and honestly, as nervous as King was, the deputy was twice as much so for he knew, worse than any cornered, wounded dog—was an anxious addict of King’s magnitude.

“Here for a pickup? Little early.” King stated.

The deputy looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner wasn’t listening.

“We shouldn’t talk about that out here.”

He turned his attention back to King, squinting against the sun.

It was best to get the point as soon as possible as to diffuse the situation before King started creating scenarios in his head that weren’t happening.

“King,” the deputy looked about himself, “now that dog you got. The big one. Well, it butchered old Bill Owens’ flock. Even killed his goddamn pony.”

“A pony? Huh.” he almost sounded proud as he crossed his arms.

“Thing is, the Owens’ got grandkids and they’re all real upset right now that that dog is still out there. They’re gone want recompence.”

Though King remained wholly unchanged, the air around them stiffened noticeably.

“Now mind you,” the deputy offered, “they’re not asking to press charges,and it won’t cost you a dime,” he paused, “not this time.” But they’re gone wanna see that dog put down.”

“Put down, you say?”

King reached above his ear and found a Marlboro.

“That’s right.” The deputy replied.

King took his time lighting his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. His face was as placid and unreadable as the stretch of highway that brought them here and it made the deputy uneasy.

“Did it happen to show back up here? The dog.”

“Haven’t seen it.” He blew two columns of smoke out of each nostril. “Could ask my brothers.”

The deputy looked down and took note of the blood trickle trail and large paw prints headed the way of the four garage bays.

“That would be good.”

The deputy saw a young dog peer around the side of the building. Another two shepherds slowly made their way to the covered porch in front of the office door from the opposite direction. One dog laid down, but all three dogs were at attention. Watching. Waiting.

“Uh huh.” The deputy thought a moment, probably weighing the various outcomes should he press the issue. He looked back up to peer at his reflection in King’s glasses again, then over his shoulder at his partner straining to hear the conversation from the passenger side of the black and white Olds.

“Alright then.”

The deputy started to turn away, feeling slightly vexed, he stopped. “Jus’ make sure you put it down, that is if’n it does show back up.” He said this standing with his gun hip pointed toward King, taking great care to not look the man in the eye again. He knew King didn’t like to be told, but the deputy had a job to do—his real job.

“Probably be a small mercy to the thing if’n he’s in as bad a shape as I think he may be. Owens’ are right, you know,” He started back to his car. “I’d be a might bit worried having a dog like that around these kids you got here too...”

King’s hand grabbed the deputy by the back of the neck, snatched his wrist with his other hand, and slammed the officer onto the hood of the car—it was hard to tell if the deputy was screaming from the surprise, the angle he was bent, or the scorching heat of the metal on the flat of his cheek. His partner stumbled out of the car and with a shaky hand, pointed his sidearm at King, who paid him no mind even as he yelled, “Let him go! Let him go now!”

It was then that the dogs descended—snarling, lunging. The young rookie pointed his gun at them, and they backed off, still snarling—pacing and looking for an entrance.

King continued to ignore the young man as though he were but a gnat in his orbit.

“I don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my property,” he gritted his teeth near the officer’s ear, “and I sure as hell don’t like anyone telling me how to treat my kids. Not you. Not any other pig. No anyone. You hear me? If you want to keep this arm,” King wrenched the deputy’s wrist backwards until it was likely to snap, “you will keep your goddamn nose out the business that’s not yours and just keep it to the business we do have. You got me?”

“Yes! Let me up!”

His voice was almost drowned by the barking.

“What was that?”

“Yes! Just let me up! Let me up!”

King flung the rest of the man’s body onto the car. The deputy pushed himself off as fast as he could. His face already had a red welt ready to blister. He held his cheek and got into the car. The young officer, still standing beside the door, confounded over what had just taken place.

“Get in the car, Dicky!” the deputy yelled.

“Well, ain’t we gonna…”

“Get in the fucking car!”

The young man scrambled back into the car as awkwardly as he had gotten out of it. The car lurched into reverse and completed a wide, reckless backward turn before switching gears, and speeding off down the highway.

King watched the deputy go until the dust had settled and he heard the engine no longer. He sighed, then turned and walked directly to the first garage bay. Stepping inside, he looked down at the huge dog, side heaving erratically, reaching for air. The dog, unable to lift his head, peered out the corner of his eye at King. He was dark with blood, impossible to tell how much was his and how much belonged to his kills. King stared at Kimo. Cold.

He started for the backdoor to the office as he said, “If you die you better crawl somewhere where I won’t fucking smell you rot.”

He opened the door and just before he slammed it, muttered, “Stupid, fucking mutt.”

Kimo didn’t die. That night, King gathered the dog up and carelessly threw him into the back of his Chevy short-wide. He didn’t make a sound. King then piled us kids into the cab. We were never alone with Mom. It was the rule. Even if King was out well past what should have been a normal bedtime for a five and seven-year-old. He kept us close.

The windows were down. The breeze that came in was hot. I could hear the whoosh of the cars passing. The sun still glowing low like an ember on the horizon while the pink sky was slowly forced down by a heavy, dark blue veil of twilight.

I peered through the back glass of the truck. I could see Kimo’s ribs slowly moving up and down with each orange streetlight we passed under.

“Turn around.”

I obeyed.

When we arrived home. Our house, in the middleclass Modesto suburb, looked like any other house from the outside—dirt yard, palms, stucco—but inside it was chaos. It was also hazy, thick with cigarette smoke and stale Budweiser that clung to the furniture, the brown and tan carpet, and stained near the tops of the walls yellow. Bubble-glass windows in the bathroom heavy with mildew, the windows nailed shut from the inside to keep the men of shadows out. No room unscathed from King’s paranoia or the holes it made every wall.

My older brother Logan ran to our mom as she opened the front door. I could see him waving his arms as he explained the situation and see Mom’s eyes growing incredulous with each small flail. She walked quickly towards the back of the truck.

“GET…” my mom stopped at King’s voice. “…back…in…the house.” She slowly backed away from the truck bed and turned back the way came.

“I’ll bring him in,” his voice softened, almost apologetically—like he was a normal father coming home from a rough day at work and had uncharacteristically lost his temper.

