The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

We're born bloody.

Travelers from nowhere:

Infinite possibilities,

Statistical improbabilities—

Loved by "Family."

We cry, slightly:

Orators with no skills,

Filled with emotion,

Lost in an Ocean—

Covered with eyes.

We sleep fleetingly …

Innocent, but wary,

Caught in baby dreams,

Prone to scary screams—

Unsettled by sounds.

We grow slowly:

Stumblin'-mumblin'

Day-to-day,

December-to-May—

Moving ahead.

We speak haltingly,

Coaxed by love:

"Goo-goo; ga-ga."

"Ma-Ma; Da-Da"—

 Creating smiles.

We live fully,

Dueling with life:

Waving & Saving.

Craving & Raving—

Weakened by wounds.

We die lonely,  

Stuffed in a box.

Covered with dirt,

Never to hurt—

Resting, at last.

Chapter 1

Warsaw, January 7, 1943

Some memories are better left untouched.

Warsaw, a lighthearted place pre-war, greeted Georg with the eyesores of damaged buildings in place of former architectural masterpieces. Dirty snow covered the ruins in a pathetic attempt to camouflage the sweeping transformation, all in vain, for the gloomy faces of Poles said it loud and clear: welcome to the devastation of war.

The chilly draft found its way to his neck through the closed windows of the limousine. Georg raised the collar of his overcoat. “Hans. Slow down, please. I want to see this building,” he told the driver.

The Hotel European, Enrico Marconi’s Neo-Renaissance tour de force, came into view on the right-hand side. Undamaged. An unexpected pleasure rush rippled through Georg’s veins, warming his heart. Five years after he and Rachel had won the Under-eighteen International Ballroom competition, the European’s grand edifice stood as a monument to the Austerlitz of his youth. At least one place had remained intact for an unrushed visit down nostalgia lane.

“I don’t know why you care about those buildings, because all of this,” Hans made a circle in the air with his index finger, “will be razed. The new Warsaw will be erected according to the Fuhrer’s vision. The Aryan landmarks will be preserved, of course. Governor Fischer has a model of the German city of Warsaw in his office, if you want to see it.”

“That’s the dumbest idea,” Georg muttered under his breath.

“What did you say, Herr Hauptmann?”

“Thanks for the tour, Hans. Let’s go back. You can turn right on Jerusalem Avenue.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Georg pointed at the intersection.

Hans hit the brakes. The Opel Admiral limousine voiced its disgust with a high-pitched screech, jolted, and slid sideways on the snow-covered cobblestones of New World Avenue. Hans cursed. “This is Bahnhof Strasse. I don’t know these Polish names you mention, Herr Hauptmann. Do you know where you want to go?”

Georg wasn’t in the mood to argue with the Bavarian about proper names for Warsaw streets. “We’re going to Café Adria. You need to turn right on Marszalkowska at the next intersection.”

“Marschall Strasse?” Hans asked.

“Yes, Marschall Strasse.”

The Opel passed a streetcar and stopped at the intersection, awaiting a signal from a traffic guard wearing a Luftwaffe blue-gray wool overcoat, the uniform identical to Georg’s, except for rank insignia: the plain epaulettes and the sleeve chevron of an Airman in place of Georg’s Captain patch. What is he doing conducting city traffic? Georg marveled at the absurdity of Wehrmacht bureaucracy that reassigned an airfield soldier to traffic duties.

The boxy building of Warsaw’s Central Railway Station ahead reminded Georg of his ill-fated foray four days ago. He had no one to blame but himself for slipping on the icy platform of the station and turning his trip to buy cigarettes into a hospital stay. Doctor Mauch said his ankle wound would have reopened anyway because of the infection. Poor consolation. In a few more hours, he would have been home in Breslau, infection or no infection.

Across Marszalkowska, twenty or so gray figures in rags labored at a pile of rubble in the far corner of the vast space that used to be the old Central Railway Station. Two Polish policemen in blue uniforms supervised the cleaning operation.

A figure wearing pants a few inches too short caught Georg’s eyes. Wide swaths of mottled, bluish skin above the ankles screamed frostbite. The sleeves of the figure's overcoat were also too short, ending just below the elbows, but the sewn-on, mismatched additions reached to the fingers. Displayed above the additions was a yellow Star of David, which also marked the sleeves of the other workers.

"Jews. From the ghetto." Hans too noticed the work party. "Jews are like cockroaches. They’re everywhere. You can go to a most remote place in any country on Earth, knock on a door of the finest house there, and pull out a Jew.

Georg couldn’t contain his laughter. The Bavarian from a village near Oberammergau had not even been to Munich, let alone Berlin or any foreign lands, and yet he knew everything there was to know about the Jews and the world, thanks to the “wisdom” he acquired listening to that idiot, Doctor Goebbels.

Hans misinterpreted Georg’s laughter for a sign of approval and chuckled along. Georg began to regret getting in the car with the dim-witted Bavarian.

The traffic guard must’ve forgotten about them, undoubtedly one of the clueless rookies assigned to a task without any proper training. Georg checked the rearview mirror. Behind the limousine, a long line of carriages and automobiles patiently waited for the guard’s signal. Georg smiled at his reflection. He was going to have a good time at the lunch with Governor Fischer, who’d been kind enough to send his personal driver to bring Georg to their rendezvous at Café Adria. Tomorrow, he would press Doctor Mauch to let him take a train home if he made it on his own through the day. There were plenty of military hospitals in Breslau.

