My mind is a tidal wave of thoughts, roaring over the heavy roads until at last the engine dies. They trigger me like a gun without the bullet, observing my reaction, its damage insignificant to those around me. I am not wounded by sight, yet I feel crimson stains beneath my skin.

I am sad, I think. And yet I smile.

I am happy, I know. Yet saltwater slides over my cheeks.

Will the mind’s perplexities ever be understood as they intertwine and dig deeper into the pit of my subconscious? Thoughts hold blind control over me. I am merely the fallen apple in Newton’s theory, reacting to the forces around me. The cause of my actions reaches to my conscious, begs me to understand my own reactions.

Yet I falter in the maze of my mind. Forever I am a mystery to myself.

"I want out of social bondage", Lauryn said.

Every day, I struggle to find an answer to that cry.

The same one that lies within me.

I don't have the answer. If I had the answer, would I then be free?

If I knew what to do, could I do it?

If I had to choose between the comforts of this society

and true self-sovereignty, would I choose liberation over monopoly?

"I get out", Lauryn said.

But she didn't tell me how.

Step-by-step, I go nowhere.

I return to myself with frustration

and the crushing weight of my desire to reach the timeline

where we actually take care of one another.

I just want to have something good in this world. Truly good.

Free of exploitation and greed and hate and corruption.

Until the possibility truly exists, I can never be free.

So everyday, I build my faith, carrying the hope & the potential of that possibility.

"Knowing my condition is the reason I must change", Lauryn said.

And so I shed layers of who I am not.

Finding freedom in the moments where I am most authentic.

For I am not searching not for an end in sight.

But a possibility.

The hallway was dimly lit.

I ran my hands up and down the walls, feeling the paint that had been haphazardly sprawled over oat-like bumps and anxiously scouring for a light switch.

My hands moved faster and faster until I was sprinting through the endless hallway.

The blackness blanketed the light, and the dim rays of sunshine from the windows had been drowned by the enclosing darkness.

I banged my hands against my surroundings in distress.

My arm turned limp, my feet burned from the insoles of my shoes, and my eyelids collapsed.

I conceded to the invisible world, giving up any hope of illuminating the right path to take.

Day after day I tear through my consciousness as I scramble to come up with some self identity-- a phrase, a quote, a vague peace of mind.

I’m unsure what I’m looking for, but I’m upset that I haven’t found it.

I flip my options over the same way I flipped pancakes when I was seven-- over and over again, anxiously, for fear of ruining them.

I’m looking for a soul switch. A sign.

Quick and easy-- no looking back. A definite answer.

But it is doubtful that my continuous babbling thoughts will be quieted by any quote I dig up.

After all, how can I hinge my future on a coincidental arrangement of letters that happened to hit me just right?

But, how can I hinge my future on anything when my consciousness is a void that grows entirely differently each day?

And so I go to sleep unsure everynight, enthused by the idea of morning clarity. And I’ve made the decision a thousand times. But I’ve unmade it just as many. Because my certainty is as likely as any soul switch I’m looking for.

Martin arrived home from school that afternoon to the sound of his mother and her live-in boyfriend Glenn arguing. Martin sighed inwardly, casually tossing his book bag on the kitchen table, while grabbing a Coke out of the fridge.

His mother and Glenn were in the living room, voices raised as one tried to over shout the other.

“Well?” Glenn spat, “What did she leave us?”

“Us?” Martin’s mom laughed. “What’s this ‘us’? You got a mouse in your pocket? She was my great-aunt, not yours, so whatever this is, it’s for me, not you!”

God, how they loved each other, Martin thought sarcastically. The petty bickering between Martin’s mom and Glenn had been getting worse over the last month, ever since Glenn lost his job as a car salesman. Martin walked into the living room, noticing a large package on the polished drift-wood slab his family used as a table. Martin’s dad had made that table the year before he died. Martin remembered when he and his dad had found the piece of drift-wood the last time that they went fishing together.

“Hi guys,” Martin said.

“Hi, Honey,” his mom said, absently staring at the package in front of her. Glenn looked Martin up and down, face sour, nostrils flaring, and said nothing.

Turning back to Martin’s mom, Glenn said, “Well, open it already. Don’t just stand there like a lump!”

The skin on Martin’s head crawled, his anger flaring as his stomach tied itself in a knot. He hated it when Glenn threw derogatory remarks at his mom. But Glenn was taller and out-weighed Martin by eighty pounds, and at fourteen, there wasn’t much that he could do that wouldn’t get him smacked by Glenn. Oh, Glenn wouldn’t do it now, not when Martin’s mom was here. He’d wait until she went to work, then let Martin have it.