King lugged the dog into the house, into the kitchen, then flopped him onto the orange, 1960s metal and Formica kitchen table. Blood crusted fur, eyes caked shut. Mom’s hand covered her trembling lower jaw as her eyes welled up with tears uncertain that she was allowed to have. She stood frozen, unknowing what to do until King told her.

“Bring me the first aid kit.”

J.M.Liles ©️2024

Chapter 1 Part 3

When he arrived, I led him to the place where he was supposed to wait for me, because I had to go get something. I came to the hiding place, grabbed the first snowballs I saw and started throwing them at him. He returned my challenge and they started falling on me too. We fought for a while (quite a long time) until one of us got a bullet in the face. It was me. I was surprised by a cold shower of snow on my face. I was a little angry on Richard, but not very much. It's part of the game after all. We stopped playing and rushed to Richard's since it is the closest to him. I didn't want to risk catching a cold in such a beautiful season. He ran ahead of me and deftly swerved until we came to his house. We knocked but no one opened the door. We got in despite that. An old peasant trick, when the residents of a given house put a key under a stone.

This way we could easily unlock without having the keys with us. We entered his house. It was beautifully but modestly furnished there. Pictures of his ancestors, important kings and a family painting hung on the walls. The first room was a common room, or living room. Roughly in the center of the room stood a massive wooden table with his family's coat of arms carved into it. Underneath it was a soft and fluffy red and white carpet.

In a world where the unknown takes flight. The zookeeper stands with all their might. A bird with a broken beak and clipped wing. Yet the zookeeper believes in the power it'll bring.

They can't forget the day we reached the moon's embrace. A feat so grand. Yet the bird in the rehabilitation zoo they don’t understand. Amidst the marvels of our world, the bird in the zoo remains a mystery, its existence shrouded in questions unanswered. Will it serenade us with a melodious tune, soar to the clouds on majestic wings, or simply stand on a tree branch?

As your devoted keeper, I find solace not in the answers to these inquiries, but in the journey, we embark upon together. I eschew the temptation to measure you against other songbirds, for your essence is unique and irreplaceable. Instead, I offer you my unwavering guidance and protection, a shield against the storms that may come your way. I believe in the boundless potential that resides within you. In the untapped depths of your melody. The graceful sweep of your wings, and the unfurling tapestry of your destiny. But the Zoo will always wonder what you can do.

But fear not, for I place my unwavering trust in the symphony of your soul. In the resilience of your clipped wings and the silent strength of your broken beak.

Embrace the music within you, embrace the freedom to sing and dance with abandon, for I shall stand as your devoted guardian, twirling in harmony with your song and adding my voice to your enchanting melody.

One day, if and when you spread your wings and soar beyond the confines of the Zoo. Know that I will always be with you. I will walk beside you, holding your hand as we waltz through the intricate steps of life's dance.

Our bond transcends time and space, a connection that will endure through every twist and turn of the journey ahead.

- Naixa Brignoni

©

Alright. Let’s take this step by step.

The first question is when: When did Jo go missing?

It was somewhere between 11 and 12 in the night.

The second question is where: From where did Jo go missing?

It was from her bedroom.

The third question is how: How did Jo go missing?

I zoned out for a minute, and she was gone. Therefore, we shall draw the first conclusion that she must have sneaked out by herself. It’s an impossible window for an abduction. The odds are too vague.

The fourth question is why: Why did Jo sneak out in the middle of the night?

Unclear. Jo’s mind works in strange ways. I told you-- she is the dumbest there is!

The fifth question is who: To whom could she have gone?

That brings us to the suspects. I have two doubts.

One: Mr Derrick Watson. Eighty-year old (Neighbour). Short white hair. Black eyes. Dark brown complexion. A little plump.

Two: Ms Elizabeth Bennett. Ten-year-old (Friend). Shoulder-length brown hair. I don’t know, strange eyes? Beige complexion. Petite.

The final question is what: What can I do to find her?

Darling, you have no idea what I am capable of. Before the sun rises in the east, I will bring Jo back home. And no one will ever know a thing. Let’s set out, shan’t we?

I rise from the bed, aiming for the windows. I will need a view. A broad one. If Jo is somewhere out in the open, I need to know. If that’s the case, I am sorry, lads. The story might end quite sooner than you anticipate.

But no. Jo might be dumb, but my hovering presence around her could have brought around some change. But before we move on to the suspects, I need to collect some evidence. I cannot gather direct testimonies from the neighbour or the friend. They will never even be able to sense my presence. I need to ask someone pure of heart. And I think I have already found the perfect witness.

There she stood, above the hill. The only one in the whole region. She glistened in the moonlight, and her tender leaves shone in the darkness. She must be old. Dozens of years must have passed since her birth. She must be wise. And standing above the hill, she could see every last thing that transpires on the island. The fairy tree.

I glide through the windows, taking the first step in the quest for Jo. To be honest with you, reader, I don’t think our journey together will last that long. The moment I reach her, our adventures might conclude before they even have the chance to begin. And to be furthermore honest, I can’t really see why I should care about that. I hover, close to the grass, steadfast on my way. Nothing can stop me, and nothing will.

“Ow! Watch where you are going, stupido!” The voice brings me to an immediate halt. What is that? A little squeaking creature. Is it a rat? But rats rarely keep their pureness of the heart for long. I need to know the answer. “Who is that?” I ask aloud.

And in all fairness, the owner of the feeble voice surprised me. A tiny blade of grass! How dare a piece of nothing raises its voice against a guardian angel? “What is your name, little thing?”

“Graham.” The reply nearly cracks me up. It must have been no more than a few days old. Such a feeble, childish voice with the name Graham? “Who named you, squeaky?”

I see how irritated and disturbed the arrogant little thing becomes. Speaking against a guardian angel with such temper, he must be taught a lesson. And his reply cracks me up again, “God did.” The determination and confidence in his voice are too silly! Considering that his answer is one born out of zero wisdom and knowledge, I feel pity for the thing.

“God,” I laugh, “God named you? How relevant do you think you are for the Great Lord? You are nothing but a tiny, trivial piece of grass. Your life is meaningless. It lasts as long as one day when the cattle bite you off your roots to satisfy their hunger. Or perhaps, a little storm. How dare you even say his name?”