Across the street, the Jewish figure turned, revealing the face of a boy who had outgrown his clothes years ago. The youth passed a large block of cement to a girl wearing a colorful folk shawl with floral motifs wrapped around her head. The heavy block slipped through her fingers; she tried to catch it, but the block rolled down her legs and hit the ground. The Jews broke the line to help the girl, who was bent over, rubbing her knee. With kicks and shoves, the policemen goaded the laborers back into line.

The Opel finally turned onto Marszalkowska. The girl straightened, and Georg got a good look at her. He jumped up, hitting his head against the roof of the limousine. Rachel!

"Stop the car, please," Georg said.

Hans gingerly applied the brakes and pulled over.

Georg bolted out. Immediately, a gust of cold air slapped him in the face. He turned sideways and braced himself against the wind.

Using his cane, Georg limped down the street as fast as his leg allowed. What good fortune to stumble upon her like this. He hadn’t thought he would see her again when she and her family moved east after the Kristallnacht pogroms. How ironic to find her in Warsaw of all places: the city where they’d triumphed, the city where they’d fallen in love.

The chilly air biting into his lungs, Georg slowed down to catch his breath. An elderly Jew behind Rachel spotted him first and stopped working, which drew attention from the other Jews and the two policemen. Rachel too lifted her head, and Georg saw that she recognized him. She’d aged in the four years since he’d last seen her, but her beautiful chestnut eyes remained intact, measuring him, assessing the situation. Poor thing, she’d lost a lot of weight. At least she’d managed to stay alive. How was her family? Her mother had always liked him. Her father—not so much. Oh, what did it matter now?

Georg came closer. "Rachel, it’s me."

Something flickered in those eyes. She swiveled her head around as if looking for somewhere to put the block of cement she held.

Georg took the block from her hands. "Do you recognize me?"

She remained silent, still looking around. No one was coming to the rescue, as the stunned Jews and their guards stayed frozen, their mouths agape, venting plumes of white steam.

"Rachel, don't be afraid." Georg lowered his voice. “I can help you. This time will be different, you’ll see.”

"Ah...I'm not afraid. It's just...I'm not your Rachel."

A policeman came to life. He shuffled closer, vacillated, retreated half a step to a safe distance, and then plucked up his courage to address Georg. "What can we assist, Herr Officer?" he said in broken German.

Georg handed him the block of cement.

"You don't recognize me, Rachel?"

“Ah...I'm afraid you're mistaken, Herr Officer. My name is Sulamif,” she said.

Nothing changed in her expression.

Georg shifted from foot to foot, forgetting about his injury and the cane. His left ankle didn't like the maneuver. Georg waited out the pain, his mind stuck on the icy reception. For some strange reason, he burned to tell her about his discovery of an intact Hotel European. But she already knew that.

After a hard swallow, he found his voice. “Where are you from, Sulamif?” He immediately cursed himself inwardly. What a dumb question.

“Here. Warsaw.”

“Really? Your German is very good. Where did you learn to speak like this?”

“Jagiellonian University in Cracow.”

“Sure.” Georg was losing his patience. Enough of the games.

She stared at him. The familiar cold glint of her irises—the implacable stubbornness that he knew so well—was now accentuated by the dark circles under her eyes. Time and starvation had sharpened her delicate features, but Georg had no doubt it was her. If only he knew what to do or how to confront her. Should he even try under the circumstances? Maybe she was too embarrassed to face him in her current humiliation, dressed in rags and doing slave labor for the victors. Georg’s heart rent. His proud girl was reduced to a forced laborer. What a torture the ghetto life must have been for her.

Cane in hand, Georg opened his arms to hug her. “Rachel, my dear, I’ll get you out.”

She recoiled in fright as if some deranged lunatic was attacking her. Georg’s arms fell down by his sides.

She got a hold of herself, took the block of cement from the guard’s hands and passed it to the old man. She’d always taken the initiative, and this seemed no different. Four years had passed, and their lives had clearly changed, yet in her current untenable situation, she was not in a hurry to take his helping hand. Why?

The line of Jews returned to work. The policemen backed off, leaving Georg to his confusion. He grasped for a suitable course of action, some clever response to regain control. His brain emptied. All he craved was a glance, a sign that she may change her mind or at least give him a chance to explain. Had she grown bitter after years of misery and were taking revenge on him for all the sufferings she had endured? Was she showing him that she had never forgiven him for the way they had parted?

Georg shifted his weight from his good leg to the cane. To hell with formalities. Go, hug and kiss her. His mind prompted him to move, but his body would not obey. A long forgotten sense of loss pierced his heart. Standing only an arm length away from her would not bridge the gap between them, and just as four years ago, he could do nothing about it.

The only initiative Georg could undertake was to shamble back to the limousine, carrying the burden of humiliation on his shoulders. Halfway there, he slipped and would most likely have fallen if not for Hans, who had come over to help him the rest of the way to the car.

Blood boiling, Georg dropped onto the squeaky seat. “Let’s go,” he barked to the driver.

In the distance, Rachel and the Jews stared in his direction, which somehow offended him even more. The elderly Jew put his arm around Rachel’s shoulder, unheeded by the two Polish policemen, and rested his stubbly grey cheek against her colorful shawl. Shipwrecked and miserable, Georg averted his gaze. It should’ve been him. What a cruel fate to find and lose her at the same time.