Glenn always threatened that he would hurt his mom if Martin ever said anything, but he knew that his mom would probably kill Glenn if she ever found out that he was beating Martin. That’s what really scared Martin; he didn’t want her to go to jail for murder and he couldn’t imagine life without her, but in reality, she really needed to get rid of Glenn.

Exasperated, Martin’s mom tore open the package, white paper falling to the floor in the process. Glenn’s little pug, Britney, took a large piece in her mouth and proceeded to shred it into pieces.

“Clean that up, Marty,” Glenn ordered. Martin hated to be called “Marty”.

“It’s your dog, you do it!” Martin snarled, before realizing what he had said.

“What did you say?” Glenn asked quietly.

Martin gulped, “Nothing! Never mind, I’ll do it!” He went into the kitchen to get the trash can. Martin was always cleaning up after that piece-of-shit little dog. The bug-eyed thing looked like it ran ten feet in a nine-foot room. And if it didn’t get outside in time, it always shit in Martin’s room.

Martin carried the can back into the living room. Glenn and his mom were staring down into the package, both looking rather confused.

“What the hell is it, Carla?” Glenn asked. Martin’s mom held up an envelope and turned it in her hands. She looked up at Martin,

“It’s for you, Honey.” She held the envelope out to him. Martin put down the trash can, and reached for the very old-looking envelope.

“CLEAN UP THE PAPER FIRST!” Glenn ordered. Carla scowled and said, “Martin is right, Glenn, Brit’s your dog. You do it!”

Inwardly, Martin cringed. Thanks, Mom! he thought. Glenn’s eyes shot daggers at him, but Martin was more interested in the envelope his mother still held out to him. On closer inspection of the letter, Martin saw that his name was written on it in a scrawling, shaky print:

Martin Alexis Tanner

Martin looked up from the letter to his mother, “Who’s it from?” he asked. His mother was still looking into the box on the table.

“It’s from your great-great Aunt Cecilia,” Carla replied.

“Isn’t she that rich old lady in those pictures in your room?” Martin asked.

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Why would she send me anything?” Martin asked wonderingly. “I’ve never even met her.”

Glenn, who was picking up wet, dog-chewed wrapping paper interjected, “You won’t, either. Old bat died, and all we got out of it was an old box of crap for you!”

“Be quiet Glenn,’ Martin’s mom hissed angrily. “Martin, read the letter, and I’ll show you what’s in the box.”

Martin tore open the envelope, careful not to let any errant paper fall on the floor. He wanted to avoid the Wrath of Glenn, not encourage it. The same spidery handwriting filled the front and back of a folded piece of ancient stationary. The letter began:

Dearest Martin;

Forgive an old lady for not being there for you when you and your mother needed me. At the time of your fathers’ death, I felt that it was better for you and your mother to grieve together, without interference. I realized much too late that I was wrong. My support should have been given when it was needed, but I withheld it, hoping to make your mother a stronger woman. I have personally lost three husbands myself, and I have always battled on. I thought Carla would, as well.

Then the “gentleman” appeared at a time when your mother was most vulnerable, and I am afraid that his influence has clouded your mom’s judgment on a great many things. Because of this, I have instructed that my entire estate be held for you in a trust, until that time when you are better able to defend your mother and remove the oppressive shackles of influence a certain “gentleman” holds over her. You must be strong, Martin; for your sake and your mother’s. Keep this note safe, Martin, and remember that although I was not there for you, I do love you and your mother.

Love,

Aunt Cecilia

P.S.

The box contains an heirloom that has been passed down for generations…use it well, Martin. Use it well…and be careful what you wish for!!!

Martin folded the letter in half, then again, and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans. He stepped around to his mother’s side and looked into the box. There, neatly packaged and arranged, was a small-scale train set. The track was held in place by red leather cord strung throughout the box. There were small buildings, people, even a few misshapen objects that Martin believed to be hills, or a landscape of some kind. Strange, flat objects jutted up from one of the hills. He gave all of this a cursory glance. His eyes were drawn to the locomotive and its only boxcar.

The locomotive was decked out in black and silver. Miniscule vases were attached to it, all of them filled with tiny red roses. Black curtains were hung in the engine compartment, making Martin wonder fleetingly how the engineer was supposed to see out. However, the boxcar was the most magnificent contraption Martin had ever seen. The car was enclosed and surrounded with gilt-scrolled, glass walls. Martin picked up the boxcar and, on closer inspection, realized that there was a small coffin resting on a raised dais inside. The top of the boxcar sported an angel kneeling in a praying position.

“Mom, what is this?” Martin asked, puzzled.

Carla’s voice was hollow as she said, “It’s a funeral train, Martin. Aunt Cecilia has sent you a funeral train.”