The determination and confidence I saw early in his eyes are long lost. Is he crying? All it takes is a little monologue, and he realises his worth. How could these beings be so absurd? I can see him struggling to hide his tears. How melodramatic! Jo was the same. She couldn’t even handle the least of insults-- Breaking down in an instant. I wish the children were given more wisdom.

“You are not an angel. You will never be one.” How pathetic! As much as I want to laugh it off and stick to my goal, I feel this rising need to let it know its value, “I am one.” Without another word, I continue my path. My valuable time is not to be spent arguing with worthless things. I have to find Jo, and I have to do it soon. And so, for the time being, I am avoiding the whimpers of the little one behind in my path.

#fiction

There are days I wish you were here to tell me its ok.

And then there are days where I wish you would'nt have lied to me.

And then there are times I wish I would have got out of my childish fanastys,

and looked at you, not just a quick glance but really looked at you.

And I would have seen your tired eyes, and the way your hands shook.

but now I'm here choking, and crying in the tub while your ghost holds me and tells me its ok

and I wish your ghost would go away

because I'm starting to fall apart at the seams

and I can't lie to myself and say its ok

because it just doesn't sound the same

Lonely, I yearn for it’s touch. I giggle as the drops dance along my body, sigh as they slide from upon my tongue bumping along the walls of my throat & flow on the river in me. The tears chew their way out, ripping the linning of my stomach. Coughing up chunks of blood & rotten flesh. Skin starts to bubble & shred unleashing the veins & organs to swing to their freedom. Slicing the tongue that once enabled a playground. Black serpents invade & spew from the eyes, nails & holes in teeth. Decayed phlegm ejects from the ears, nose & eyeballs melting away at what once was a face & body. Toxic waters swallow the being whole to become one with the river that flows in me.

Ever since she was young, Laqueshia Johnson was nicknamed “Red”. Maybe because she loved to wear her daddy’s red baseball cap since she was three (When he’d come home from work, he’d pick her up and fly her around the house. She’d giggle and laugh, then take his cap and run all around the house until he finally caught her). Maybe it was because Laqueshia was just way to heck frickin hard to pronounce or spell, so the kids at school decided to call her the first thing that came to mind (she just so happened to wear a red shirt on her first day). Maybe it was because her middle name was Rhett, something she didn’t really find out until she was twelve. Yeah. That was probably the real reason why she was called “Red”. An accidental mispronunciation. BUT, never mind all that. The reason why she was called “Red” doesn’t matter at all in this story...

It was a rainy night on the west side of Detroit. Red was bobbing her head to the fresh beats in her headphones as she finished up some algebra homework. Lying on her belly, elbows deep in a pink unicorn pillow, she tapped her pencil against her emoji binder to the rhythm of the pouring rain as it pattered upon her windowpane.

“Dinnertime!” her mamma called from the little dining room.

With a sigh, Red rounded out the last zero she was forming and started up from her bed. She slung her mp3 player down onto her beanbag and rushed out of the room.

“Hey, hun,” Mamma smiled, kissing her on the forehead.

“Mamma, you know I’m too old for all that now,” she giggled in embarrassment, “I’m sixteen!”

“You always gonna be my baby, Red,” Mamma grinned, “You know that.”

Red found a seat and plopped down. Before her sat a bowl of instant ramen that was staring up at her for the third time that week. She sighed in annoyance but quickly straightened her posture with a smile as she felt Mamma’s sharp, correcting gaze land upon her.

“That’s better,” Mamma smirked, “Say your grace now.”

Red bowed her head and closed her eyes.

“Thank you, Lord God, for the food you provide us. Thank you for blessing me and mamma with this nice apartment, and the money to pay the rent...”

“Yes, Lord,” Mamma interjected.

“Thank you for helping me get good grades in school...”

“Thank you, Jesus!” Mamma over-emphasized.

“Thank you Lord God for legs to walk, a bike to pedal, and the bus to ride, but please help us to get enough money to buy a car to drive...”

Mamma breathed a silent laugh as she glanced up at Red only briefly.

“Thank you for Grandma. She lives on the other side of town all by herself, and she’s been sick lately. Please help her to get better. Thank you for Daddy, too. Please help him get out of jail soon. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” she said swiftly.

“Amen,” Mamma nodded in agreement.

Red quickly grabbed her fork and began devouring the noodles.

“So, baby, how was school today?” Mamma asked.

“It was okay,” she said with a mouth full of ramen, “TGIF though. Them exams is somethin’ else.”

“L-O-L, right?” Mamma chuckled.

“Yeah,” Red giggled.

“Speaking of TGIF, tomorrow is Saturday...” Mamma hummed, “Do you think you could go drop some stuff off at your Grandmamma’s house for me?”

“Sure, Mamma!” Red smiled. She loved to visit her Grandma. Even though the journey required two bus transfers and a few miles of walking or biking in between, she enjoyed observing the scenery of the neighborhood and all the people from different walks of life who lived there. She also had a secret graffiti project she had started (without her mamma’s knowledge) on the side of an abandoned storefront, and she’d been itching to add the next piece.

“Alright, but be careful, now,” Mamma warned, “They been talkin’ about that gang on the news.

“What gang?” Red asked.

“That new gang or somethin’,” Mamma murmured, “They been causin’ trouble, robbing people, and even kidnapping little girls,”

“Mamma, I ain’t a little girl anymore!” Red laughed, “I’m over all that ‘stranger danger’ crap.”

“Laqueshia,” Mamma said sternly, “You can never be too careful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Red nodded and looked down, finishing her noodles without another word about it. Mamma had broken out her real name. That meant it was time to stop arguing.

The next day, Red woke up bright and early. She looked out the window and smiled at the morning sun gleaming through puddles of yesternight’s rain. Dressing in her red hoodie, ripped jeans, and worn-out sneakers, she grabbed her purple backpack and headed to the kitchen.

“Mornin’ Red,” Mamma smiled, kissing her on the forehead, “Here’s the bag. There’s some tea, balms, and bath salts in there, along with a cup of my homemade chicken noodle soup, and a slice of my famous apple pie.”

“No fair, Mamma! I want some,” Red whined, shoving it into her backpack, “How come we get microwave ramen every night, but Granny gets all the good stuff?”