I could tell by the way he’d accepted my offer for tea that he didn’t really want it. He’d said, Yes, fine, to me and followed me into the kitchen – not his first act of boorishness, but perhaps the clearest sign that he had been raised without regard to the proper handling of things. Decency states that the guest remains seated while the hostess prepares tea. Here I thought everyone knew that bumbling into a kitchen after a woman of quality as she attempted to perform entertaining duties was known to be rude. Evidently, I was wrong.

Do you take sugar in your tea? I asked, as was polite, and tried my best not to look put off by his presence in my kitchen. He held up a hand with five dingy fingers splayed outward – five lumps of sugar, really? I decided to brew the cheap stuff. If he wasn’t going to drink tea pure, I wasn’t going to provide good tea. I set the sugar bowl on my tea tray with, I thought, a remarkable degree of good-mannered acceptance.

He did not suit my house. His calloused, soiled hands did not look right as they pulled my fine china teacups from the cabinet. I could see the dirt beneath is fingernails, ten brown crescents that made my skin crawl, their filthiness contrasting with the vivid beauty of the tea set’s painted flowers and gold accents. He fiddled with them, fiddled with the sugar, fiddled with everything in the kitchen until I couldn’t stand it anymore, imagining the grungy fingerprints he was leaving behind on every surface. I told him twice to wash his hands, as tactfully as possible, but he ignored me.

No use now, he said, with his filthy hands clutched around the handles of my best tea tray. No use, indeed.

Please have a seat in the salon, I told him. Manners were, after all, the most obvious sign of civility.

That is where we are sitting now as I stir my tea and he stirs his. I added one chunk of high-quality, raw sugar to my tea – a reasonable amount, I believe – because the cheap tea is no good without, no matter how perfectly I brew it.

With his ill-fitting jacket and poor posture, he looks no better in the salon than he did in the kitchen. He’s slouched against my floral sofa, probably smudging grime into the fabric, and I must remember to inform the maid to pay special attention to the sofa when she cleans in the morning. There is a scar that slits across his left eyebrow and his face is ruddy with too much sun, or too much drink, or too much time in disreputable establishments. His hands, I notice now, have the tell-tale signs of a recent fight on the knuckles – a day or so ago, perhaps. There is an absolute brute, a barely-tamed animal, drinking tea in my salon, and the look of him against the beauty of my home is striking. I want to make him disappear.

“Would you like anything to eat?” I ask him, swallowing a mouthful of tea and congratulating myself on adhering to the laws of polite society, unlike the slouching monstrosity across from me.

He doesn’t bother with politeness. He just laughs through his nose and keeps stirring his tea. He’s been stirring since he sat down and the clink, clink, clink of the spoon against the china has my nerves on end. I can feel a warm, simmering feeling of irritation rising in my chest and heating my face. I breathe deeply, sipping my tea in an effort to keep my emotions at bay.

“Is there anything else you would like, then?” Why are you here, is what I’m asking, and what do I need to give you to get you to leave?

There’s a smirk on his face and he sets his teacup and saucer down on the low coffee table before him. I see that he has sloshed tea into the saucer, and can barely draw breath past my irritation.

“I understand you knew him,” he says.

The question catches me off guard and I practically cough, “I’m sorry?”

I’m not faking ignorance. I truly don’t understand what he means.

“It was easier than I thought to kill a man,” he says, as casually as one would remark on the possibility of rain or a recent trip to the grocery store for half-priced tomatoes. But those words on his chapped lips, in his coarse voice, are the only things he’s said which have suited him, in all the time he’s been here.

I do not say anything in response. I take another, nervous sip of my tea. He stares into the middle distance before him, stares back in time to when he—

“—wrapped a scarf around his throat and just pulled. It was done in moments, but I kept pulling – to make sure, you see. He deserved it, of course – terrible man. But you knew that, didn’t you? Yes, yes, that’s all old news to you. And how did you manage to get to know him?”

His voice is pointed, more here than it had been before, when he’d been answering nothing questions about tea. His eyes are still focused on the past as he gazes beyond me, and through my own stark realization – the flushing heat that crawls up my limbs in itching, burning trails – I recognize something like resolution in his faraway gaze. It’s the look of a man who understands his actions and would never feel the need to apologize for them.

I cannot speak. I am not sure what I would say if I could.

“Of course, it didn’t take long for me to figure it out,” he is saying. His voice echoes inside my skull, wraps itself around my head, fills my salon and my house and the whole of my world. It dances through the air and flirts with the wafting lace of my fine, white curtains, and I can see beams of gloriously gold afternoon light striking my honey-colored hardwood floors in the most luscious way. Everything is so much brighter, isn’t it?

My tongue is swelling.

“A moron like that?” He is still talking. I wish I could shut my eyes, because the brightness of the room around me has become too much to bear and I can feel them watering. And because his eyes have begun to focus on the present again. They lock on me – piercing blue, and so terrible. “I knew he had to be working for someone. Someone to give him orders, to tell him who to kill… How to kill them… How best to taunt the surviving family…”

I’ve dropped my teacup. I hope that it won’t stain.

“So, yes – easier than I thought, killing a man.”

I do not see where my cup has fallen. My vision has tunneled so that he is all I can see, a vignette of wrath and vengeance feigning calmness framed by the striped pattern of my antique rose wallpaper. He truly does not belong.

He smiles, and it’s a cruel smile. “I do think killing a woman has been even easier, though.”