*****

Martin took the box containing the funeral train upstairs, pointedly ignoring Glenn’s questions about the content of Cecilia’s letter. He left his mom and Glenn arguing, and reached for the string that would pull down the ladder that allowed access to the attic. Martin’s dad’s old shop was in the attic, and that was one place that Glenn wouldn’t go. Martin had, on occasion, needed to shoo (or in some cases, shoe) the little pug Britney out of the attic room, since the annoying little yap-bucket knew how to climb stairs. He climbed into the attic and cleared off one of the three long tables that occupied the attic space. The table was eight feet by three feet, and stood level with Martin’s waist. Setting the box on the floor, Martin took out the track, and began setting it up in the shape of a long oval. There were so many tracks, in fact, that Martin had to put some of them back into the box. He removed the buildings, setting them up in the middle of the oval.

Each building had a false-front, giving them an Old West feel. Martin set the town up, putting buildings on both sides of a central street. There was a general store, barber shop, blacksmith, and a sheriff’s office. There was also a saloon, café, and a Chinese laundry. But most prominent of all was the undertaker’s building. It was the only building in the whole set that was painted a solid black. Back into the box went Martin’s hand. He unfastened the leather strap that held the landscape, and three bowl-like hills fell into his hand. He placed these strategically around the table. One more hill remained in the box. This was the odd one with the flat, protruding objects spread haphazardly around it. Martin received a shock when he saw that the hill was actually a cemetery. Ten little headstones poked up from the faux hill. A small sign was in the box, as well. Martin fit the sign into two pre-made holes drilled into the cemetery hill. The sign spelled out Boot Heel in poorly spelled English. Martin briefly thought that he should be creeped out by all of this, but truthfully, the odd little train set didn’t bother him at all.

When everything was in its place, Martin reached down for the locomotive. It wasn’t there. He dropped to his knees, wondering if he had accidentally dropped it. Looking under the table, Martin felt a flood of anger, for there on the carpet stood Britney. Martin had forgotten to close the small doggy gate at the top of the stairs! Poised between Britney’s teeth was the locomotive. Thick ropes of drool were running out of her mouth and sliding down the side of the train. Damn dog was probably ruining the thing.

Martin lunged for her, Britney giving a strangled “Yark!” when he caught a hold of her collar.

“Give it, you piece of shit dog!” Martin growled.

Letting go of her collar, Martin grabbed Britney by her head and worked the locomotive out of her mouth. It came free, and he shoved her away from the table. Britney began to yap, shoving her way past Martin, doing her best to get at the boxcar. Martin knew that if Britney got a hold of it, it wouldn’t survive her sharp, little teeth. Holding the locomotive high in his left hand, Martin reached down and slapped her backside with his right.

You would have thought that he had killed her. “YIPE! YIPE! YIPE!” she squealed. The little squashed-face dog tore down the attic stairs. Martin could hear Glenn yelling for him, but he wanted to make sure that the little train still worked properly after Britney’s drool onslaught. He wiped it down with his shirt, and when it was dry he set the train on the track. After plugging the cord into the outlet on the wall, Martin took the controls in his hands and gently pushed the throttle forward. The train began to move slowly at first, then gained speed as Martin opened the throttle even more. A small button labeled “HORN” was set into the controller by the throttle handle. Martin pressed it. Nothing happened.

Miserable little shit! He thought bitterly. She broke it!!

“Marty!” Glenn’s voice echoed up the stairs. “What’s wrong with Brit? What did you do to my dog, ya little prick?”

Thankful that his mother was still home, Martin set the box containing the glass boxcar on the table with the rest of the train set. He trudged down the attic stairs, almost running into Glenn who was standing at the bottom. Britney was in his arms, shivering and cringing, like a whipped dog. Martin reached down to draw up the attic stairs. When he had them halfway, a vice-like hand gripped his neck. The shock of pain was so intense that Martin let go of the handle of the attic stairs. The spring-loaded mechanism that held them pulled the stairs up with a slam and a bang.

“What was that?” Carla called from the kitchen.

Glenn increased pressure on Martin’s neck, making him fall to one knee. “Nothing, we’re fine!” Glenn called down, voice sickly sweet. Glenn squeezed even harder, “Right, Marty?” Martin let out an inarticulate groan, but from Carla’s position in the kitchen, it must have sounded like, “yes”. Glenn let go of Martin’s neck, and pushed him to the ground.

“NOW, what happened to my dog, Marty?” Glenn towered over Martin’s prone form on the floor.

Trying hard not to cry, Martin managed to blurt out, “She…she got my…my new train and was chewing on it!”

Glenn looked down at Martin, contempt thick on his face. He made a rude noise.

“Pffft! I hope she broke the fucking thing!” Nuzzling the evil little dog, Glenn simpered into its ear, “Good girl! Good girl, yes you are!!!” He then proceeded down the stairs to the first floor. A third of the way down the stairs Glenn stopped, turned and pointed a thick finger at Martin.