“Don’t worry,” Mamma laughed, “It’s what we’re having for dinner tonight.”

“Yes!” Red grinned, chugging her fist.

“Don’t stay out too late, now,” Mamma said as Red ran to the door, “Love you!”

“I won’t!” she grinned, “Love you, too!”

Walking down the street, she half-smiled at the environment around her. It was beautiful, yet broken. The pretty flowers in balcony gardens against the smoky clouds of exhaust. The cute little houses scattered amongst the dilapidated hulls scrappers had ransacked and squatters had called home. Green grass covered in spots by litter and illegal dumping. The pretty chirping of birds masked by the sounds of domestic disputes, swerving cars, police sirens, and occasional gunshots.

Red put on her headphones and bobbed her head the rest of the way to the first bus stop, stepping around puddles in time to the hip hop. Once she arrived, she leaned her back against the signpost and closed her eyes. Almost lost in the music, she nearly didn’t notice a young man approaching. At the last minute, she felt a presence and flung open her eyes. Smiling beside her was a young Hispanic man with slick black hair dressed in a leather jacket and faded dark gray jeans. He smiled with shiny white teeth and dark brown eyes. Caught off guard by him, she slowly lowered her headphones.

“Hola,” he waved.

“Hey,” she breathed.

She stared at him as his eyes looked her over, wandering from her dark, dimpled pie-face framed by her thick black box braids, to her petite pear figure, curvy hips, full thighs, and dingy red shoes. She began to feel a little uncomfortable, but something about the man was alluring. She mentally fought with herself, debating on whether she should run or stay.

“Sandalio,” he smiled, holding a hand out towards her.

Red stood there frozen in shock. Her brain didn’t know how to react.

“My name is Sandalio,” he repeated, “And yours?”

“Leq-- Uh--” Red shook herself out of the trance, but she couldn’t decide which of her names to tell him. Should she reveal her real name? This wasn’t ‘stranger danger’, was it? Maybe it was. She should tell him her nickname, “Red. I mean, Red. My friends call me Red.”

“Red?” Sandalio grinned as he shook her hand warmly, “I like it.”

As the two parted hands, Red looked off awkwardly.

“You waitin’ for the bus?” Sandalio asked, breaking the silence.

Red nodded but did not look in his direction.

“Little shy, huh?” Sandalio laughed.

“I ain’t shy,” she retorted, finally making eye contact with him again, “Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about what?” Sandalio asked.

“None of your business,” Red smirked, turning away again and putting her headphones back half-over her ears.

Sandalio snorted a laugh, then pulled out his iPhone. As he began playing some sort of app, the bus pulled up. Red got on the bus and sat towards the back in the corner. Sandalio followed and sat immediately behind her. Red removed her headphones and placed them into her backpack that sat next to her on the seat. Leaving her bag half unzipped, she tried to distract herself with her phone. She opened her match-three app and began to play.

“Woah,” Sandalio exclaimed, looking over her shoulder, “That’s a high score.”

Red self-consciously put down her phone and whipped her head around. She found herself nose to nose with the boy. Startled, she yanked back and leaned against the window.

“So,” he continued, resting his chin upon his folded arms that rested over the back of her seat, “How old are you?”

Red’s blood pressure was increasing. Her back was pressed against the glass as far as she could go.

“How old are you?” she retorted with edge.

“Twenty-one,” he smirked, “Your turn.”

Red was really uncomfortable now. This guy was older than she thought he was. He was a grown man! She was only sixteen, but she couldn’t tell him that.

“How old do you think?” she blinked.

“Hmm... Let’s see...” he chuckled, “Nineteen?”

“You got it!” Red nodded, sighing internally.

“You’re kinda cute,” he said, biting his lip, “You look so young.”

“I get that a lot,” she exhaled, looking back down at her phone but still not settling back into her seat correctly. A text had arrived from her mom. “I forgot to put crackers in that bag!” it read, “Could you stop by the store and get some for her, please? She just has to have them every time she eats soup.” Red texted back a thumbs up and a heart.

“You got a boyfriend?” Sandalio asked, brushing his hair back.

Red shook her head shyly, tilting her phone screen away from him.

“Lucky me,” Sandalio peeped, raising his eyebrow, “So, bonita, where are you going on this bus all by yourself?”

Red’s eyes dashed around to find an excuse. She knew she couldn’t tell him where she was really going.

“A friend’s house,” she decided aloud.

Sandalio nodded his head with pondering eyes that drifted to the ceiling of the vehicle. Red glanced out of the window, then back at the man who was now adjusting his watch. Upon his wrist, she noticed a small tattoo of a wolf’s head.

“What’s that?” she blurted involuntarily.

“Oh, this?” he smiled, revealing the entire tattoo, “It’s a wolf. You like?”

“I guess it’s alright,” Red nodded as she stared at the intricate detailing, “Why do you have it, though?”

“Well, it’s my name,” Sandalio explained, “Sandalio means ‘true wolf’.”

“Interesting,” Red nodded, looking back at her phone.

“So, what does ‘Laqueshia’ mean?” he asked.

Red’s heart nearly stopped. How did he find out her real name? She looked up with a face as pale as someone her complexion could get.

“I saw it on the nametag in your backpack,” Sandalio laughed.

Red swiftly grabbed her backpack and zipped it up, but it was too late. The man’s bright grin grew more and more sinister in her eyes.

“What you got in there?” he asked curiously.

“Stuff,” Red snarled.

“That ‘stuff’ smells pretty good, like apple pie,” Sandalio slurred, “Can I have some?”

Red didn’t answer. She had to find a way to get away from him. She looked out of the other window and saw that the bus was slowing to a halt.

“It’s my stop,” she breathed, hastily jumping up and heading towards the doors.

Just then, Sandalio caught her by the arm, causing her to gasp.

“Have a nice day, Laqueshia-- Red,” he smiled shyly, letting go.

Red almost wanted to scream, but the look in his eyes was hypnotic. Besides, he only desired to bid her good day.

“You too,” she nodded and leapt off the bus.