He rises from the sofa as I fall back in my chair. My hands vainly clutch at my throat, as if I could draw the poison from myself with a light massage.

“She was mine,” says a voice, the voice of a brutish and ill-mannered man I can no longer see. The entire world is black splotched with bright white, and then there is his voice – his calm fury adds color. I can feel, in the most nebulous sense, a hand on my shoulder, a feigned mimicry of a comforting gesture. “You had no right to take her from me.”

There is a part of me that respects him for this. Poisoning me in my own house, with my own tea! Truly, no other human being would have the nerve.

I know he leaves, but I do not hear him.

He heard it the moment both his feet landed on the tile floor, the music that drifted through the darkness. Aaron crouched there, letting his eyes adjust and watching the dust swirl through the threads of light that poured their way through rents in thick concrete and brick walls wrought by time’s neglect. He had found an opening in the building through a window outside covered by thin plywood that gave with little effort. There were dozens of hard plastic tables layered with soot, their colors alternating between faded shades of the primary colors and lined up in symmetrical aisles that centered themselves in front of a wide stage set two feet off the ground. This was the school’s cafeteria. He caught the name of the piece that was playing-- Debussy, and horribly out of tune. The felt hammers of the piano fell upon the steel strings in a lazy, uneven, way, ringing along the walls and through the halls of the old Oleander Elementary. The new school had been built five miles south to replace this one years ago after a fire devoured an entire wing of the building, reducing the U shape to an L. Aaron tried not to concern himself with the number of school children and staff. Numbers meant a great deal to the living but not to the dead, and the dead is who he had his business with.

He reached into the cargo net of his backpack and pulled out a flashlight, moving it in slow arcs throughout the room. Aaron knew he was seen already, he could always feel them stare. Not here, he thought, and then began to walk down the center aisle toward the stage. The fire had taken place between breakfast and lunch, there was to be an assembly that day, wood props of trees and homes were set, the crimson colored curtains drawn back. The dust patterns on the stage told him that the curtains had just been pulled. The piano continued to play, verse by verse in that clumsy way; here, Aaron knew, something strong would be laid to rest today. No echoes. Any sound Aaron made was suffocated the moment it escaped by a weight pressing against him in the school, a gravity.

“I’m here to help.” His voice was calm, but still audible. Aaron tried again, “I’m here to help.” This time, only ‘I’m’ and ‘to’ were heard.

I want to help, he said. This time it worked. The curtains and rod fell and landed with a sharp crack that was smothered at once.

Show me where, Aaron said, his voice stolen before it could know the air.

Show me. The school bell began to ring, muted, but still audible.

Thank you, I’ll be quick. Aaron followed the bell out of the cafeteria and into the hall. He crossed the entire length of the first floor, pushing open doors that had been shut for decades and running the tips of his fingers across the rusted desks. Climbing up the steps to the second floor the bell became louder. He took the ascent with care, over the years he had seen much and his recklessness was often punished. Aaron had to be more careful, he was a father now, and over-confidence was no longer on the table. Reaching the top step, the bell became clear. If you were to stand outside, you would never know it was happening. Every step Aaron took was like lens finding focus in the distance. He walked down the second floor hall toward the severed end of the school. A patchwork of tarps had been placed over the exposed roof eaten by flame with the intention of preserving whatever it was inside for history. No one could agree that museum and memorial may as well mean the same thing. 

A storm had blown in the previous night and unbound half the clasps that held the tarp to the roof, leaving the furthest end of the hall exposed to the open air. The bell stopped ringing once Aaron was beneath the rotten and scared roof, but the piano was as loud as ever. No use for the flashlight now, its bulb now a dim flicker.

I want to help, Aaron repeated, each word spilling to another time. There was an anger here and he knew he wouldn’t be breathing soon. No matter how many times he did this, in all the years, he was intoxicated by the cocktail of panic, adrenaline, and excitement that blooms just before let it seize him. The sky was bare but the light seemed to spiral, casting shadows that swirled around him. Colors dulled not by dust or time but by unseen gears that turn silent clocks. It’s a strong one, Aaron thought, and it’s about to get a whole lot stronger. He could hear in the empty rooms the sound of tables sliding across the wooden floor and calm voices that urged everyone to line up in a by the door. The small hammers of the school bell swelled to a fever pitch.

Aaron stood at the building's jagged edge, looking out into the field where what remained of the school rested like charred bones of a great beast. Aaron could no longer breathe. His hands remained still beside his sides while he blinked hard into the open air. The music ceased and with it, Aaron’s heart. He fell forward, one arm spilling over the edge, while his eyes adjusted. The crisp mountain air that rushed in his open mouth soon tasted of smoke and ash. His eyes refocused and saw the heavy billows of smoke traveling through the corridor. He stayed low and began to crawl across the floor, his limbs too weak to do any more. Children hurried passed him with staff members as shepherds. Many of them met his gaze, some even stopped long enough to look upon him with wide curious eyes before being shoved from behind to keep moving. His legs felt stronger. Aaron crawled to the edge of the hallway and used the wall to help him stand. Closer, just a little closer. Fire crawled along the ceiling in small rolling waves and Aaron knew that his time was short.

Where are you? He asked, before turning around and walking back. The only door he found closed was marked 212. Here. The knob was hot to the touch. He pulled one of his sleeves over his hand and quickly gave it a twist. Inside he saw a ring of children, twelve in number and none over the age of seven, gathered in the center of the room with joined hands. At the middle of the circle was a woman slumped on the floor. As Aaron walked into the classroom every pair of round eyes turned look to him.