“Don’t think that this is over, Assclown! When your mom goes to work in the morning, your day ends. And you will tell me what the old bitch wrote to you in that letter.” Glenn’s teeth glinted through his evil smile. “You will tell me, Marty. One way or the other, you will tell!”

Martin shuddered visibly. Glenn smirked, and continued down the stairs, with Britney held over one shoulder like a horrible baby.

*****

Martin hurried through his supper, taking care not to draw any attention to himself. He and his mom did the dishes, since Glenn never lifted a finger around the house (unless he was poking Martin with it). Martin took his book bag and ran up to his room, flipping the small hook latch he had recently installed to give himself some privacy.

He worked through his English Lit class first, because it was his favorite. Once in a while, he would look up at the ceiling, anxiously awaiting the time when he could play with the train in the attic. Nevertheless, by the time Martin had finished his algebra (his worst subject), he was tired. Also, his neck hurt. Cursing quietly under his breath, Martin rubbed his sore muscles, dreaming of the day that he would be big enough to get back at Glenn. He stripped down to his shorts, turned off his light, and climbed into bed, and was asleep before the light left the room.

. . . bark. Yark. Yap, yap, yapyapyap. . . . bark, York, bark, yark, yark, bark, yapyapyap. Martin was pulled from the sweet dream he was having about the girl next door’s mom. He tried to roll over on his stomach and go back to sleep, but that position was not going to work. The last misty vapors of the dream vanished, as Britney’s yapping filled the house. Martin could hear his mother’s muted voice through the wall, admonishing Glenn to do something about the dog. Martin heard the lower tones of Glenn’s voice, but Britney continued to yap. Martin turned on his side, pulling the blanket and pillow over his head. Through a hole made by the blanket and pillow, Martin could read his bedside clock: 3:15 a.m. Closing his eyes, Martin began to fade back to sleep, despite the cacophony of sound made by the dog. Yap, yap, yark, bark, York. Yark. Yap.

Man, I wish that piece of shit dog would shut up.

YIP!!!

Martin’s eyes flickered open, and he listened for a moment. Britney had stopped barking. Smiling to himself, Martin drifted off to sleep, and there, at the very edge of his consciousness, he thought that he heard a low WHOOOOOO, like an owl . . . or a train’s whistle.

The next morning, Martin woke with a start when his bedroom door crashed inward. He sat up, pushing his feet into the bed, pressing himself into the headboard as Glenn stormed across the room toward him. Martin’s mother must have left for work, to put in overtime on a Saturday.

“Buenas dias, shithead!” Glenn shrieked happily. He grabbed Martin by the hair, and dragged him from his bed. “Wakey-wakey!” Releasing Martin’s hair, Glenn then grabbed Martin by the waistband of his underwear, and savagely pulled upward, until Martin was on his tiptoes, yelling.

“Stop, stop!! What did I do?” he cried.

“Do? What did you do?” Glenn still had Martin’s waistband, and he began frog-marching him about the bedroom, slapping the back of Martin’s head with each step.

“You (slap) made me (slap) look (slap) like an ass (slap) in front of (slap) your mother!” (Smack)

Glenn let him go, wiping his hands on Martin’s pillow case, as Martin fell to the bedroom floor. Glenn folded his arms over his chest and growled.

“You also hit my dog, and payback is a bitch!”

“She was chewing on my new train!” Martin shouted defensively.

Glenn advanced on Martin, forcing him into his closet. Glenn leaned down, his face inches from Martin’s.

“I don’t care if she crapped in your hair while you were sleeping!” Glenn said viciously. He began to poke Martin in the face with his index finger, the overly long nail sharpened to a point. “You (poke) don’t (another poke) hit (poke) my dog!”

Glenn then slapped his face, bringing tears to Martin’s eyes. Glenn stood, looking down at Martin’s slapped, underwear-clad figure. “You’re pathetic, Marty, you know that?” He turned and made for the bedroom door. “Now get up and get dressed. Find Britney and feed her. I want you to apologize to her, and after you find her, I’ll be waiting for you in the garage and we can talk all about the letter the old bag sent you.” He turned and slammed Martin’s door, cracking the frame down the center.

Martin got up and ran to his bathroom, just making it in time before he threw up. THE GARAGE. Martin shot more stomach acid into the bowl. His legs were trembling, and he had to sit down. Not THE GARAGE. It was there that Glenn performed his most heinous abuse against Martin. There were no windows for nosey neighbors to peer into, also, there was duct tape, and long, thin wooden dowels that Glenn bought by the dozen. He used them on Martin in ways that left no visible bruises, the whole time telling him that his mother would join him if he ever spoke of it. It was never sexual in any way, just humiliating, and very painful.