When her kicks hit the pavement, she stood there motionless with her back to the bus until she heard it start off again. She glanced up and stared down the street until it was out of sight. Sighing in relief, she headed along her way. She was glad that the boy had stayed on the bus. She wouldn’t call herself nervous, but she just didn’t like being followed. On her way to the next bus stop, she passed her mural and added a few strokes of spray paint. The painting displayed an open book laying out in the midst of a lush garden. From its pages leapt musical notes, emojis, and splashes of color. She smiled and stood back, drawing out her phone to take a picture of it. Just after she took the snapshot, a text notification popped up. “Hola, Rojo,” it read. She nearly dropped her iPhone. How? How did he get her number? The second after, a text from him answered her thoughts. “It’s Sandalio. So sorry I snuck your number, but I saw it in your backpack on the nametag and I couldn’t resist. I can’t imagine meeting such a beautiful girl and never being able to see her again.” Red’s fingers quivered. She probably stared at her phone for five minutes, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, she realized the time. She was going to miss the second bus! Red shoved her spray cans back into her backpack and ran away from her mural. Her feet pounded rhythmically against the sidewalk as her breaths grew shallower and shallower. Just as she arrived at the next bus stop, the bus was nearly pulling off.

“Wait!” she panted as the doors began to shut.

The driver rolled her eyes as she opened the doors back up, letting Red inside.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Red breathed, collapsing into a seat.

All throughout the ride, she stared at her iPhone. Her heart was beating fast and her palms were sweating, but she attributed that to the run. She took a deep breath and looked at his text again. Her fingers hovered indecisively over the keyboard until she finally typed “LOL” and hit send before she talked herself out of it.

“Whew,” he texted back, “I thought maybe I had a number off.”

Red texted back a laughing emoji.

“We didn’t have much time to get to know each other,” he continued, “What’s your favorite food?”

”...my mom’s chicken noodle soup,” she answered after hesitating.

“If I tried it, I’d probably think the same,” he responded with a cheesing emoji.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked.

“Blackish grey,” he answered, “And I assume yours is red?”

Red replied with a thumbs up.

“So, your friend lives on the East side?” Sandalio texted.

“Yeah.” Red texted back with a nod.

Somehow, she was less afraid when there was a screen between them. She felt more confident, and she didn’t even ask herself how he knew this information.

“Fantastico!” he replied, “I have folks over there too. They live anywhere by the Berkshire Development?”

“Not too far from that. They on Bartham and Hearn near Fiori Park.” Red responded, then added, “My ‘friend’ is actually my Grandma. I’m taking the pie and stuff to her.”

“Cool cool,” Sandalio instantly replied, “I wish I was your abuela right now. JK”

Red laughed aloud.

“But I’m kinda serious,” he continued, “She’s a lucky lady right now. She gets :soup_emoji: and :pie_emoji:, and, best of all, she gets to see your gorgeous face.”

Red blushed and sent an emoji to match.

Before long, the bus paused at the stop. Texting a quick “GTG, TTYL,” she hopped off and shoved her phone into her pocket. She was smiling bright, inhaling the warm spring air. She glanced down at the sidewalk and saw many little yellow dandelions jutting out of the cracks. She remembered collecting them and giving a bouquet of them to Grandma ever since she was a toddler. The nostalgia of her grandmother's neighborhood warmed her heart. She knelt down and gathered some as she skipped along. By the time she reached her granny’s house, she had a whole fistful. She smiled big and wide, climbing the steps and raising her fist to knock, when, suddenly, her phone let out a sharp *ping!* sound. The noise caused her to remember her mother’s text. She had forgotten to pick up the crackers! But, Red did not despair. She knew exactly what to do. Cooper’s Convenience Store was on the corner just a few blocks down. Turning on her heels, Red ran down the sidewalk towards the place but abruptly stopped. She had heard a hacking sound ever since she’d gotten off the bus, but now she knew what it was. One of her grandmother’s neighbors stood chopping away at a large tree in front of an overgrown vacant lot just yards away from the house.

“Hey, Mr. Jack!” she shouted over the noise, “What are you doing?”

“That you, Red?” the man panted, bringing his axe down to lean upon it for a moment, “Well, I’m a’choppin’ this ’ol tree down.”

“Why?” Red asked in disappointment. She had many fond memories of playing around that tree. She climbed in it, broke her arm falling out of it. She hid behind it when she played hide and seek with her best friend. She and her first crush had even carved their initials into it.

“It’s dead, now, lil’ missy,” Mr. Jack replied, wiping sweat from his brow, “Last night’s storm nearly took it down. Wouldn’t want it to fall on somebody next time around.”

Red sighed.

“Oh, I know you had a great time with this tree,” he said lovingly, “But there’s a time for everything, you know that. A time and a purpose for everything under the heaven.”

Red nodded. She was disappointed, but resolved that being attached to a rotted old tree was silly for a sixteen-year-old woman, so waved her acquiescence to Mr. Jack and continued on to the store. As she waited in line, she checked the notification on her phone. There was nothing except a little GPS symbol, so she swiped it away and shrugged. When it was her turn at the counter, she bought crackers for Grandma. She also decided to purchase a sodapop for Mr. Jack and a candybar for herself. She shoved them all into her backpack. The walk back to Grandma’s was slow and sad this time. She didn’t know why, but something about that tree was special to her. It had always been there when she needed it. When she passed by Mr. Jack chopping away at it, she passed him the ice cold drink and took one last look at her favorite tree. She didn’t want to imagine it being gone.

“Thanks, Red,” he breathed, after taking a much needed sip, “Visitin’ your grandma?”

Red nodded

“Better not keep her waitin’ much longer then,” he said, putting down the bottle and picking up the axe again.

Coming within a few feet of her grandmother’s house, she instantly perked up. Her grandma’s face was something that always cheered her up. Just picturing it in her head was enough to put her in good spirits. She leapt onto the porch and lifted her fist to knock again, but this time, she noticed that the door was already cracked open.

“Grandma?” she asked cautiously, but receieved no answer.

Red slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The house looked just as it did the last time she had visited, but something seemed wrong. A few things wer knocked over, but she knew her grandmother was getting old, and it was harder for her to bend over, so Red shrugged and picked up the things for her.

“Grandma?” she called again, louder this time.

“I’m in the bed!” she heard a muffled mumbling voice yell back.

The voice sounded very strange. She realized that Grandma’s illness must have been worse off than she had originally thought. It was a good thing Mamma had thought to send her with soup.