--You don’t belong here the door is too hot to open we don’t know what happened to her you don’t belong here neither does he it hurts to breathe why did they leave us you don’t belong here help us help us help us is she hurt help you don’t belong here—

It will be over soon, Aaron said. He could feel a heavy breath wash over him as the flame began to eat through the walls and ceiling. The children broke their circle and spread a little wider so that Aaron could join them. He sat crossing his legs before holding up his hands to join them, his large palms engulfing their tiny fists like stones. From here Aaron recognized the woman and saw her leg and hands twitching. Looking at them he said-- Stay with me. Each of you will see a stream and when you do, step into its water. There, you will find your release. Keep your eyes on me. Don’t let go. There they waited while the fire spread across the walls and then, in a violent burst, the air was sucked out of their small mouths and fed the flame that swirled around the room setting all to cinder. They could not scream, but they felt the searing. Neither of them let the other go and the world would never know their courage.

I’m so sorry. Aaron felt the grip on his hands tighten; tiny finger nails digging deep into his flesh, while the fire swept them up off the ground for a moment. This would be what he would remember the most: suspended in the air with joined hands, all eyes on him searching for the river he promised as the fire blackened them to ash. What fell back onto the floor was him and nothing else. Aaron blinked hard again and saw himself rolling on the ground, again on the edge of the severed school. The colors looked a little brighter and the light from beyond the building’s ruin poured over his cold body. 

His heart returned to life with sharp raps against the bone of his chest, stumbling before catching rhythm. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. Aaron swatted at his body while rolling around the floor, half-believing he was still on fire. Looking at his palms he could see the small crescent shaped marks of fingernails that did indeed draw blood.

From the edge of the building he spotted his station wagon and the toddler’s car seat strapped into the back. Aaron leaned forward, pressing his head against the cold floor and began to weep. He saw himself in the air, looking into their eyes and wide mouths.

He felt himself being pulled down the hall, away from the building's edge, slow at first and then lifting from the floor altogether. Arrested by grief and disbelief while spinning backwards at a speed gaining in momentum. This isn’t supposed to be happening, Aaron said to himself while sailing across the darkening hall. He spun his floating body around and saw the wall at the hall’s end fast approaching. Closing his eyes he put both hands forward and tried to press against the gravity pulling him. The tiles on the wall fell around him while landing with a thump. Aaron rolled onto his stomach, trying to pick himself up before he was pulled into the air again and hurled down the hall toward the opposite end where there was nothing to stop him.

“Shit.”

The hall grew darker the closer he came to the exposed end of the building. The heavy breath he felt wash over him in the class room now made a sublime kind of sense. Five feet from being flung out into the open air to his death his feet began to drag along the floor. He dug the rubber bottom of his heels and leaned back. Three feet away he slowed further and just before spilling over the edge he stopped, falling backward with his sweat-drenched clothes sticking to his skin. The world around him went black in the way a room appears as you fall into sleep. The building groaned and buckled, as if it would collapse upon itself, then nothing more.

He stood up, his muscles and limbs in knots. He found his backpack halfway down the stairs-- its contents exposed-- which he gathered together while trying to slow his heart down. He fell out of the window he came in, covering his arms and jeans in mud, then carried himself across the tall grass to his car waiting in the old parking lot.

After fishing around his pockets for the car keys he remembered that he had kept them in the bag. Reaching into the backseat he felt the car rock side to side though none of the trees around him swayed. He plucked his keys out of the small zippered pocket at the top of the bag and started the car. The engine stuttered and a white smoke crept out from beneath the hood. Switching the radio off, Aaron drove in silence through the winding country roads that led back to the highway.

Regardless of what you think,

all that you know and what you want in your life,

always remember,

one thing remains for sure,

all that you have with you is the present.

Quite precisely,

only the present moment.

Make best use of the same.

Nothing lasts forever,

absolutely nothing.

Time flies

People and places change

The world again seems to be different than what was thought of it prior.

So always remember

It's one step at a time

One thing at a time

One move at a time

Slow and steady wins the race

Haste is waste

Better late than never

A bird in hand is better than two in the bush.

We are born into a realm millions of miles above the earth. Our imaginations run rampant as we familiarize ourselves with comets, asteroids, and Orion’s belt. Star clusters and galaxies emit a brilliant glow against the onyx backdrop. Planets seem to dance in their orbits, ensconced in the light of a great star. At the nucleus of the solar system, we own a bird’s eye view of the world as we know it. Rapt in childlike wonder, we meander through space, flirting with gravity and the contingency of things that live beyond our knowledge. Eager to explore each brimming pocket of the universe, we know no borders or limits.

Stars. They define us. We align ourselves with them as modest Virgos, fiery Scorpios, or coquettish Libras. We follow our horoscopes. We are enraptured by their uncanny accuracy sometimes. We are amused by their relatable absurdity most times.