Martin pulled the underwear out of his butt, his groin aching where the material had been pulled tight. He dressed slowly, mostly due to pain, but also to postpone the beating looming on the horizon. He made his way downstairs, calling for Britney in a desultory voice. He cringed when Glenn’s voice issued from the recliner in the living room.

“She’s not in here, dummy. Why would I have you go looking for her if I knew where she was?”

“Because you’re a dick?” Martin mumbled under his breath.

He pushed out the kitchen door, screen slamming loudly behind him.

“I think your damn mother let her out when she went to work!” Glenn yelled through the back window. Martin saw Mr. Leeds, his next door neighbor, (and husband of Martin’s dream woman), clipping his bushes nearby and frowning.

“Y’all right, Marty?” Mr. Leeds inquired.

“Hi, Mr. Leeds,” Martin said, trying not to appear too guilty, considering what he and Mr. Leeds’ wife had been doing in his dreams not too long before. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Martin went on, showing a brave face. “Just looking for the yap-machine.” He looked up at Mr. Leeds. “You haven’t seen her, have you?” He was hoping for a yes.

“No Marty, I’m sorry. I’ve been out here for a few hours now, and I’ve yet to see anyone.” He clipped a few leaves. “Well, I did see your mom, when she left,” he remembered, “but no frying-pan-slapped little dog.”

Without meaning to, Martin shuddered, and raised a shaking hand to his eyes. Using his thumb and fingers, he squeezed his temples, and let out a ragged sigh. Glenn would whup his ass good if he didn’t come back with Britney. He felt a hand on his shoulder and instantly jerked away with a cry, surprising himself and Mr. Leeds, who shrunk back from him.

“Sorry, Marty,” Mr. Leeds apologized. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Frowning, Mr. Leeds leaned down and whispered, “are you sure you’re okay, son? You look awfully upset, and I don’t think it’s because of the dog, is it?”

Martin’s will was almost broken then. He came very close to telling Mr. Leeds everything, but then he saw his mom’s little red car pull up. She must have left work early. Almost crying with relief, Martin ran to her, leaving a very bewildered Mr. Leeds behind him. Carla was getting out, some small groceries in her arms, when Martin ran up, nearly tacking her.

“Mom!” he gulped. Breathing heavily from his run, he gasped for a moment before regaining his composure. Carla stared at him, a half smile on her pretty face.

“Yes, dear?” She switched hands with the groceries, and held Martin’s face in her hand. Love for his mother swept over him, making him feel happy for the first time that day.

“Mom-Britney-got-out-and-I-don’t-know-where-she-is-and-Glenn-thinks-that-you-let-her-out-when-you-left-this-morning-for-work!”

“Everything’s my fault, huh?” Carla muttered.

They opened the door to the kitchen. Glenn was standing by the door and it was obvious that he had heard Carla and Martin’s conversation as they came in the house.

“I didn’t see her when I left,” Carla directed this comment at Glenn, who was watching Martin with a boy, are you lucky your momma came home look in his eye.

“Glenn and I will search the neighborhood,” his mother stated. “Why don’t you look through the house again while we are gone, Martin?” She started back towards her car.

“I already searched the house,” Glenn objected. “Either he,” Glenn jerked his thumb at Martin, “or you let her out, and now she’s lost!” Absurd tears formed at the corners of Glenn’s crocodile eyes.

“Oh, don’t take on so,” Martin’s mom consoled him. “We’ll find her.”

Glenn was staring at Martin as they pulled out of the drive. Martin worked his way through the house, calling out for the hateful little dog. Nothing. He checked the basement and the living area, spending time going through each individual closet. He then checked upstairs, going slowly through each room, calling. Still nothing. Then a cold, horrible thought hit him: suppose, just suppose, that Glenn stuffed the little eating machine upstairs in the attic with his new toy, hoping that Britney would do what she did best: destroying things that belonged to Martin.

Martin ran back into the hall, jumping up to grab the pull cord for the attic stairs. The stairs had no sooner swung down before Martin was up them. He ran to the table, slid to a stop, and frantically examined the train set. Britney hadn’t been in here, but there was something wrong. Yesterday, he had left the package containing the glass boxcar on the table. The boxcar was now resting lightly on the track, happily coupled to the dark, macabre locomotive. He was suddenly angry. His first thought was that Glenn had been up here, messing with the track. He immediately dismissed that, knowing that if Glenn ever did get the nerve to come all the way up here into Martin’s dad’s old shop, he could have easily just broken it and blamed it on his dog. Then, he would tell Carla that it was Martin’s fault that he couldn’t take care of his things.