“Okay!” she shouted, “Imma heat up your soup and bring it up to you, alright?”

Red headed to the kitchen and popped the bowl into the microwave. Then, she got a tray and sat upon it a napkin, a spoon, the crackers, and a glass of water. As the soup continued heating, she placed the box of teabags in the cabinet, threw the slice of pie into the fridge, and took the bath soaks and balms to the bathroom counter. Hearing the beep of the microwave, she completed the tray with the bowl of soup and headed upstairs. As she entered the open bedroom, she gazed upon the bed. Inside was her grandmother. She was covered with blankets and quilts from head to toe- even her face was covered. What she could see of it was discolored, and her eyes were harsh and wild. The room was completely silent save for the sound of slow, heavy breathing and the rhythmic solemn hacking of Red’s beloved tree being chopped down that resounded through the open window.

“Grandma, you look bad!” Red exclaimed, sitting the tray down on the sidetable, “You all bundled up! Why you got the window open? Want me to close it and turn the heat up?”

As she turned to fasten the window, a quick hand grasped her arm. She gasped and looked down as she felt the familiar clutch. To her horror, she saw the the wolf tattoo upon the wrist.

“You not my Grandma!” she screamed, trying to yank away, but the grip was too strong.

“Don’t worry,” Sandalio laughed evilly, removing the blankets from himself, “I won’t hurt you.”

Red screamed loudly, but he leapt out of the bed and covered her mouth from behind. Red kicked and and jabbed, shimmying herself out of his grasp.

“What the heck did you do with my gradma, you creep!?” Red screamed through fear, rage, and tears as she quickly ran over to the other side of the bed to put distance betwen herself and him.

Sandalio flashed a sinister smile and inched around towards her. Apprehensively, she looked around the room for some sort of weapon.

“I didn’t hurt your abuela,” he said softly, “I don’t want your abuela. I want you.”

Red’s chest heaved and her blood rushed as she stood frozen in fear, when, suddenly, he lunged at her. Thinking quickly, Red leapt onto the bed and tried to roll onto the other side when Sandalio laid hold onto her legs.

“HELP! HELP!” she screamed as he turned her over and pinned her down, “HELP ME! ANYONE PLEASE!”

“You’re a frisky one,” he laughed, bending his head down to her face.

Red reached up and grabbed the scalding soup from the side table and splashed it all over him, causing him to cry out and loosen his grip. At this moment, she kicked him into the wall and flipped herself off the other side of the bed. Landing on her hands and knees on the floor, she saw her grandmother’s twisted arm sticking out from underneath the bed.

“Grandma?” she gasped in terror as she saw her once warm eyes garing out at her nearly glazed over.

All seemed to go quiet in that moment. Sandalio had stopped cursing, She heard no breathing (not even her own), and even the hacking sound had ceased. Before she could ponder anymore, Red found herself pinned to the floor. Sandalio was on top of her with his hands to her throat. Red tried to scream again, but it only came out in choked whimpers.

“Little naive girls are the best prey,” he grunted, “They are so innocent and trusting. They leave clues out right where thieves can see them.”

As he spoke, his grasp around her neck grew tighter. She hit him repeatedly with her fists to no effect.

“They let criminals track their phones, and they tell too much information,” he continued, “And, best of all, they’re pretty.”

Red felt her consciousness slipping away. Her sight fogged with tears, and her throat could produce sound no more. Her arms dropped limply to her sides and her eyelids fell. Her hearing was the last sense to go, but she thought she heard the familiar hacking sound return and grow closer, louder, and more furious than it had been before.

Just then, the bedroom door was thrown open, and in barged Mr. Jack with his axe.

“Get the heck off of that girl!” he roared, holding the sharp tool over his head in a defensive stance, “Get on up and get the heck outa here!”

Sandalio yanked up and stood to his feet quickly, drawing a gun into his right hand and aiming it at Mr. Jack’s heart.

“Stupid move, muchacho,” he grinned slyly, motioning with a flick of his glock for the man to move over to the wall, “Now, put down the axe nice and slow.”

Mr. Jack slightly lowered his axe with a devastated face, then suddenly raised it again and threw it. Sandalio screamed in excruciating pain as it flew and sliced directly through his right arm. Hearing everything, Red finally recovered herself and opened her tightly shut eyes. Lying right beside her was the bloody severed arm with gun still in hand and the eyes of the wolf tattoo staring directly back at her. Red quickly jumped up and fell into Mr. Jack’s arms, weeping. Mr. Jack pulled out his phone and called the police. Sandalio was collapsed in a bloody pool upon the carpet.

“Where’s your grandma?” Mr. Jack asked.

Red pointed under the bed. Mr. Jack gently pulled the elderly woman out. She was alive but shivering and trembling.

“Oh, Red, thank God you’re alright!” she kept saying, “God bless you, Jack. Thank you, Jack.”

Soon, the police and the ambulance arrived, and Red had never been so relieved to hear those sirens. There were no handcuffs required for Sandalio, and everyone else lived happily ever after as one can in the hood.

"What!!!" It was hard to hear Chloe over the yelling of Isa and Michael, Michelle singing Justin Bieber with Holly's niece Jane, and MCR songs blasting through the room. "We rented our house out to a hottie and I'm not even allowed to see him!!! Son of a bitch!!!"

"Yeah. I thought Evan called you and told you." Miss Genevieve had only kicked us out of her house ten minutes ago but I had to tell Chloe. She loved cute guys. "His mom forced him to come over too."

"Shut up! He said there was a terrorist next door and that it was a she. Evan didn't mention that there was a cute guy next door!!!"

"He's your boyfriend. He wouldn't have told you even if he knew you wanted to know."

Chloe paused to bite into something crunchy. "You know Holly has me on a damn diet!!! First she drags me to Ball Sacramento, the lamest place in Cali, and then she forces me to eat carrot sticks. You know she doesn't have any cute guys in her family either. I spent twelve boring minutes talking to her nephew, Dudley."

"How'd that go?"