As a birthday arrives, we cross a familiar point in our revolution around the sun. Yet, the stars seem duller with each passing year. We must stretch our arms a little farther to reach them

I am five. The world is weightless. The future is a tangible being floating a few meager inches away from my face, waiting for me to claim it as a bandit. A jolt of euphoria courses through my body as I prepare to grasp its coy wings. Then, I lose my balance. It skims my clammy fingers. I was so close. It slips out of my reach, careening to the opposite side of the solar system. My mouth hangs agape as everything I have ever wanted becomes elusive. Then, I become clinched by a crushing wave of gravity. Perplexed, I approach the milk-white swirls resembling the earth’s surface. Time becomes amorphous and waxy. I succumb to its binding pull with clenched fists. It’s a hot stream. Like quicksand. It feels slippery as it wraps around my body, forcing me downward, toward the earth. My body goes numb. My only thought is, don’t look down. By now I am completely enveloped, a motionless entity hurtling through time and space. I am no longer infinite.

~

It was a large gap. Time was unaccounted for. Each year, my vision became less brilliant, no longer peppered by vivid nebulae and the haloes around Saturn. Dreams became void and vacant. Each star morphed into a black hole ready to imbibe my curious ambition. My inquisitive fascination with the world was obliterated. I no longer dawdled among radiant bodies in space. The future was no longer a mystical winged creature inviting me to a game of chase. The future obstructed my view of the solar system. Each star was once an ambition, a landmark written in indelible ink which I vowed to reach. Each hope was a prized concept, a trophy I would hold onto for dear life. I promised never to let it out of my grasp.

Apoapsis: the point at which an orbiting object is farthest away from the body it is orbiting. I was knocked off my feet and out of my orbit, overwhelmed and bludgeoned by insecurity. Gravity pulled me away from my dreams as I cascaded. I plummeted back to earth. For my whole life, I had known the obsidian sky, lit brilliantly by the neighboring galaxies and its trinkets. They were no longer in my orbit.

Apoapsis. Submerged in the real world, miles under the brackish water, I struggled. Longing for clarity, I thrashed like a shark. I flailed desperately in an attempt to swim to the surface, wondering, what happened to the physics of space? Where do I belong now?

~

And here I am, longing for the surface, paralyzed by the novel darkness of the depths. But perhaps, this is just another fantasy. Perhaps, reality is just another backdrop. What can happen if I propel myself against the current? I kick and shoot forward with all my might. Bubbles filter the sea, enveloping the water in their animated rapture. I will reach the surface, but I will not stop there. I will launch myself higher. I will soon return to my starting point.

~

And suddenly I am back in space, wafting through time and tumbling without a purpose. I free fall and trace figure-eight’s, unsure of what will happen next. The future is infinite once again from this perspective. I wander aimlessly, immersed in an elevated deep end. Light and airy, I no longer rush to travel from one place to the next.

I now have enough energy to glide back to Earth. This time, I build my own route. I write my own story. I float in the delicate arena between earth and sun. I sail. I allow myself to travel effortlessly from one landmark to the next. I regain the childlike wonder I began with. I am not afraid to let go.

Apoapsis. At five, I was aligned with the stars. Today, I am aligned once again. The stars do not tell me, “You will receive a compliment from a stranger today.” The stars tell me to dream big and let my ideas condense like clouds. The stars tell me to reach for them, open-fisted and hungry with desire. I let the stars rain over the planet as I keep them in my clutch.

The stars tell me to lose myself in the dream, erasing the line between where it ends and where life begins. Apoapsis tells me it’ll all be worth it - 

it’s in the stars.

(1)

I turn my collar up against the pouring rain. I don't feel the water running inside my coat, but I don't seem to feel much of anything. Maybe I just don't want to.

I pull my eyes away from the darkness hiding beneath the clean white lines of the casket, and stare into a future beyond the sea of sad faces. They will all go home, and I will be alone, more alone than I have ever been. I turn my heart away from the pain I see reflected in their eyes.

I can't let that pain get too close. It looks hungry, and I don't think I can survive if it climbs inside. It will eat my soul.

This place seems nice. I think she'll enjoy this hillside, and its beautiful sweep of lawn. I guess I will get used to the view. Not sure what else my life will consist of from now on, but I will keep this place—her place—cared for.

Oh, Ree... the green lawns remind me of that day I finally asked you. Remember?

#

The late summer sun was shining in the cloudless sky. I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes and watched her walk toward me. I felt a lump in my throat, and realized I couldn't swallow. The sunshine wasn't enough to take the slight September chill out of the air, but her smile was all I needed to warm me from the inside out.

Marie Holter. Sweet Marie. Her youngest kid sister calls her Ree-Ree, and I have a feeling Ree will stick. I still can't believe you are here with me. I'm not sure if I found you, or you found me, but I thank God that we found each other.

My nerves threatened to get the better of me. I turned and sat down in the grass. Reaching over, I grabbed a soda from the cooler and opened it as her shadow fell across me.

"I grabbed a big beach towel, instead of a blanket." She shook the largest towel I had ever seen out, and spread it on the grass. "I think lunch will fit on it though."

"Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure Thanksgiving Dinner would fit on it." Her smile was dazzling.

I started to get up, but she pushed me back onto my butt, climbed across, and straddled my lap. Her arms interlocked behind my neck as she wrapped her legs and those impossibly tight blue jeans around my waist. The smell of her shampoo was driving me insane, and the closeness of her mouth to mine made me dizzy.

"Speaking of Thanksgiving, you better not even think about making any other plans this year. Last night at dinner, Julie asked me if you were coming to the Holter Holiday Hijinks. My mom grinned, and Daddy tried his best to look as if he couldn't care less, but it got really quiet, you know? I mean, even Becca closed her yapper and stared at me."