Martin turned on the set and let the locomotive and boxcar run a few circuits, his hands getting the feel of the controls. Once again, he pressed the horn button, and once again, nothing happened. Martin slowed the funeral train down, and let it come to a slow stop in front of the cemetery. He shut the throttle down, unplugged the set, and had turned to leave, when something caught his eyes. Martin leaned down and stared with wide eyes at the table. There were now eleven tombstones on Boot Heel. It even looked like the dirt for the grave had been recently dug. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but decided against it, when he heard the front door slam downstairs. Martin turned to the attic stairs, and went down as quickly and quietly as possible. He didn’t want to attract any attention by raising the stairs again, so he worked his way down to the living room, snatches of argument reaching his ears.

“. . . of your business what was in the letter, Glenn. It was addressed to Martin.”

Martin heard them moving about in the kitchen, putting away the groceries his mom had brought home earlier.

“. . . might be money in there, Carla. We need that right now.”

“And you would be willing to take that from Martin?” Carla asked disgustedly. “Why don’t you get off your ass and get a job?”

There was a slap, and the sound of something shattering on the floor. Martin heard his mother cry out, and a black rage fell over his eyes. He bolted for the stairs to his room, words tumbling from his mouth in a chant. “Not-my-mom, not-my-mom, not-my-mom.”

Martin dove under his bed, lifting the edge of the box spring. There was a hole in the material. Stuffing his hand into the hole, Martin pulled out his “contingency plan”. This was a medium sized wooden bat that had been fit with blunt studs all around the fat end. Martin had figured that if Glenn ever hit his mom, Martin would use the contingency plan on Glenn. As long as Glenn was beating on Martin, he wasn’t hitting Carla. But now, that had changed. Scrambling back out from under the bed, Martin raced downstairs, bat held at port arms, running to save his mom. The sound of Carla’s car laying rubber up the street assaulted Martin’s ears, as he crashed through the door to the kitchen. He had just a moment to register the fact that there was no one there, when a rough hand grabbed his collar and jerked him off his feet. He came down heavily on his back, wind blowing out of him in a heavy woooosh. Then, to add insult to injury, the bat landed square on his hand, breaking it with a meaty crunch. White-hot pain lanced through Martin’s arm as he and his nerves screamed in agony.

“And just what were you going to do with this, little boy?” Glenn stepped out from behind the door where he had been hiding, and picked the bat up off of the floor. “Going to try to save mommy, were you?” Glenn swiftly brought the bat down into Martin’s stomach. Martin retched and twisted up like a stomped-on worm. Glenn laughed.

“Well, the joke’s on you, Marty. She didn’t think that you were still home. She thought you went back out to look for Britney.” Glenn smacked Martin in the head with the bat hard enough to bring stars. Martin tried to crawl away, but he was in too much pain to do so. “Yep,” Glenn continued, idly swinging the bat, “got all het-up when I popped her for mouthing off to me!” He pulled a chair out from the table and spun it around. Sitting on the chair backwards, Glenn looked down at Martin.

“See Marty, she doesn’t want me to know what was in the letter the old bag sent you. ‘Not my business’ she says. I live here too, Marty, and anything that belongs to you, belongs to me, get it?”

Martin was sitting up, legs splayed out in front of him, right arm cradling his left hand. Glenn continued, “Maybe now that I have your undivided attention, maybe you would like to tell me what she wrote. And don’t bullshit me Marty, ’cause I’ll know.” Glenn leaned forward on the back of the chair, bat held loosely in his hands. “What did it say, Marty? Where’s the money?”

Martin couldn’t speak for a moment. He thought about telling Glenn everything, but something, some speck of his fathers’ stubbornness and courage maybe, held him back.

“She didn’t leave us anything,” Martin choked. “She just wanted to tell us that she was sorry that she wasn’t here for us.” Martin steadied himself, waiting.

“Uh-HUH,” Glenn mused. An odd light gleamed from his eyes and he said, “Ya know, there was a great coach for the San Diego Chargers once. Brought his own brand of offense to the field. Now what was that called?” Glenn tapped his chin for a moment before his eyes sprang open with the memory, “Oh yeah! That’s it! It was called Marty-ball!!!” He rammed the baseball bat deep into Martin’s scrotum. Martin heard a high-pitched noise and was sickened to realize that it was his own screaming. Glenn reached out and slapped Martin’s face.

“Quiet,” he admonished. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

Martin wished that his mother would stay away, at least until Glenn finished, which meant that he, Martin, would probably be dead. Martin quite correctly concluded that Glenn’s mind had snapped, and he feared for his mom’s safety.

Glenn passed the bat from hand to hand as he sat in the kitchen chair.

“Ready to try it again, sport?” Glenn spit. He screamed into Martin’s face, “What was in the goddamn letter?!” Martin gulped heavily and tried to block the pain. It felt like there was a large rat gnawing on his junk. A low, unnatural pain throbbed from deep inside of him. Glenn leaned closer to him.