Chloe bit hard into the carrot. "It was fucking awful! For one, she failed to mention that her nephew was a stoner. Which would've overruled how lame he looked. He looks like Shaggy off of Scooby-Doo. Not the cute one either. Like one of the lame cartoonists. Plus the dude had a gastrointestinal problem so he was farting for hours!!" I could already see Chloe doing her annoyed face where she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out halfway. I began to giggle. "Plus, to make matters worse, he weighed less than me and was a fucking matchstick! A MATCHstick!!! I bet he was small anyway!"

I giggle again. Chloe grunted from the other line. "I'm going to kill Evan when I get home. So are they moving bombs into the house?"

"No. I didn't see any. But they cleaned up."

"What!!! There is no way those people cleaned all that up. That's fifteen years worth of children and divorce and fighting and hell and back! How did they clean it?!? We couldn't even clean it!"

"You didn't exactly try..." I reminded her.

"So? Even if we did try, we wouldn't have even made a dent. So why try?"

"Did you know the carpet is white?"

"It's beige. It was when we moved in. I've seen old pictures."

"Nope. It was white. I saw it with my own eye holes."

"You are lying."

"Nuh-uh."

"Prove it! Go take pictures."

"I can't. They kicked us out already. But I saw it. I'll ask Tehra for pictures tomorrow. Then, I'll scan them at the library and e-mail them." Monroe was like twenty years behind in technology. Our librarian, Gail Morris, swore that she wanted to go back to Atlanta like she did when she was little and leave Monroe for once and for all but she hasn't left yet. "You'll get them and you'll see I'm not lying."

"There is no way that is possible. we fucked that house up so bad that Holly swore that we were the messiest people she's ever seen and she's a maid for Christ sakes!"

I heard my mother call my name for dinner. Oh please, dear God, be pizza. Saratina's gotta give us a break. She's had Mom's food. "I've got to go eat. Wish me luck. Pray I don't die tonight. She's probably still pissed at me."

"Dear Holy God, don't take my friend away from me. Take her mother's casseroles and burn them in Hell."

"Amen."

"See ya, girl. I'll talk to you later." There was a crash, a bang, and sobs in the background. "Damn it, Michelle!! I said watch Isa!!"

The line died off. I ran down the stairs and was greeted by my little brother Matt. He was covered form head to toe in flour. Oh dear God... What's dinner? I rubbed what was once Matt's blonde hair, sprinkling flour allover the main hall, and we went into the kitchen. It was smoky in there and Violet and my mom were arguing. "But Mom! Everyone has one!!!"

"I don't care! You are way too young to be trying to get a tattoo."

"It's fake!!! It'll wash off in a few days."

"I don't care. You aren't getting a tattoo and that's final!" Mom one, Violet zero. Mom stooped down and pulled out a horrendous casserole out of the oven. "Dinner's ready."

"I'm not eating that," Violet said matter-of-fact.

It didn't matter whether she ate it or not. It was just going to come back out soon. Mom could've made a perfect chocolate cake... okay bought a perfect chocolate cake and Violet still would've chosen not to eat it. Whatever she chose to eat, she would just throw up or shit out anyway. She was anorexic, thanks to Junie and Amber's thinness, and she wasn't allowing herself to gain a pound. I didn't blame her for saying she wasn't eating the casserole. It was liquidy and smelled like burnt broccoli and garlic. I was beginning to really miss Chloe living next door. Before, I'd just feed the casseroles to our dog, Sparks, who didn't care what it smelled like, and crawl on my tree over to Chloe's house and just have dinner there. Now, it would just be weird.

"You will eat whatever I say you will. Now sit down and eat this casserole I slaved over for three hours preparing."

"Is that why it smells like poopies?" Matt asked. His little brown eyes were filled with innocence.

He always got to eat a hot-dog or cheeseless pizza Saratina made while I was forced to eat the concoctions my mother considered food. He was lucky he was lactose intolerant. I tried to fake that but I ended up shitting my pants. Not the best party trick when you mother has her new boyfriend and his there kids over. Things didn't really work out after that. I wonder why... "Yeah, baby brother. That's why it smells like poopies. Mom made it."

My mother glared at us. "Table. Now."

Violet groaned and stomped to the table. I took Matt's hand and we followed her over to the table. I helped Matt into his booster seat, which mom insisted on making him sit in even though he was seven. Mom came in about five minutes later. She carried a plain hamburger for Matt in one hand and her casserole dish in the other. There were five bowls balanced perfectly on top of the casserole dish. Mom may not have been able to cook but she could balance stuff on top of other stuff like nobody's business. She set the dishes on the table and began to ladle casserole into the three bowls. When the bowls were full to the point where the acidic stuff was splashing off of the sides, she set one bowl in front of me and one in front of Violet. She took her bowl and sat at the head of the table.

"Bow your heads," my mother said. "Vi, your turn to say grace."

"Damn it. Okay," Violet grabbed my hand and Matt's hand and we bowed our heads while my awful sister crafted up a prayer. "Dear Lord, I pray that you give my mother the sight of cooking and teach her that if its taking more than an hour and a half, it's burnt. I pray that my family lives through this and that Junie and Amber will forgive me for all the calories that I'm putting in my body. Oh! I also pray that Mom changes her mind about the tattoo or she'll rot in hell. Amen."

"Real mature," my mother said. she used a spoon and stirred the weird goopy mess. "This is Peach and broccoli soup. You will enjoy it."

"But peaches and broccoli don't go together," I said. "They are in entirely different sections on that cute little pyramid for a reason. That line is like a barbed wire. Once you cross it, you are officially hurting everyone."

Violet nodded. She stirred the gooey mess with her spoon like it was tea, sploshing it all over the table. I wasn't even going to put my spoon through the awfulness of the contents of the bowl. I wouldn't put anything into or near that bowl without them wearing a Has-mat suit. "So, Junie and Amber get tattoos and I don't. How will I ever be able to go to school again?"

"Well, you shouldn't be worried about that. School isn't for two months. Plus, your face is fine. I'm just not letting you get a tramp stamp that says Juicy. I will let you get butterflies or maybe even an anchor but you will not be getting a tramp stamp or any other tattoo that says Juicy on your body. You may write in Sharpie. You may do it in stickers but yo are not getting anything permanent on your body with that kind of message. Do something else."

"What's a tramp stamp?" Matt asked.

"It's a tattoo on your lower back," I explained. "In the olden days, prostitutes used to get them with their stage name."