I reached up and pushed a runaway strand of hair behind her ear. "What did you say?"

"I said that not only would you be there, but I was thinking about having you carve the turkey. You should’ve seen it. Daddy's fork actually stopped halfway to his mouth and my mom spit her wine across her plate. It was the funniest thing ever!"

"Great. Now your dad is going to glare at me even harder the next time I see him."

"Don't be silly. Daddy’s a pushover." She took my face in her hands. "Now, do you wanna keep talking about my family, or can I distract you?"

She leaned in to kiss me, and then threw herself sideways, pulling me on top of her, and rolling us both onto the towel.

Nervously, I slid my hand into my coat pocket. The little box was still there.

Whew. That was almost a disaster, my Ree-Ree.

The time had come, and suddenly the great speech and romantic flourishes I had been practicing were gone. My tongue felt too big for my mouth and I wasn't sure if I could even form words correctly any more.

"Hey, I need to ask you a question."

She must have heard something serious in my voice, because she got the cutest worried look as I sat up. It wasn't until I got on one knee and reached in my pocket that her eyes softened, and then grew large.

"I know that you still have your senior year to finish, and that I don't have much money, or a good job yet, or stuff that makes me worth what you deserve, and I know that Jacobs is kind of a boring last name, and that your family may not even like me, but... well... I..."

She smiled that sweet, sweet smile, and reached out with her finger, placing it against my lips.

"Shh. I’ve been waiting since you started carrying that ring around for you to ask me. Just relax, then calmly and quietly, ask me whatever it is you were going to ask."

I was in shock. She knew about the ring!

She sat back down, folded her legs under her to the side, batted her eyes at me demurely, and folded her hands together.

"Okay" My voice sounded like a rusty tin can being dragged behind a car. I couldn't remember what I was saying a few seconds earlier. I knew I’d planned this whole thing out hundreds of times in my head, but I had nothing. "Uh ... Marry me?"

I'm such an idiot. That was the stupidest proposal ever!

Her expression as she sprang into my arms was almost as welcome as the words she whispered in my ear. "Yes, and I think Jacobs is a lovely last name."

(2)

Most of the people who are here have umbrellas. Black umbrellas. I suppose that's normal for funerals, but we only own a red one. We share it. Well, we used to share it; I guess it's just mine now.

I left it at home.

I can see my daughter, but she won't meet my eyes. I know she hurts. She and her mother were close in a way that she and I never have been. I love Tonya with every fiber of my being, but she and Ree shared what felt like a psychic connection, at least to outsiders like me. When she scraped her knee as a child, I would always kiss it better, but when she got her heart broken or was filled with pride at an accomplishment, her mother was the one she ran to.

I can't kiss this one away, Tonya. I wish I could.

The minister says something, but I can't quite hear his voice. Just a droning sound under the patter of raindrops on stretched black fabric. I notice the tarp that covers the dirt from the hole. I don't want to think about that hole.

What was it you used to say, Ree? "Never dig a hole you aren't prepared to fill?" Something like that.

As I watch Tonya lay her single red rose on top of the white box that now holds the remains of my heart, I can't help but think about the day she told me that the two of us would become three.

#

We walked along the side of the road, as snowflakes fell around us. The world was soft, and the trees wore their new white mantles like fine jewelry. I could tell there was something on Marie's mind. She was unusually withdrawn; it wasn’t like her to be this quiet.

"Hey, Ree, want to have a snowball fight? I bet we could find some great hiding places in the woods."

"No. James, I need to tell you something."

My heart leapt into my throat. James. Not Jimmy, or Jimbo, or even Jim - but James. This was serious. I stopped and reached for her hand, but she grabbed mine first. Squeezing it tightly, she pulled me along with her.

At least you grabbed my hand. I know we will get through this, whatever it is.

"Please, keep walking with me."

My mind began to run through scenarios, each more devastating than the last. Was it the house? A shutoff notice for the power? The dog... was Max okay? He was a 65 pound mix breed who ate twice his weight in kibble each month, but I knew she loved the big lug even more than I did.

"Marie, what's wrong?"

"I know that you’ve been saving money for a trip to Vegas." She wouldn't look at me, and I began to worry even more. "But I don't think we can afford it."

Is THAT all this is? Oh you silly woman!

Marie had a good job waiting tables at a family restaurant here in town, and even though my teacher's salary wasn't a lot, it was more than enough for us to take a trip to Sin City during Spring Break next year.

"Sure we will, babe. I have enough put away for us to..."

"Not with another mouth to feed, especially after they make me take a few months off."

We continued to walk along as my mind processed what she said. The realization she was telling me she was pregnant broke through my thoughts like sunshine on a gray day. Everything gained color and clarity. The world became a different place, and for a moment, I was unable to speak.

"James." She was staring down at her feet as we wandered along the snowy road. "Say something, please. You’re scaring me."

I stopped her and pulled her close. I used my teeth to remove the glove from my right hand and reaching forward, I lightly took her chin between my thumb and fingers. I gently eased her face up to mine, and found her beautiful eyes brimming with tears.

"Hey." I wiped my thumb under her eye, and rolled the tears away before they could run down her cheek. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do!" I could hear consternation and a little fear in her voice.

"And do you trust that I love you?"

She nodded slowly.

"Then stop crying, and let's celebrate." I reached down and lifted her up. Her legs found the familiar spot around my waist, and she linked her hands behind my neck. Spinning us around and around, I yelled, "We're having a baby!"