“Speak up, boy, or I’ll crack them peanuts again!!!”

Martin took a deep breath. Then another.

As calm as possible and with as much dignity as he could muster, he said, “All that she left us was the toy train set, but she said if we found a way to get rid of you, it wouldn’t hurt her feelings any.”

Glenn sat back, nodding and staring into the corner of the kitchen. “Well, that does it!” Glenn pushed himself up from the chair, leaned down and pulled Martin to his feet by his hair, making him scream in agony. “We’re gonna go up there, Marty.” A maniacal gleam from Glenn’s eye held Martin like a deer in headlights. “We’re gonna go up there, and you will watch me smash the shit out of your little goddamn toy!”

Martin screamed again as Glenn dragged him through the house, and up the stairs to the hallway landing. Martin tore loose from Glenn’s grip, writhing in abject pain on the carpet.

Glenn stared down at Martin in disgust.

“Fine, you lay there like the little girl that you are, just like your pussy dead father, and I’ll go up and make new and exciting shapes out of your saggy-assed aunties’ precious little train set!”

Glenn started up the stairs, a small amount of apprehension set on his face. Nevertheless, he continued up into the attic, that sacred place where Martin went when he missed his father the most. He hitched his breath, trying to speak, but the pain was too immense. Glenn’s head had cleared the attic floor, and he was looking off towards the table where the train set sat. He smiled insanely down the stairs at Martin.

“Say goodbye to your toy, Marty. I’ll be back down in a minute to finish you, I just wanted you to hear this first!” Glenn reached the top of the attic stairs and was slowly advancing on the table.

With a monumental effort, Martin drew a breath and screamed, “I HATE YOU!!!!! I HATE YOU!!! I WISH YOU WOULD FUCKING DIE!!!!!!!!”

There was a bright purple flash from the attic. From where Martin lay, he saw Glenn’s shadow superimposed on the attic wall. A long, loud train whistle accompanied the purple flashing light. The sound of wheels over a train track thundered down the stairs, vibrating Martin’s bones and making him lurch with new pain. He could hear the engine now, the chugga-chugga-chugga, followed by the Whoooo! Whooo-whoooooo! of the train’s whistle. Horrible screams accompanied the insane sounds of the train issuing from above. Glenn’s shadow danced like a marionette on the wall, and Martin watched in horror as the shadow began to fold and become misshapen. Terrible breaking and crunching sounds could be heard over the noise of a wide open, runaway steam engine.

Plaster dust sifted down around Martin as the house really began to shake. Flashes of purple, and then red light diffused through the attic room. The crunching sounds continued, as did the miserable shrieking, until a very wet noise made Glenn’s screams stop. The dripping ball that used to be Glenn’s body hung suspended in the air above the attic floor.

Martin lay where he was, fascinated by what he saw displayed on the attic wall above him. Crouched, limping, not-quite-human forms were shadowed against the wall where Martin had watched Glenn’s shadow get compacted. There were six, and they were carrying a long box. The floating ball that had been Glenn was placed in the box, the inhuman shadows limping back to where they had come from. Martin heard the clanging of a bell, and steam being released from a boiler. Then there was nothing. Not a sound issued from the attic.

Gathering all the courage and strength he had left, Martin climbed the stairs to the attic, not noticing the blood now beginning to pool in his shoes. In terrible pain, and bleeding from between his legs, Martin advanced on the table that held the train set. The train was almost exactly where he had left it not an hour before, but now there was a small line of steam issuing lazily from the smoke stack of the locomotive. Instinctively, Martin looked to the cemetery. A twelfth headstone was set next to the eleventh; both graves still looked freshly dug. Martin placed his hand on the still-warm locomotive.

“Thank you, thank you. If there is some way to tell Aunt Cecilia, tell her thank you!” Martin turned away from the table, trying to get back to the stairs down to the second floor. A deep ripping inside of him forced Martin to his knees, drool spilling from his mouth as his screams climbed up to a tea kettle pitch. Martin heard the backdoor crunch inward, and Mr. Leeds from next door hollered out for Martin. Martin collapsed just as Mr. and Mrs. Leeds topped the attic stairs.

“Oh my God, Martin!” Mrs. Leeds gushed, her large breasts barely corralled by a very thin halter top. Mr. Leeds gently laid his hand on Martin’s head.

“Sara! Go back downstairs and call 911!! He’s hurt pretty bad!”

Mr. Leeds looked down at Martin, and began to cut open his blood-soaked pants. Tears of unchecked rage began to flow from Mr. Leeds’ eyes as he said to himself,

“Son of a bitch is gonna pay, hurting a good boy like this!” Then to Martin, “Is he still in the house, Martin?”