"Isn't Daddy's new wife a prostitute, Mommy?"

"Oh dear lord," My mother shoveled casserole into her mouth so that she didn't have to answer.

"Yes, Jenny is a whore," Violet answered. "She got knocked up so Daddy would be stuck with her."

"What's knocked up?"

"Pregnant." Violet looked at Mom to see if she was breaking. Mom toughly chewed and glared back at Violet with a straight face. She was better than me. Violet would've lost a few teeth if she were my daughter. "Isn't Sarah a crack baby, Mom?"

"That's no way to talk about your sister."

"I'm not talking about my sister. I'm asking about Sarah."

"Sarah is just as much your sister as Samantha is."

"Sam," I said.

"Oh just give up. We aren't calling you Sam, kid. You are Samantha to us. Get over it."

"Tramp."

"Samantha."

"That's enough! Eat you goddamn dinner and do not say another word about tramps, tattoos or your father."

"You're just mad because he left you for a tramp," Violet murmured as she put her spoon into her mouth with a tiny bit of peach on it.

"THAT'S IT!" Mom got up and walked towards Violet. Violet ran out of the house with Mom close behind. I poured my casserole back into the dish and went to the front room to watch. I'd walk to Saratina's Pizzeria later. This was too good to miss. I went to the front window and watched as my mom tackled Violet and began to smack her in the mouth. Ass beatings were like the Emmys in Monroe. Totally worth not walking to Saratina's when I had the chance.

The sky was dark now, and Cordelia and Blackburn stood in the midst of what felt like a thousand looming trees. Occasionally an owl hooted or the trees rattled in the wind, but otherwise the forest felt still.

“Fortune tellers want to be found,” Blackburn was explaining. He had already begun to walk in a seemingly random direction. “Generally they set up somewhere in the moonlight; better for predictions and for getting the attention of wandering tourists.”

“Are there are a lot of wandering tourists in these woods?” Cordelia asked, scrunching up her nose. She couldn’t imagine anyone of class traipsing around the woods at night.

“If you’re looking for someone to read your future, sure. It’s more common than you think,” Blackburn responded, sensing her skepticism.

“So, do--oomph!” Cordelia let out an unladylike grunt as she tripped and hit the rocky ground. Her gloved hands scrabbled at the dirt, and she pushed her upper half up, but something was still wrapped around her ankle.

She shook her leg, twisting to see what had her, when she felt herself being pulled backwards. She saw it: hands.

“Mr. Blackburn!” she shrieked. The arms were strong, and they kept a tight grip on her leg. She felt her skirt rip, snared on a broken branch, and she kicked out at her attacker. “Blackburn!”

All at once he was there, grabbing her hands, trying to pull her away from the hands attached to her ankles.

But her silk gloves were too slippery, and Cordelia was yanked away, while Blackburn was left clutching her gloves.

Heart pounding, Cordelia twisted until she could see her capturer: a man with a large red beard and disturbingly blank eyes. In fact, his entire face was slack and expressionless, as well as covered in dirt.

Then, a pistol fired. A tree snapped above her head, and Cordelia gasped, eyes wide.

To her relief, the grip on her ankle disappeared, and she scrambled away right into Blackburn, who grabbed her hand and assisted her up. He gave her an odd look as she stood, whirling, to see the red-haired man holding the tree branch above his head. He seemed to have caught it.

“Are you alright?” Blackburn asked, turquoise eyes flashing back and forth between the man and Cordelia, who stood slightly behind him.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, eyes trained on the red-haired man. He did not move, but Cordelia refused to look away.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered after a moment, listening. There was rustling in the forest, like someone was running.

A figure emerged, pistol in hand. Marfleet. “Found you! You are under arrest, Mr. Notley!” he called out.

The man Notley made no attempt to run or attack. Instead, he set the tree branch down on the ground and put a hand to the tree it had fallen from.

As Blackburn and Cordelia looked on, Marfleet approached the man and bound his hands with rope. Still, Notley said nothing. His expression didn’t even change.

Satisfied, Marfleet nodded to the two onlookers. “Looks like I beat you to this one, Mr. Blackburn.”

“You think this killed Samuel Bellingham?” Blackburn asked, stepping forward to peer at Notley. The man stood motionless, his bound hands still laying on the tree trunk.

“This is Lyman Notley. He’s a been living as a hermit in these woods for twenty years. That is the kind of thing to drive a man mad,” Marfleet said, one brow raised in challenge.

Cordelia, who had just recovered from her near kidnapping, listened to their conversation from some feet away. She squinted into the dark forest. “Is the tree supposed to be doing that?”

Inexplicably, the tree seemed to be growing a new branch, exactly in the spot that it had lost one.

“Excellent work, Cordelia,” Blackburn breathed. He stared upwards, transfixed.

“What’s going on?” Marfleet asked impatiently, grabbing Notley by the shoulder and wrenching him away from the tree. Notley swung limply in the direction Marfleet pulled, not unlike a rag doll. The whole ordeal made Cordelia shiver.

“Look, it’s stopped,” said Blackburn, gesturing at the tree. “Notley isn’t the killer; he’s a healer.”

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/293154/4-summoning

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/299187/6-someone-is-dead

The strangest thing happened

to Lilly McGown.

Her toe caught a crack

but she didn’t fall down.

She bumbled and stumbled

in front of a truck,

and Lilly found

herself falling up!

The crack wasn’t new

she’d seen it before,

it had stubbed a toe

and had caught the door.

’Lil had the means,

it could have been filled,

“but it was only a crack,

who had it killed?”

Poor Lilly expected

to crack her crown,

as always before when

falling down,

she’d split her lip

or blacked an eye

but this time Lilly

fell towards the sky!

She fell and she fell

forever it seemed,

she fell past birds

on feathery wings.

She fell past kites

and clouds and things.

’Lil Lil’ fell upward

as if pulled by a string.

Poor Lilly fell high

to the edge of black,

to that clearly drawn line

where you cannot come back.

She kicked and she waved

but she never could stop

this falling that fell

her right over the top.

Poor Lilly is gone

From her upward spill.

She tripped into Heaven

against her will,

so fill your cracks

and tamp them down

so you never trip up

like Lilly McGown.

.