Her tears became that gorgeous smile I love with all my heart, and she leaned her head

back as we spun and shouted along with me. "A BABY!"

Max, it looks like you’re going to have to share us, bucko.

My heart felt like it would overflow. The snow no longer even felt cold.

(3)

I stand here and listen to the sound of nothing at all. Everyone else is gone. I'm sure that Tonya is serving cake and coffee at the grange hall by now, but I can't make myself leave just yet. Truth is, I’m terrified. Not of death, but of life.

I never realized how hard it would be to even think about living without you, Ree.

The rain has turned cold, and the sun is much lower in the sky than it was when the service began. I can see the workers; they’re waiting for me to leave. I know they have a job to do. They have to bury my wife.

Those words sound alien in my head; I remember us laughing together, just the other day.

It occurs to me that it wasn’t really days ago. The truth is, it’s been over a month since we had laughed, or even spoken to one another. Over a month since that horrible day she was admitted to the hospital.

At least I know you faced the end with faith, my love. I suppose that's how I will manage to make my way through what's left of my life...

(c) 2016 - dustygrein

I had a rough time when I came home. My wife wanted me to talk to her about it, but I couldn’t.

My buddy, back in Iraq... he was shot in the head and she’s telling me to talk, to chat with her about it like it’s a fucking… I don’t know, like it’s something I could forget. 

She didn’t get it, she couldn't understand that talking about it makes it… real.

I thought about killing myself. Of course I did. My men were dead and my leg was blown off by the same fucking IED that killed them. 

But you know what the real kicker was? I still came back home. I lost a leg sure, but I was alive. How was I supposed to feel? Happy? Blessed? Grateful? When all I can think about is why I survived, what made me so fucking special?

The doctor gave me opioids for the pain. Phantom pain, he called it. I said, frankly, I didn’t care what it was called, but I needed something, anything to take the edge off. 

They helped, I guess. Only so much. I still couldn’t sleep and there was the train. There were train tracks behind our house, you see, and it would come through at odd hours of the nights. The rumbling, it sounded like explosions, like gunfire and I-- I would freak out, grab my gun. It scared her, my wife. I scared her. 

I think she thought that maybe I would hurt her or the kids or… I never would, but I can imagine, how she felt. I know it must've been scary. I was in a really bad place.

Anyway, that’s probably around when the drinking started. At first I drank to sleep, to black out, so I wouldn't hear the train. Then I was drinking to pass the time, numb the pain in my head. Now I’m drinking just to get by, to make it through another day... another hour... another second. 

I spend most of my time in the bars downtown nowadays. My wife used to call, beg me to come home. She would cry and it broke my heart every goddamn time, listening to her cry over the phone. She even got me to go to AA a couple of times. I got sober for a little while, for her.

But my wife and I, we were fighting everyday about my not being able to get a job, my drinking, the kids, you name it. We were fighting a lot, you know, and we weren’t intimate anymore so I was… I was lonely, I guess, and I was hurting. So I turned to the bottle.

My daddy was an alcoholic, you know. And I hated him when I was a kid. I hated the ugly man he was when he was drunk. He would hit my mama, you see, and he would… well, I guess nowadays you would call it rape, what he did to her every night. And I hated him, you know. For putting my mama and me through that. Every single fucking night.

He served too, you know. Back in Vietnam. 

He was never the same.

I wasn’t the one who found her. My son, he… I was at the bars all day, as usual, so I wasn’t home. His mama put him and his baby sister down for a nap around three in the afternoon. He woke up an hour or so later to his sister crying, just bawling, right, and his mama wasn’t-- he wondered why his mama wasn’t waking up, his sister was right there, after all, in the crib right next to the bed and he went into the room to see what was wrong. His sister was there in the crib, red-faced from crying, but his mama, she wasn’t getting up, she wasn’t moving, she-- He’s just a kid, but my son, he’s smarter than his daddy ever was, and he called 911, just like they taught him in school.

I got to the emergency room and the doctor, he came over to me, said my name. Everything was so blurry and the lights were fluorescent, you know, they were too bright, they were hurting my eyes and my head was just pounding like a mother… but I heard him. Loud and clear. I heard him say it and it was like a clap of thunder. 

I heard him say overdose.

That’s when I knew. I just knew. 

I knew it was my fault.

She had a history of depression, you see, from before we were married. She was having some... some symptoms again. She started self-medicating with the stuff I got, you know, the stuff I got from the doc. For my leg. I guess ’cause they were there, you know, she didn’t want to worry me or the kids, she just took a few here and there, to get through another day. You know, just here and there.

I was always worried about... about myself. My own pain and my own problems instead of-- 

God help me. I did, I did notice, she was always calling my scripts in before I needed them, always offering to pick them up for me, but I was too busy fucking drinking until I passed out every fucking night and day. I could've helped her, I could've... I could've saved her. 

The kids live with her parents now. I miss them, but I… with how I am now, it’s for the best.

I miss her too. I miss her every goddamn hour of my life. You know, the funny thing is, it's always the little things you miss the most. Like the way she held her coffee cup. The way she was always humming along to a song in her head. 

I’m tired of missing her.

I killed my wife. I killed my fucking wife, the woman I love more than anything in this goddamn fucked up world. And for what? For a fucking drink, that’s what.

Now I have nothing left. I have nothing left.

God dammit. I need a drink.

Just one drink.