Whatever Martin was going to say was cut off by Martin’s mother shouting his name. Martin heard her footfalls on the stairs, and felt her push Mr. Leeds aside in her frantic effort to get Martin into her arms. Martin wailed in agony, shocking his mother into dropping him on the hard, wooden floor and making him scream again.

“Don’t! Don’t, Carla!” Mr. Leeds implored. “He’s all torn up inside.” Huge tears flowed copiously down their faces. Sara Leeds, object of the dreams of teenage boys, scrambled back up the stairs, various well-formed aspects of her bouncing freely. She slid to a stop at Martin’s feet.

“They’re coming,” she panted.

Martin could faintly hear the beginning warble of sirens, which made him flash back to Glenn’s demise. He wondered how exactly the train set knew he needed help, and why it didn’t kill him, as well. As he pondered this in his fog of pain, something splashed on his face. Sara Leeds was leaning over him, her breasts almost, but not quite touching his forehead through her halter top. Tears were working their way down her face now, too. His mom and Mr. and Mrs. Leeds were all crowded around him crying like babies. Gathering his strength, Martin looked at them all and faintly said,

“Don’t cry. I wish all of you would stop crying!”

His eyes suddenly flashed open, realizing too late what he had said. His renewed screams mingled with the whistle of a monstrous train, as he remembered the last line of his Aunt Cecilia’s letter,

“Be careful what you wish for!!”

Other screams now joined his, as the crunching noises began.

WHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

I hide behind a mask made long ago.

A mask of deceit, and a mask of lies.

A mask that can't feel sad, that can't hear "no".

A mask that is blind to it's own demise.

When I first put on this mask, I do not know,

just that I've grown to love it's safe confines.

I once suffered, now it's all for show.

The real me watches from the sidelines.

But, I can no longer find a "real me".

For so long I've repeated these false words,

wishful distortion, and I cannot free

what small humanity my body still guards.

I have grown around, and into, this mask.

And gasp for air, trapped, peering from the cracks.

A butterfly 

Flapped its wings

In Pasadena

And here you are, 

A Hurricane at my front door.

Your eyes, still

Like the night

We chicken danced

Barefoot in Central Park,

I laughed until

I collapsed.

You kissed my bruised knee

And made a wish. 

A million flecks of stardust

Have streaked the sky

Since I saw you last, boarding 

A plane to another life.

Sometimes, it takes more 

Than gravity to keep 

Two people

Together. 

Now we are molecules

Colliding in a bed

Where vows lay dormant, 

Dusty like the caverns of the dead.

My body a pendulum, 

Your breath 

Causing ripples

That will turn to waves.

I'm bracing for the devastation. 

Good morning, Prosers,

It’s that time of the week again, and this week we are asking you for your opinion and help.

Each week we churn out a staggering amount of content, whether that is here on Prose, on the blog, or via our social channels.

We’ll level with you here, sometimes it is a struggle to actually think of what to write. Yep, even us word-nerds find ourselves lacking inspiration.

With that being said, this is your chance to tell us what you want to see more of, and give us inspiration. What do you want to see on the blog and across our social networks? If you would prefer to email us about your ideas instead of commenting here, please do so; we are listening.

Next up, we need your help. We have big ideas for our YouTube channel which currently only houses our gorgeous Proser of the Month videos. We want to do more with it. So, we are asking you all to record yourself reading a piece of yours and send it to us, hell, even videos. We’d also LOVE it if you could record / video yourself talking about Prose and what it means to you too. We will be using them, on our YouTube channel in creative ways, and sharing this content across all social networks. Fancy it? Email us!

We are still working hard on the next update. We know it’s taking us longer than we promised, but we want to get it right. We want it to be the best update yet. We know you’ll love it, and we can tell you that it really won’t be much longer. When we unleash it, expect to become even more addicted to Prose. We’re already, as a team, gearing up for launch. Putting the final layers of code together, getting design assets, and networking with industry leaders to get you, our bloody wonderful Prosers, more exposure than ever before.

Hang on in there with us, we promise it’ll be worth the wait.

Finally, we really need your help. As most of you know, each week we post content from prisoners in the Letters from Prison Portal. Any comments made on them are given to the prisoners, which has had a profound affect on the inmates. Those of you that consistently comment, we thank you very much as you are genuinely making a positive impact on lives; but, we need more comments. If you only comment on one piece each week, between us all, we'd be able to change lives. Please help us.

That is all for this week, let’s share ideas, get recording and filming ourselves, and get interactive.

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Uncalled for, this foul course

of man. 

Prismatic mysteries brushed out the door with a dark eye. 

From cracks to canyons,

secrets whispered behind stone.

Cloth and robe endure

above and behind all things.

As I stand aloof from my brothers 

in men—

not above, but apart—

they squander and thunder 

down dark tunnels 

towards pinpoint light, dim to sight, but ever bright in their mind.